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THE  COMPLETE 


POETICAL  AVORKS 

OF 


WILLIAM  AVORDS WORTH, 

POET  LAUREATE,  ETC.,  ETC. 


EDITED  BY 

HENRY  REED, 

PROFESSOR  OF  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  IN  THE  UNIVERSITF  OF  PENNSYLVANIA. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

PUBLISHED  BY  HAYES  & ZELL, 

No.  193,  MARKET  STREET. 

1860. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by  James  Kay,  Jun.  &s  Brother, 
in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  tlie  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  Eastern  District  ol 
Pennsylvania. 


PRINTED  Hi'  .SMITH  & PETEIiP, 
Franklin  HuiIJings,  Sixth  Street,  below  Arch, 
Philadelphia. 


PREFACE 


H,- 


EY 

THE  AMERICAN  EDITOR. 


The  circumstances  of  the  preparation  of  the  American  Edition  of  1837  were  stated  in 
the  I niface  to  that  Edition — which  is  placed  as  the  second  preface  in  this  volume.  A copy 
of  dial  Edition  was  sent  to  the  Poet,  and  received  his  hearty  sanction  and  approval.  It  is 
due  to  the  readers  of  the  Poems  in  the  American  Edition  that  the  authority  thus  given  to 
it  should  not  be  withheld  from  them.  In  a letter  addressed  to  the  Editor,  and  dated  London, 
19th  August,  1837,  Mr.  Wordsworth  said, — “I  shall  now  hasten  to  notice  the  Edition 
which  you  have  superintended  of  my  Poems.  This  I can  do  with  much  pleasure,  as  the 
Book,  which  has  been  shown  to  several  persons  of  taste,  Mr.  Rogers  in  particular,  is  allowed 
to  be  far  the  handsomest  specimen  of  print  in  double  column  which  they  have  seen.  Allow 
me  to  thank  you  for  the  pains  you  have  bestowed  upon  the  w'ork.  Do  not  apprehend 
that  any  difference  in  our  several  arrangements  of  the  poems  can  be  of  much  importance ; 
you  appear  to  understand  me  far  too  well  for  that  to  be  possible.” 

Since  the  publication  of  the  former  American  Edition,  there  have  appeared  in  England 
the  following  publications  of  the  Poems  under  the  Author’s  own  supervision:  the  Edition  of 
1839-40,  in  six  volumes,  containing  some  additional  pieces : the  volume,  forming  a seventh, 
entitled  “ Poems  of  Early  and  Late  Years,”  which  appeared  in  1842  ; the  complete  Poetical 
Works  (with  some  additional  poems)  in  one  volume,  issued  in  1845;  and  the  last  Edition 
(containing  some  few  later  pieces)  which  appeared  in  six  volumes  in  1849  and  1850 — being 
completed  a very  short  time  before  the  Poet’s  death.  In  the  summer  of  1850,  “The 
Prelude”  was  published  posthumously. 

Speaking  of  his  own  Edition  in  one  volume,  Wordsworth  wrote  to  the  American 
Editor  as  follows,  in  a letter  dated,  “ Rydal  Mount,  31st  July,  1845 

“I  am  at  present  carrying  through  the  press  an  Edition  in  double  column  of  my  Poems, 
including  the  last ; the  contents  of  which  will  be  interspersed  in  their  several  places.  In 
the  heading  of  the  pages,  I have  followed  the  example  of  your  Edition,  by  extending  the 
classification  of  Imagination  far  beyond  what  it  has  hitherto  been,  except  in  your  Edition. 
The  book  will  be  by  no  means  so  well-looking  as  yours ; as  the  contents  will  be  more 
crowded.” 


1 { /G826 


IV 


PREFACE  BY  THE  AMERICAN  EDITOR. 


Again,  in  a letter  dated  September  27th,  of  the  same  year — “The  new  edition  of  my  Poems 
(double  column)  which  is  going  through  the  press,  will  contain  about  three  hundred  verses  not 
found  in  the  previous  Edition.  I do  not  remember  whether  I have  mentioned  to  you,  that,  fol- 
lowing your  example,  I have  greatly  extended  the  class  entitled  “ Poems  of  the  Imagination,” 
thinking  as  you  must  have  done  that,  if  Imagination  were  predominant  in  the  class,  it  was 
not  indispensable  that  it  should  pervade  every  poem  which  it  contained.  Limiting  the  class 
as  I had  done  before,  seemed  to  imply,  and  to  the  uncandid  or  observing  did  so,  that  the 
faculty,  which  is  the  primum  mobile  in  poetry,  had  little  to  do,  in  the  estimation  of  the 
author,  with  pieces  not  arranged  under  that  head.  I therefore  feel  much  obliged  to  you  for 
suggesting  by  your  practice  the  plan  which  I have  adopted.” 

In  the  present  volume  the  text  of  the  former  edition  has  been  for  the  most  part  retained ; 
all  the  additional  poems  have  been  introduced,  and  the  arrangement  made  to  correspond  more 
nearly  in  the  details  of  it  with  that  adopted  by  the  Author.  This  volume  also  contains 
some  pieces,  which  were  omitted,  (inadvertently  it  is  believed,)  from  the  latest  London 
Edition.  The  Alphabetical  Index  to  the  Poems,  and  the  Index  to  the  First  lanes,  will 
prove  of  great  convenience,  as  giving,  in  addition  to  the  Table  of  Contents,  such  facilities  for 
reference  as  are  peculiarly  needed  in  a collection  containing  many  short  poems. 

The  Table  of  Contents  will  be  found  to  have,  besides  its  ordinary  use,  a biographical 
interest,  in  giving  the  dates  of  the  composition  of  the  poems,  as  far  as  stated  by  the  Poet. 
A brief  biographical  note  is  also  placed  among  the  prefatory  pages 

In  the  prefatory  matter  of  this  volume,  I have  introduced  the  tributes  paid  to  the  genius 
of  Wordsworth,  by  the  late  Hartley  Coleridge,  and  by  the  author  of  “Ion,”  together  with 
the  still  grander  one  from  the  pen  of  the  Poet  of  “The  Christian  Year,”  — a faithful  and 
eloquent  exposition  of  the  character  and  spiritual  worth  of  Wordsworth’s  poetry,  expressed 
with  such  truthfulness  and  beauty  of  diction  that  the  words  scarce  seem  to  belong  to  a dead 
language,  when  thus  made  the  eloquent  utterance  of  living  thought  and  feeling. 

The  lines  on  p.  xi.  beginning  “ If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Heaven,”  are  inserted 
as  used  by  the  Poet  himself  for  a prefatory  poem  in  his  late  Editions. 

This  Edition  is  now  offered  to  the  public  with  the  assurance  that  it  is  the  most  complete 
collection  of  Wordsworth’s  poems,  which  has  appeared.  With  regard  to  accuracy,  the 
same  sedulous  effort,  which  on  a former  occasion  was  employed  in  affectionate  and 
reverential  gratitude  to  the  living  Poet,  has  Deen  repeated  with  a yet  deeper  affection  to  his 
memory. 

HENRY  REED. 


Philadelphia,  February  18,  1851. 


PJIEFACE 


TO 

THE  AMERICAN  EDITION  OF  1 837. 


This  Volume  is  published  with  a view  to  present  a complete  and  uniform  Edition  of  the 
Poetical  Works  of  William  Wordsworth.  It  contains  the  poems  in  the  latest  collected  edition 
and  in  the  additional  volume,  entitled  “Yarrow  Revisited  and  other  Poems,”  published 
in  1835.  — The  text  has  been  adopted  with  great  care  from  the  London  editions.  To  the 
contents  of  those  volumes  there  have  been  added  some  lines  published^ since  the  date  of  the 
last  volume,  and  the  Description  of  the  Scenery  of  the  Lakes,  written  by  Mr.  Wordsworth 
some  years  ago. 

When  the  Publishers  were  about  beginning  the  preparation  of  this  volume,  a difficulty 
in  regard  to  the  arrangement  of  the  poems  presented  itself,  to  which  it  is  j)roper  here  to 
advert.  — Th^recent  volume  “Yarrow  Revisited,  &c.”  was  prefaced  by  an  advertisement 
in  which  Mr.  Wordsworth  stated  his  intention  to  have  been  “to  reserve  the  contents  of  the 
volume  to  be  interspersed  in  some  future  edition  of  his  miscellaneous  Poems.”  The  request 
of  friends,  however,  and  a delicate  regard  for  the  interests  of  the  purchasers  of  his 
former  works,  induced  the  publication  of  the  separate  volume,  in  which  the  poems  are 
printed  without  reference  to  the  classification,  which  distinguishes  the  general  collection  of 
his  poems.  In  preparing  a complete  and  uniform  edition,  it  was  at  once  obvious  that  great 
incongruity  would  result  from  inserting  after  the  former  collection  of  Poems,  as  arranged 
by  Mr.  Wordsworth,  the  contents  of  the  volume  since  published  in  an  order  wholly  diflercnt. 
Such  a course  would  have  been  in  direct  violation  of  the  Poet’s  expressed  intention,  and 
would  have  betrayed  an  ignorance  or  distrust  of  his  principles  of  classification,  or  a timidity 
in  applying  them.  It  would  have  been  a method  purely  mechanical,  and  calculated  to 
impair  the  effect  of  that  philosophical  arrangement,  which  w^as  designed  “ as  a commentary 
unostentatiously  directing  the  attention  of  those,  who  read  with  reflection,  to  the  Poet's 
purposes.”  — Intelligent  readers,  familiar  with  the  spirit  of  Wordsworth’s  poetry,  would 
regret  any  violation  of  the  harmony  of  his  method  : they  could  not  be  content,  for  instance, 
with  any  other  arrangement  of  the  miscellaneous  Poems  than  that  which  the  Poet  has 
adopted,  closing  with  the  lofty  Ode  on  the  Intimations  of  Immortality. 

In  editing  this  volume,  I have  therefore  ventured  to  adopt  the  only  alternative  which 
presented  itself — to  anticipate  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  unexecuted  intention  of  interspersing  the 
contents  of  the  volume  entitled  “Yarrow  Revisited,  &c.”  among  the  poems  already  arranged 
by  him.  I have  been  guided  by  an  attentive  study  of  the  principles  of  classification  stated 
in  his  general  Preface,  and  the  character  of  each  poem  to  which  they  were  to  be  applied. 
In  some  instances  special  directions  for  arrangement  had  been  given  by  the  Poet  himself; 
these  have  been  carefully  followed.  In  many  instances  the  close  similarity  between 
groups  of  the  unarranged  poems,  and  those  which  had  been  arranged,  left  little  room  for 
error.  With  respect  to  the  detached  pieces,  it  has  been  felt  to  be  a delicate  undertaking  to 
decide  under  which  class  each  one  of  them  should  be  appropriately  arranged.  This  has 
been  attempted  with  an  anxious  sense  of  the  care  it  required,  though  with  an  assurance 


vi 


PREFACE  TO  THE  AMERICAN  EDITION  OF  1837. 


that  there  was  no  possibility  of  impairing  the  individual  interest  of  any  of  the  poems,  ft 
may  be  added  that  no  one  would  feel  more  grieved  at  any  injury  done  by  a false  arrange- 
ment than  he  who  claims  to  have  brought  to  the  task  an  affectionate  solicitude  for  every 
verse  in  the  volume. 

A few  notes  have  been  introduced,  consisting  almost  entirely  of  illustrative  passages  from 
the  writings  of  those  wdth  whom  I am  confident  Mr.  Wordsworth,  from  congeniality  of  mind 
or  feeling,  or  from  personal  friendship,  would  most  willingly  find  his  name  associated. 
That  these  notes  may  in  a moment  be  distinguished  from  the  Poet’s  own,  they  have  been 
included  ift  brackets,  and  designated  with  the  addition  of  the  initial  letters  of  the  Editor’s 
name.  They  have  been  limited  in  number  by  an  anxiety  to  avoid  encumbering  the  text ; 
which  consideration  has  also  regulated  the  general  arrangement  of  notes  throughout  the 
volume. 

Pains  have  been  taken  to  indicate  typographically,  in  a manner  more  clear  than  in  any 
former  edition,  the  general  classification  of  the  Poems.  — The  Prose  writings  have  been 
arranged,  together  with  the  Description  of  the  Scenery  of  the  Lakes,  in  an  Appendix,  for 
the  greater  convenience  of  reference,  and  from  a regard  to  their  value. 


A Poet  of  the  age  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  looking  to  the  then  unbroken  shores  of  America, 
found  a new  impulse  for  the  English  Muse,  and  foresaw  a boundless  scope  for  the  English 
tongue : 

“And  -wlio  (in  time)  knows  whither  we  m.ay  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue  ? To  what  strange  shores  * 

This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent 
T’  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores? 

What  worlds  in  th’  yet  unformed  Occident, 

May  come  refined  with  th’  accents  that  are  ours?” 

Musophilus. 

In  preparing  this  Edition  of  the  Poetical  Works  of  Wordsworth  for  the  press,  it  has 
been  a pleasing  thought  that  in  no  instance  could  that  anticipation  — not  quite  a prophecy 
— of  the  “ well-languaged  Daniel,”  have  been  better  fulfilled,  than  in  the  publication  of  the 
writings  of  one,  who,  while  incomparably  superior  in  genius,  is  closely  kindred  to  him  in 
right-minded  habits  of  reflection  and  in  purity  and  gentleness  of  heart. 

H R 


Philadelphia,  December,  1836. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 


This  note  is  intended  to  give,  for  the  convenience  of  the  reader,  a statement  of  a few  of 
the  facts  of  Wordsworth’s  life,  and  career  of  authorship. 

William  Wordsworth  was  born  on  the  7th  of  April,  1770,  at  Cockermouth,  a small  town 
in  Cumberland,  in  the  north  of  England ; and  the  early  part  of  his  life  was  spent  in  that 
region  of  lake  and  mountain,  which  was  to  be  the  happy  home  of  his  manhood  and  old  age. 
His  school  education  was  received  at  Hawkshead  Grammar  School.  In  1787  he  entered 
St.  John’s  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  received  his  Bachelor’s  degree;  it  was  during 
his  college  life,  he  made  a tour  in  the  Alps,  which  was  the  occasion  of  his  “ Descriptive 
Sketches,”  and  which  forms  also  the  subject  of  the  sixth  book  of  “The  Prelude” — a 
later  part  of  which  poem  treats  of  his  second  visit  to  the  Continent,  and  his  residence  in 
France,  during,  the  first  part  of  the  Revolution.  In  1798,  in  company  with  his  sister, 
Dorothea  (to  whose  influence  upon  his  life  and  character  he  has  paid  fervent  tribute  in 
“ The  Prelude,”  and  elsewhere)  and  with  his  friend  Coleridge,  he  made  a tour  in  Germany. 
His  visits  to  the  Continent  again,  in  1820  and  in  1837,  are  known  by  his  “Memorials”  of 
the  Tours  in  those  years. 

In  the  year  1802,  Mr.  Wordsworth  was  married  to  Miss  Mary  Hutchinson:  she 
survives  him,  retaining  in  a beautiful  old  age  “that  Christian  calmness  and  gentleness  and 
love  which”  (in  the  words  of  one  who  witnessed  what  he  speaks  of)  “ made  her  almost 
like  the  Poet’s  guardian  angel  for  near  fifty  years.” 

At  the  beginning  of  the  century  the  Poet’s  residence  w'as  at  Grasmere,  but  after  some 
years  was  removed  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Ambleside ; and  the  cottage  at  Rydal  Mount 
became  the  home  of  all  his  after  years  on  Earth. 

Wordsworth’s  literary  life,  as  an  author,  extended  through  a period  of  about  sixty  years, 
— the  earliest  date  affixed  to  any  of  his  pieces  being  1786,  and  the  latest  1846.  His  first 
publication  was  “ An  Evening  Walk”  addressed  to  his  sister:  it  appeared  in  1793,  and 
was  soon  follow'ed  in  the  same  year  by  the  “ Descriptive  Sketches  :”  these  were  printed 
in  quarto,  with  the  author’s  name  — “ W.  Wordsw'orth,  B.  A.,  of  St.  John’s,  Cambridge,” 
and  w'ere  published  by  J.  Johnson,  St.  Paul’s  Churchyard,  from  whose  press  had  issued, 
only  nine  years  before,  Cow^per’s  “ Task.”  In  1798,  a volume  of  the  “ Lyrical  Ballads” 
was  published  anonymously,  and  in  1800  was  succeeded  by  a second  volume  having  the 
author’s  name.  This  collection  in  1805  had  reached  a fourth  edition.  An  American 
edition  of  the  Lyrical  Ballads  was  published  in  Philadelphia  as  early  as  1802.  The  various 
reception,  which  was  given  to  those  Poems  — the  thoughtful  and  genial  welcome  on  the 
one  part,  and  the  scornful  condemnation  on  the  other, — and  their  influence  upon  poetic 
thought  and  feeling,  would  form  the  subject  of  an  instructive  chapter  in  the  history  of 
English  poetry  in  the  first  half  of  the  nineteenth  century.  In  1807  were  published  tw’o 
more  volumes  of  Poems,  with  the  motto 

Posterius  graviore  sono  Obi  Musa  loquetur 
Nostra:  dabunt  cum  secures  mihi  tempora  fructus. 

In  1809  Wordsworth  published  the  prose  work,  to  which  reference  will  be  found  in  several 
places  in  this  volume : the  title  of  the  work  is  “ Concerning  the  Relations  of  Great  Britain, 
Spain  and  Portugal  to  each  other,  and  to  the  common  enemy  at  this  crisis;  and  specifically 
as  affected  by  the  Convention  of  Cintra  : the  whole  brought  to  the  test  of  those  principles, 
by  which  alone  the  Independence  and  Freedom  of  nations  can  be  preserved  or  recovered.” 
— This  work,  it  is  said,  Mr.  Canning  spoke  of  as  the  most  eloquent  production  of  the  kind 
since  the  days  of  Burke. 

In  1814,  “The  Excursion”  was  given  to  the  world;  in  1815  there  followed  “The 
White  Doe  of  Rylstone,”  and  two  volumes  including  the  “ Lyrical  Ballads,”  and  other 
miscellaneous  poems.  A third  volume  of  miscellaneous  poems  was  made  up  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 


viii 


the  “Thanksgiving  Ode,”  in  1816,  “Peter  Bell”  and  “The  Waggoner,”  in  1819,  and 
“ The  River  Duddon,”  with  other  pieces,  in  1820.  To  this  volume  was  appended  the  prose 
description  of  the  Lake  Country. 

In  1822  appeared  the  “ Ecclesiastical  Sketches”  and  the  “ Memorials  of  a Tour  in  1820,” 
In  1820  and  1832  collective  editions  of  the  Poems  were  published,  and  were  followed  in  1835 
by  the  volume  entitled  “ Yarrow  Revisited  and  other  Poems.”  The  subsequent  publications 
and  editions  are  those  mentioned  in  the  Preface  to  this  Edition,  The  list  of  Wordsworth’s 
prose  writings  may  be  completed  by  the  mention  here,  of  his  “ Letter  to  a Friend  of  Robert 
Burns,”  published  in  London,  1816,  and  his  “ Two  Letters  on  the  Kendal  and  Windermere 
Railway,  reprinted  from  the  Morning  Post,”  London,  1844-5.' 

The  more  the  whole  course  of  Wordsworth’s  life  shall  become  known,  the  more  will  it 
be  seen  that  it  was  a life  devoted,  in  a deep  and  abiding  sense  of  duty,  to  the  cultivation  of 
a poet’s  endowments  and  art,  for  their  noblest  and  most  lasting  uses  — a self-dedication  as 
complete  as  the  world  has  ever  witnessed.  It  was  a life  to  which  was  given  the  earthly 
reward  of  length  of  days  and  of  a large  share  of  happiness.  There  was  in  this  life,  the 
further  reward  of  an  ample  fame, — a fame  which  moved,  as  it  were,  on  the  wings  of  spiritual 
gratitude  and  thoughtful  afiection.  The  contumely,  which  had  been  cast  upon  him  from  the 
critic’s  chair  in  former  years,  was  looked  back  to  as  a wonder  and  a wrong  in  the  history 
of  criticism  ; his  poetry  was  recognised  as  one  of  the  great  literary  influences  upon  the  minds 
and  hearts  of  his  fellow  beings  ; and  the  circle  of  admirers,  who  had  clung  to  the  fortunes 
of  that  poetry  through  evil  and  good  report,  was  widened  over  the  world.  These  things 
the  Poet  was  permitted  to  see  in  his  mortal  life. 

Of  the  popular  sentiment  towards  Wordsworth  in  late  years,  the  feeling  displayed  on  his 
reception  at  Oxford  in  1839  is  but  one  of  many  manifestations.  The  genuine  fervour  of  the 
feeling  inspired  the  lines  composed  by  Talfourd  on  that  occasion : it  sank  too  as  deeply  into 
the  earnest  spirit  of  the  late  Dr.  Arnold,  who  wrote  “ I went  up  to  Oxford  to  the  commemo- 
ration, for  the  first  time  in  twenty-one  years,  to  see  ‘Wordsworth  and  Bunsen  receive  their 
degrees ; and  to  me,  remembering  htTw  old  Coleridge  inoculated  a little  knot  of  us  with  the 
love  of  Wordsworth,  when  his  name  was  in  general  a by- word,  it  was  striking  to  witness 
the  thunders  of  applause,  repeated  over  and  over  again,  with  which  he  was  greeted  in  the 
theatre  by  Undergraduates  and  Masters  of  Arts  alike.”  Letter,  July  6,  1839.  (The  epithet 
“old”  in  this  extract,  is  one  of  familiar  affection  for  a college-mate  — now  Sir  John  Taylor 
Coleridge,  one  of  the  Justices  of  the  Court  of  Queen’s  Bench.) 

After  the  death  of  his  friend  Southey  in  1843,  Wordsworth  was  appointed  to  succeed 
him  as  Poet  Laureate  — an  office,  now  restored  to  respect  by  the  successive  tenure  of 
Southey,  Wordsworth,  and  Tennyson. 

The  close  of  Wordsworth’s  life  was  saddened  by  the  death  of  his  only  daughter, — Dora, 
the  wife  of  Edward  Quillinan,  Esq.  Her  father’s  house  had  been  the  home  of  her  life  except 
during  a short  period,  in  which  she  was  withdrawn  from  it  by  her  marriage;  she  was  the 
author  of  a “Journal  of  a few  months’  residence  in  Portugal,”  published  in  1847.  The 
visit  to  the  South  of  Europe  was  for  the  restoration  of  her  health  ; but  in  vain.  Her  death 
took  place  on  the  9th  of  July,  1847,  at  the  residence  of  her  father.  This  bereavement  — 
the  severest  affliction  of  his  life,  and  in  old  age  — weighed  heavily  upon  his  spirits:  it  is 
believed  that  he  did  not  recover  from  this  sorrow  during  the  very  few  years  that  he  was 
parted  from  his  daughter.  Two  sons  survive  him,  the  Rev.  John  Woi'dsworth  and  William 
Wordsworth,  Esq. 

Wordsworth  died  at  Rydal  Mount,  on  the  23d  of  April  1850,  about  a fortnight  after  his 
80th  birth-day.  The  harmony  of  his  life  was  completed  by  the  possession  of  faculties, 
unimpaired  by  disease  or  age.  He  lived  and  died  in  communion  with  the  Church,  to  which 
his  life  as  well  as  his  writings  had  proved  a faithful  and  filial  attachment.  His  body  sleeps 
in  Grasmere  Churchyard. 

The  duty  of  preparing  a biography  of  the  Poet  has  been  appropriately  confided  to  his 
nephew,  the  Rev.  Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.D.,  Canon  of  Westminster. 


Februarv,  1851. 


H.  R. 


DEDICATION  OF  KEBLE’s  LECTURES  ON  POETRY  : 
PRAiLECTIONES  ACADEMICiE,  OXONII  HABITS,' 


ANNIS  — MDCCCXXXII MDCCCXLI., 

A JOANNE  KEBLE,  A.  M. 

POETICS  PUBLICO  PRAiLECTORE.” 

VmO  VERE  PIIILOSOPIIO, 

ET  VATI  SACRO, 

GULIELMO  WOKDSWORTH, 

CUI  JLLUD  MUNDS  TRIBUIT 

DEUS  OPT.  MAX. 

DT.  SIVE  HOMINUM  AFFECTUS  CANEEET, 

SIVE  TERRARUM  ET  C(ELI  PULCIIRITIIDINEM, 
LEGENTIUM  ANIMOS  SEMPER  AD  SANCTIORA  ERIGERET, 
SEMPER  A PAUPERDM  ET  SIMPLICIORUM  PARTIBUS  STARET, 
AFtjUE  ADEO,  LABENTE  SAICULO,  EXISTERET 
NON  SOLUM  DULCISSIM.E  POESEOS, 

VERUM  ETIAM  DIVIN.E  VERITATIS 

ANTISTES, 

CNUS  MULTORUM,  QUI  DEVINCTOS  SE  ESSE  SENTIENT 
ASSIDUO  NOBILIUM  EJUS  CAEMINUM  BENEFICIO, 

HOC  QUALECUNQUE  GRATI  ANIMI  TESTIMONIUM 
D.  D.  D. 

EEVEEENTLE,  PIETATIS,  AMICITIA:  ERGO. 


SONNET 


BY  THE  LATE  HARTLEY  COLERIDGE: 


TO 

WORDSWORTH. 

There  have  been  poets  that  in  verse  display 
The  elemental  forms  of  human  passions : 

Poets  have  been,  to  whom  the  fickle  fashions 
And  all  the  wilful  humours  of  the  day 
Have  furnished  matter  for  a polished  lay: 

And  many  are  the  smooth  elaborate  tribe 
Who,  emulous  of  thee,  the  shape  describe, 

And  fain  would  every  shifting  hue  pourtray 
Of  restless  Nature.  But,  thou  mighty  Seerl 
'Tis  thine  to  celebrate  the  thoughts  that  make 
The  life  of  souls,  the  truths  for  whose  sweet  sake 
We  to  ourselves  and  to  our  God  are  dear. 

Of  Nature’s  inner  shrine  thou  art  the  priest, 

Where  most  she  works  when  we  perceive  her  least. 


SONNET 

BY  SIR  THOMAS  NOON  TALFOURD: 


ON  THE  RECEPTION  OF  THE  POET  WORDSWORTH  AT  OXFORD. 

0 NEVER  did  a mighty  truth  prevail 
With  such  felicities  of  place  and  time. 

As  in  those  shouts  sent  forth  with  joy  sublime 
From  the  full  heart  of  England’s  Youth  to  hail 
Her  once  neglected  Bard  within  the  pale 
Of  Learning’s  fairest  Citadel ! That  voice. 

In  which  the  Future  thunders,  bids  rejoice 
Some  who  through  wintry  fortunes  did  not  fail 
To  bless  with  love  as  deep  as  life,  the  name 
Thus  welcomed;  — who,  in  happy  silence  share 
The  triumph;  while  their  fondest  musings  claim 
Unhoped-for  echoes  in  the  joyous  air 
That  to  their  long-loved  Poet’s  spirit  bear 
A nation’s  promise  of  undying  fame. 


If  thou  indeed  derive  thy  light  from  Ileaven, 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  that  heaven-born  light, 

Shine,  Poet,  in  thy  place,  and  be  content : — 

The  stars  pre-eminent  in  magnitude. 

And  they  that  from  the  zenith  dart  their  beams, 
(Visible  though  they  be  to  half  the  earth, 

Though  half  a sphere  be  conscious  of  their  brightness) 
Are  yet  of  no  diviner  origin, 

No  purer  essence,  than  the  one  that  burns. 

Like  an  untended  watch-fire,  on  the  ridge 
Of  some  dark  mountain ; or  than  those  which  seem 
Humbly  to  hang,  like  twinkling  winter  lamps, 

Among  the  branches  of  the  leafless  trees; 

All  are  the  undying  oflspring  of  one  Sire : 

Then,  to  the  measure  of  the  light  vouchsafed, 

Shine,  Poet!  in  thy  place,  and  be  content. 


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CONTENTS 


1/ 1 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

\EJttract  from  the  Conclusion  of  a Poem,  composed 

in  anticipation  of  leaving  School,  1786... Page  25 


An  Evening  Walk,  1787-8-9  25 

Descriptive  Sketches  taken  during  a Pedestrian 

Tour  among  the  Alps,  1791-2 29 

Written  in  very  early  Youth 37 

Lines  written  while  sailing  in  a Boat  at  Evening, 

1789 37 

Remembrance  of  Collins,  composed  upon  the 

Thames  near  Richmond,  1789 37 

Lines  left  upon  a Seat  in  a Yew-tree,  1795  37 

Guilt  and  Sorrow;  or.  Incidents  upon  Salisbury 

Plain,  1793-4  38 

The  Borderers.  A Tragedy,  1795-6 45 

Notes  to  Poems  Written  in  Youth 71 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF 
CHILDHOOD. 


My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold,  1804  73 

To  a Butterfly,  1801 73 

Foresight,  1802 73 

Characteristics  of  a Child  three  Years  old,  1811  . 73 

Address  to  a Child,  during  a Boisterous  Winter 

Evening,  1806 74 

The  Mother’s  Return,  1807 74 

Alice  Fell ; or.  Poverty,  1801 75 

Lucy  Gray;  or.  Solitude,  1799  75 

We  are  Seven,  1798 76 

Anecdote  for  Fathers,  1798  77 

Rural  Architecture,  1801  77 

The  Pet-lamb.  A Pastoral,  1800  78 

The  Idle  Shepherd-boys;  or,  Dungeon-Ghyll 

Force.  A Pastoral,  1800 79 

To  H.  C.  Six  Years  old,  1802 80 

Influence  of  Natural  Objects  in  calling  forth  and 
strengthening  the  imagination  in  Boyhood  and 

early  Youth 80 

The  longest  Day.  Addressed  to ■,  1817 81 

The  Sparrow’s  Nest,  1801 82 

The  Norman  Boy 82 

The  Poet’s  Dream.  Sequel  to  the  Norman  Boy.  82 

The  Westmoreland  Girl 84 

Notes  to  Poems  Referring  to  the  Period  of  Child- 
hood   85 

1/  T- 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 

The  Brothers,  1802 87 

Artegal  and  Elidure,  1815 91 

Farewell  Lines 94 

To  a Butterfly,  1801 94 

Farewell,  1802 94 


Stanzas  written  in  my  Pocket-copy  of  Thomson's 

Castle  of  Indolence,  1802 95 

Louisa.  After  accompanying  her  on  a Mountain 

Excursion,  1805 96 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I known,  1799  96 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  1799  96 

I travelled  among  unknown  men,  1799 9t» 

Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew,  1826 96 

To ,1824  97 

'Tis  said,  that  some  have  died  for  love,  1800 97 

The  Forsaken 97 

A Complaint,  1806 98 

To ,1824 98 

Yes  ! thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved 98 

How  rich  that  forehead’s  calm  expanse,  1824  ....  93 

What  heavenly  smiles  ! O Lady  mine 98 

To , 1824  98 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  on  the  Eve  of  a 

New  Year.  1817 99 

The  Widow  on  Windermere  Side 99 

The  Last  of  the  Flock,  1798  100 

Repentance.  A Pastoral  Ballad,  1804  101 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret , 1804  101 

The  Cottager  to  her  Infant,  1805 102 

The  Sailor’s  Mother,  1800 102 

The  Childless  J’ather,  1800  102 

The  Emigrant  Mother  1802  103 

Vaudracour  and  Julia,  1805  104 

The  Armenian  Lady’s  Love,  1830 107 

The  Somnambulist,  1833  107 

The  Idiot  Boy,  1798 110 

Michael.  A Pastoral  Poem,  1800 1!5 

The  Russian  Fugitive,  1830 119 

Grace  Darling,  1842  123 

The  Complaint  of  a Forsaken  Indian  Woman, 

1798 124 

Maternal  Grief. 125 

Loving  and  Liking.  Irregular  ’Verses,  addressed 

to  a Child,  1832 126 

The  Redbreast.  Suggested  in  a Westmoreland 

Cottage,  1834 127 

Her  Eyes  are  Wild,  1798  127 

Notes  to  Poems  Founded  on  the  Affections 129 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


It  was  an  April  morning;  fresh  and  clear,  1800  . . 131 

To  Joanna,  1800  131 

There  is  an  Eminence, — of  these  our  hills,  1800  . 132 
A narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags,  1800  . 133 

To  M.  H.,  1800 133 

When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world,  1805.  133 
Forth  from  a jutting  ridge,  around  whose  base, 

1845 135 


2 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


A Morning  Exercise,  1828  137 

To  the  Daisy,  1802 137 

A whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill,  1799 138 

The  Green  Linnet,  1803 138 

The  Contrast.  The  Parrot  and  the  Wren,  1825.  139 

To  the  small  Celandine,  1803  139 

To  the  same  Flower,  1803  140 

The  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine,  1800 140 

The  Oak  and  the  Broom.  A Pastoral,  1800 141 

Song  for  the  Spinning  Wheel,  1812 142 

The  Redbreast  chasing  the  Butterfly,  1806 142 

The  Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves,  1804  143 

A Flower  Garden,  at  Coleorton  Hall,  Leicester- 
shire, '824 144 

To  the  Daisy,  1805  145 

To  the  same  Flower,  1803  145 

To  a Sky-lark,  1805 145 

To  a Sexton  1799  146 

Who  fancied  what  a pretty  sight,  1803  146 

Song  for  the  Wandering  Jew,  1800  146 

The  Seven  Sisters ; or,  the  Solitude  of  Binnorie, 

1804 146 

The  Danish  Boy.  A Fragment,  1799  147 

To  a Lady,  in  answer  to  a request  that  I would 
write  her  a Poem  upon  some  Drawings  of 

Flowers  in  the  Island  of  Madeira 148 

Glad  sight  wherever  new  with  old 148 

The  Pilgrim’s  Dream  ; or,  the  Star  and  the  Glow- 
worm, 1818 149 

Hint  from  the  Mountains  for  certain  Political  Pre- 
tenders, 1817 149 

Stray  Pleasures,  1806 149 

On  seeing  a Needlecase  in  the  Form  of  a Harp, 

1827 150 

The  Poet  and  the  Caged  'I'urtledove,  1830  150 

A Wren’s  Nest,  1833 150 

Love  Lies  Bleeding 151 

Companion  to  the  foregoing 152 

Rural  Illusions,  1832  152 

Address  to  my  Infant  Daughter,  on  being  reminded 

that  she  was  a Month  old,  1804 152 

The  Waggoner,  1805  153 

Notes  to  Poems  of  the  Fancy 162 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 

There  was  a Boy,  1799  163 

To , on  her  First  Ascent  to  the  Summit  of 

Helvellyn,  1810 163 

To  the  Cuckoo,  1804  163 

A Night-piece,  1798 164 

Water-fowl,  1812 164 

Yew-trees,  1803  164 

View  from  the  top  of  Black  Comb,  1813 165 

Nutting,  1799 165 

She  was  a Phantom  of  delight,  1804  166 

0 Nightingale  ! thou  surely  art,  1806  166 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,  1799  . . 166 

A slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  1799 167 

The  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle,  1806 167 

Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  1798 168 

1 wandered  lonely  as  a cloud,  1804 169 

The  Reverie  of  Poor  Susan,  1797  169 

Power  of  Music,  1806  170 

Star-gazers,  1806 170  j 


The  Haunted  Tree.  To ,1819 171 

Written  in  March,  while  resting  on  the  Bridge  at 

the  foot  of  Brother’s  Water,  1801 171 

Gipsies,  1807  ]7l 

Beggars,  1802 172 

Sequel  to  the  Foregoing,  1817 172 

Ruth,  1799  173 

Laodamia,  1814 175 

The  Triad,  1828  177 

Lyre  ! though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live  . . 179 

A Jewish  Family,  1828 I8O 

Weak  is  the  will  of  man,  his  judgment  blind....  180 

Resolution  and  Independence,  1807 180 

The  Thorn,  1798 182 

Hart-leap  Well,  1800 184 

Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle,  upon  the 
Restoration  of  Lord  Clifford,  the  Shepherd, 

1807 186 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo,  1806  . . f 188 

To  a Sky-lark,  1825 188 

It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  Heaven  hath  flown,  1803  188 
French  Revolution  as  it  appeared  to  Enthusiasts 

at  its  commencement,  1805 188 

Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a Vase,  1829 189 

Liberty  (Sequel  to  the  foregoing), 189 

The  Pass  of  Kirkstone,  1817 191 

Suggested  by  a Picture  of  the  Bird  of  Paradise..  192 

Airey-force  Valley 192 

The  Cuckoo-Clock 192 

Lines  ctjpposed  a few  miles  above  Tintern  Abbey, 
on  revisiting  the  Banks  of  the  Wye  during  a 

Tour,  July  13,  1798.  1798  193 

Peter  Bell.  — A Tale 194 

The  Egyptian  Maid,  or  Romance  of  the  Water 

Lily,  1830  206 

The  Simplon  Pass,  1799 211 

An  Evening  Ode,  composed  upon  an  Evening  of 
Extraordinary  Splendour  and  Beauty,  1818..  211 

To  the  Clouds 212 

On  the  Power  of  Sound  1828 213 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS.  — Part  I. 


Dedication.  To 215 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  Convent’s  narrow  room  . ..  215 

At  Applethwaite,  near  Keswick,  1804  215 

Admonition  216 

“ Beloved  Vale  !”  I said,  “ when  I shall  con”. . . 216 

Pelion  and  Ossa,  flourish  side  by  side 216 

There  is  a little  unpretending  Rill 216 

Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat 216 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade 216 

Upon  the  sight  of  a beautiful  Picture 217 

“ Why,  Minstrel,  these  untnneful  murmurings”.  217 

Aerial  Rock  — whose  solitary  brow 217 

To  Sleep 217 

To  Sleep 217 

To  Sleep 217 

The  Wild  Duck’s  Nest 218 

Written  upon  a Blank  Leaf  in  ‘‘The  Complete 

Angler” 218 

To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer 218 

On  the  Detraction  which  followed  the  Publication 

of  a certain  Poem 218 

To  the  River  Derwent 218 

Composed  in  one  of  the  Valleys  of  Westmoreland, 
on  Easter  Sunday 218 


CONTENTS. 


XV 


“ Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind  . . 

Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever  ready  friend 

To  S.  II 

Decay  of  Piety 

Composed  on  the  eve  of  the  Marriage  of  a Friend 

in  the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  1812 

From  the  Italian  of  Miehael  Angelo 

From  the  Same 

From  the  Same.  To  the  Supreme  Being 

Surprised  by  joy — impatient  as  the  Wind 

Methought  I saw  the  footsteps  of  a throne 

Even  so  for  me  a Vision  sanctified 

It  is  a beauteous  Evening,  calm  and  free 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go  ? 
With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh. . . 
The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon... 

A volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found 

How  sweet  it  is  when  mother  Fancy  rocks 

Personal  Talk 

Continued 

Continued 

Concluded 

I watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret 

To  B.  R.  Haydon 

From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed 

Fair  Prime  of  life  ! were  it  enough  to  gild 

I heard  (alas ! ’t  was  only  in  a dream) 

Retirement 

To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert 

MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS.  — Part  II. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet;  Critic,  you  have  frowned. 
Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell... 
While  not  a leaf  seems  faded;  while  the  fields  .. 
How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright.. 

Composed  during  a Storm 

To  a Snow-drop 

Composed  a few  days  after  the  foregoing 

The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature’s  hand  . . 

To  Lady  Beaumont 

To  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther 

There  is  a pleasure  in  poetic  pains 

The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  .. 
With  how  sad  steps,  O Moon,  thou  climb’st  the 

sky! 

Even  as  a dragon’s  eye  that  feels  the  stress 

Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose 

Captivity.  — Mary  Queen  of  Scots 

Brook!  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks 

Composed  on  the  Banks  of  a Rocky  Stream 

Pure  element  of  waters  ! wheresoe’er 

Malham  Cove 

Gordale 

The  Monument  commonly  called  Long  ftleg,  and 

her  Daughters 

Composed  after  a Journey  across  the  Hambleton 

Hills,  Yorkshire 

These  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood  . . . 
Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  Sept.  3, 

1802  

Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth  ! (Ox- 
ford,) 1820 

Shame  on  this  faithless  heart ! that  could  allow. 
(Oxford,)  1820 


Recollection  of  the  Portrait  of  King  Henry  Eighth, 

Trinity  Lodge,  Cambridge 228 

On  the  Death  of  His  Majesty  (George  the  Third)  228 
Fame  tells  of  groves  — from  England  far  away  — 

June,  1820 228 

A Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire 228 

Composed  among  the  Ruins  of  a Castle  in  North 

Wales  229 

To  the  Lady  E.  B.  and  the  Hon.  Miss  P 229 

To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil’s  Bridge,  North 

Wales,  1824  229 

Though  narrow  be  that  old  .Man's  cares,  and  near  229 

In  the  Woods  of  Rydal 229 

When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  Isle 229 

While  they  who  once  were  Anna’s  playmates, 

tread 230 

To  the  Cuckoo 230 

The  Infant  M M 230 

To  Rotha  Q 230 

To , in  her  seventieth  year 230 

A Grave-stone  upon  the  Floor  in  the  Cloisters  of 

Worcester  Cathedral 230 

A Tradition  of  Oken  Hill  in  Darley  Dale,  Derby- 
shire   231 

Filial  Piety 231 


To  B.  R.  Haydon,  on  seeing  his  Picture  of  Na- 
poleon  Buonaparte  on  the  Island  of  St.  Helena  231 
Chatsworth  ! thy  stately  mansion,  and  the  pride  . 231 
Desponding  Father  ! mark  this  altered  bough....  231 
Roman  Antiquities  discovered  at  Bishopstone, 


Herefordshire 231 

St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury 232 

Why  art  thou  silent ! Is  thy  love  a plant 232 

Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein 232 

To  the  Author’s  Portrait 232 

Conclusion.  To 232 

In  my  mind’s  eye  a temple  like  a cloud 232 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS.  — Part  III. 


Though  the  bold  wings  of  Poesy  affect 233 

A Poet!  — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school 233 

“ Wait,  prithee,  wait !”  this  answer  Lesbia  threw  233 
The  most  alluring  clouds  that  mount  the  sky ....  233 
On  a Portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  upon  the 

Field  of  Waterloo,  by  Haydon 233 

Composed  on  a May  Morning,  1838 233 

Lo!  where  she  stands  fixed  in  a saint-like  trance  233 

To  a Painter 234 

On  the  same  Subject 234 

Hark!  ’tis  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest  ...  234 
’Tis  He  whose  yester-evening’s  high  disdain  ....  234 
Oh  what  a Wreck!  how  changed  in  mien  and 

speech! 234 

Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake..  234 

Illustrated  Books  and  Newspapers 235 

A Plea  for  Authors,  May,  1638 235 

A Poet  to  his  Grandchild,  (Sequel  to  the  fore- 
going)  235 

To  the  Rev.  Christopher  Wordsworth,  D.  D., 

Master  of  Harrow  School 235 

To  the  Planet  Venus 235 

At  Dover 235 

Wansfell ! this  Household  has  a favoured  lot  ... . 236 
While  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and 
high 236 


180 

219 

219 

219 

219 

219 

219 

220 

220 

220 

220 

220 

220 

221 

221 

221 

221 

221 

221 

221 

222 

222 

222 

222 

222 

223 

223 

223 

223 

223 

223 

224 

224 

224 

224 

224 

224 

225 

225 

225 

225 

225 

225 

226 

226 

226 

226 

226 

226 

227 

227 

227 

227 

227 

228 

228 


CONTENTS. 


On  the  projected  Kendal  and  Windermere  Railway  236 
Proud  were  ye,  Mountains,  when  in  times  of  old  236 

At  Furness  Abhey 236 

At  Furness  Abbey,  1845 237 

MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  1803. 
Departure  from  the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  August, 

1803 237 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  1803.  Seven  Years  after 

his  DeaiSt 237 

Thoughts  suggested  the  Day  following,  on  the 
Banks  of  Nith,  near  the  Poet’s  Residence  ..  238 
To  the  Sons  of  Burns  after  visiting  the  Grave  of 

their  Father 239 

Ellen  Irwin:  or,  the  Braes  of  Kirtle 240 

To  a Highland  Girl 240 

Glen-Almain;  or,  the  Narrow  Glen 241 

Stepping  Westward 241 

The  Solitary  Reaper 242 

Address  to  Kilchurn  Castle,  upon  Loch  Awe. . . . 242 

Rob  Roy’s  Grave 242 

Sonnet.  Composed  at Castle 244 

Yarrow  Unvisited 244 

Sonnet  in  the  Pass  of  Killicranky 245 

The  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  her  Husband....  245 
Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere-dale  ! . . . 246 
The  Blind  Highland  Boy 246 

MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  1814. 

The  Brownie’s  Cell 249 

Composed  at  Cora  Linn,  in  sight  of  Wallace’s 

Tower 250 

Effusion,  in  the  Pleasure-ground  on  the  banks  of 

the  Bran 250 

Yarrow  Visited,  September,  1814 252 

POEMS  DEDICATED  TO  NATIONAL  INDE- 
PENDENCE AND  LIBERTY.  — Part  I. 

Composed  by  the  Sea-side,  near  Calais,  August, 

1802 253 

It  is  a reed  that’s  shaken  by  the  wind 253 

v Composed  near  Calais,  on  the  road  leading  to 

Ardres,  August  7,  1802 253 

I grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a vain 253 

Festivals  have  I seen  that  were  not  names 253 

On  the  Extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic 254 

The  King  of  Sweden 254 

To  Toussaint  L’Ouverture 254 

September  1,  1802 254 

Composed  in  the  Valley  near  Dover,  on  the  day 

of  landing 254 

Inland,  within  a hollow  vale,  I stood 254 

Thought  of  a Briton  on  the  Subjugation  of  Swit- 
zerland   255 

Written  in  London,  September,  1802  255 

Milton ! thou  should'st  be  living  at  this  hour  ....  255 
Great  men  have  been  among  us ; hands  that 

penned 255 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 255 

When  I have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed. . 255 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries 256 

There  is  a bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear  ....  256 
These  times  strike  moneyed  worldlings  with 

dismay 256>- 

England  ! the  time  is  come  when  thou  should’st 
wean 256 


When  looking  on  the  present  state  of  things 256 

To  the  Men  of  Kent.  October,  1803  256 

Anticipation.  October,  1803 257 

Another  year ! — another  deadly  blow  ! 25 

Ode.  Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine 257 

POEMS  DEDICATED  TO  NATIONAL  INDE- 
PENDENCE  AND  LIBERTY.  — Part  II. 

On  a celebrated  Event  in  Ancient  History 258 

Upon  the  same  Event 258 

To  Thomas  Clarkson  on  the  Final  Passing  of  the 

Bill  for  the  Abolition  of  the  Slave  Trade 258 

A Prophecy.  February,  1807 258 

Composed  by  the  side  of  Grasmere  Lake 258 

Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes 258 

Composed  while  the  Author  was  engaged  in 
Writing  a Tract,  occasioned  by  the  Conven- 
tion of  Cintra 259 

Composed  at  the  same  Time  and  on  the  same 

Occasion 259 

Hoffer  259 

Advance  — come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground  259 

Feelings  of  the  Tyrolese 259 

Alas  ! what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest 259 

And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales 260 

O’er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain...  260 

On  the  Final  Submission  of  the  Tyrolese 260 

Hail,  Zaragoza!  If  with  unwet  eye 260 

Say,  what  is  Honour?  — ’Tis  the  finest  sense....  260 

The  martial  courage  of  a day  is  vain 260 

Brave  Schill  1 by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight.  261 

Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate 261 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid  ....  261 

Is  there  a Power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer 261 

Ah  ! where  is  Palafox  ? Nor  tongue  nor  pen 261 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite 261 

Feelings  of  a Noble  Biscayan  at  one  of  those 

Funerals 262 

The  Oak  of  Guernica 262 

Indignation  of  a high-minded  Spaniard 262 

Avaunt,  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 262 

O’erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  lelied  ....  262 

The  French  and  the  Spanish  Guerillas 263 

Spanish  Guerillas 263 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a visible  thing 263 

Here  pause:  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise..  263 

The  French  Army  in  Russia 263 

On  the  same  Occasion 264 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a blaze 264 

The  Germans  on  the  Heights  of  Hockheim 264 

Now  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  all  faces  bright.. . . . 264 
Feelings  of  a French  Royalist,  on  the  Disinter- 
ment of  the  Remains  of  the  Duke  d’Enghien  264 

Occasioned  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 265 

Siege  of  Vienna  raised  by  John  Sobieski 265 

Occasioned  by  the  Battle  of  Waterloo 265 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  temples  rung.  265 
Ode,  1814.  — When  the  soft  hand  of  sleep  had 

closed  the  latch 265 

Ode.  — The  Morning  of  the  Day  appointed  fora 
General  Thanksgiving.  1816 267 

Additional  Pieces. 

Lines  on  the  expected  Invasion.  1803 272 

On  the  Same  Occasion 272 

The  Eagle  and  the  Dove 272 


CONTENTS. 




SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY  AND 


ORDER. 

Composed  after  reading  a Newspaper  of  the  Day.  272 

Upon  the  Late  General  Fast.  March,  1832 272 

Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud 273 

Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  Mind’s  unselfish  will  273 
In  allusion  to  various  recent  Histories  and  Notices 

of  the  French  Revolution 273 

Continued 273 

Concluded  273 

Men  of  the  Western  World  ! in  Fate’s  dark  book  274 

To  the  Pennsylvanians 274 

At  Bologna,  in  Remembrance  of  the  late  Insur- 
rections, 1837 274 

Continued 274 

Concluded  274 

Young  England  — what  is  then  become  of  Old  ..  275 
Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken 275 


SONNETS  UPON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF 
DEATH.  — 1840. 

Suggested  by  the  View  of  Lancaster  Castle  (on 


the  Road  from  the  South) 275 

Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature’s  law 275 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die 275 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought 275 

Not  to  the  object  specially  designed 276 

Ye  brood  of  conscience  — Spectres  ! that  frequent  276 

Before  the  world  had  past  her  time  of  youth 276 

Fit  retribution  by  the  moral  code 276 

Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter 276 

Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine..  276 
Ah,  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide. . . . 276 

See  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell 277 

Conclusion 277 

Apology 277 

MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  ON  THE  CONTI- 
,NENT,  1820. 

Dedication  278 

Fish-women.  — On  Landing  at  Calais 278 

Btiuges 278 

Bruges 278 

After  visiting  the  Field  of  Waterloo 278 

Between  Namur  and  Liege 279 

Aix-la-Chapelle 279 

In  the  Cathedral  at  Cologne 279 

In  a Carriage,  upon  the  Banks  of  the  Rhine 279 

Hymn,  for  the  Boatmen,  as  they  approach  the 

i Rapids  under  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg 279 

The  Source  of  the  Danube 280 

IVtemorial,  near  the  Outlet  of  the  Lake  of  Thun  . 280 

Composed  in  One  of  the  Catholic  Cantons 280 

After-thought  280 

On  approaching  the  Staub-bach,  Lauterbrunnen  . 280 

The  Fall  of  the  Aar  — Handec 281 

Scene  on  the  Lake  of  Brientz 281 

Engelberg,  the  Hill  of  Angels 281 

Our  Lady  of  the  Snow 281 

Effusion,  in  Presence  of  the  Painted  Tower  of 

Tell,  at  Altorf 282 

The  Town  of  Schwytz 282 

On  hearing  the  “ Ranz  des  Vacnes”  on  the  Top 

ol  the  Pass  of  St.  Gothard 282 

The  Church  of  San  Salvador,  seen  from  the  Lake 

of  Lugano 283 

Fort  Fuentes 283 


xxii 


The  Italian  Itinerant,  and  the  .Swiss  Goatherd...  284 
The  Last  Supper,  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  in  the 


Convent,  Milan 285 

The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  1820  285 

The  Three  Cottage  Girls 286 

The  Column  intended  by  Buonaparte  for  a Tri- 
umphal Edifice  in  Milan,  now  lying  in  the 

Simplon  Pass 287 

Stanzas,  composed  in  the  Simplon  Pass 287 

Echo,  upon  the  Gemmi 287 

Processions.  Suggested  on  a Sabbath  Morning  in 

the  Vale  of  Chamouny 287 

Elegiac  Stanzas 288 

Sky-prospect.  — From  the  Plain  of  France 289 

On  being  Stranded  near  the  Harbour  of  Boulogne  289 

After  landing  — the  Valley  of  Dover 290 

Desultory  Stanzas 290 

To  Enterprise 291 

THE  RIVER  DUDDON.  A Series  of  Sonnets. 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth,  1820 293 


Not  envying  Latian  shades  — if  yet  they  throw..  294 
Child  of  the  clouds  ! remote  from  every  taint. ...  291 
How  shall  I paint  thee?  — Be  this  naked  stone  ..  294 
Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mountain,  take...  294 
Sole  listener,  Duddon ! to  the  breeze  that  played.  294 


Flowers 294 

“Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing 

rose!’’  295 

What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  roved  or  fled  ....  295 

The  Stepping-stones 295 

The  same  Subject 295 

The  Faery  Chasm 295 

Hints  for  the  Fancy 295 

Open  Prospect 296 

O mountain  Stream  ! the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot..  296 
From  this  deep  chasm,  where  quivering  sunbeams 

play 296 

American  Tradition 296 

Return 296 

Seathwaite  Chapel 296 

Tributary  Stream 297 

The  Plain  of  Donnerdale 297 

Whence  that  low  voice?  — A whisper  from  the 

heart 297 

Tradition 297 

Sheep-washing 297 

The  Resting-place 297 

Methinks  ’twere  no  unprecedented  feat 298 

Return,  Content ! for  fondly  I pursued 298 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a shapeless  heap 298 

Journey  renewed 298 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance 298 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce  298 

The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  Pilgrim’s  eye 299 

Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep 299 

Conclusion 299 

After-thought  299 

Postscript 299 


YARROW  REVISITED,  and  other  Poems,  Com- 
posed (TWO  excepted)  during  a Tour  in  Scotland, 
AND  on  the  English  Border,  in  the  Autumn  of 


1831. 

The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained 300 

On  the  Departure  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  from  Ab- 
botsford, for  Naples 30U 

2* 


C 


CONTENTS. 


Xviii 


A Place  of  Burial  in  the  South  of  Scotland 302  I 

On  the  Sight  of  a Manse  in  the  South  of  Scotland  302 

Composed  in  Roslin  Chapel,  during  a Storm 302 

The  Trosachs 302 

Changes  302 

Composed  in  the  Glen  of  Loch  Etive 302 

Composed  after  reading  a Newspaper  of  the  Day.  303 
Composed  at  Dunolly  Castle  in  the  Bay  of  Oban  303 

In  the  Sound  of  Mull 303 

Suggested  at  Tyndrum  in  a Storm 303 

The  Earl  of  Breadalbane’s  Ruined  Mansion,  and 

Family  Burial-place,  near  Killin 303 

“ Rest  and  be  Thankful !”  At  the  Head  of  Glen- 

croe  303 

Highland  Hut 304 

The  Brownie 304 

To  the  Planet  Venus,  an  Evening  Star.  Composed 

at  Loch  Lomond 304 

Bothwell  Castle.  Passed  unseen,  on  account  of 

stormy  Weather 304 

Picture  of  Daniel  in  the  Lions’  Den,  at  Hamilton 

Palace 304 

The  Avon.  A Feeder  of  the  Annan 305 

Suggested  by  a View  from  an  Eminence  in  Ingle- 
wood Forest 305 

Hart’s-horn  Tree  near  Penrith 305 

Countess’  Pillar 305 

Roman  Antiquities.  From  the  Roman  Station  at 

Old  Penrith 305 

Apology,  for  the  foregoing  Poems 305 

The  Highland  Broach 306 

/ 


POEMS,  COMPOSED  OR  SUGGESTED  DURING 
A TOUR,  IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  1833. 


Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels ! that  have  grown 307 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through 

this  Isle 307 

They  called  Thee  Merry  England,  in  old  time.  307 

To  the  River  Greta,  near  Keswick 307 

To  the  River  Derwent 308 

In  Sight  of  the  Town  of  Cockermouth 308 

Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cockermouth  Castle  . 308 

Nun’s  Well,  Brigham 308 

To  a Friend.  On  the  Banks  of  the  Derwent ....  308 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots.  Landing  at  the  Mouth  of 

the  Derwent,  Workington 309 

In  the  Channel  between  the  Coast  of  Cumberland 

and  the  Isle  of  Man 309 

At  Sea  off'  the  Isle  of  Man 309 

Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recal 309 

On  entering  Douglas  Bay,  Isle  of  Man 309 

By  the  Sea-shore,  Isle  of  Man 310 

Isle  of  Man 310 

The  Retired  Marine  officer.  Isle  of  Man 310 

By  a Retired  Mariner.  (A  Friend  of  the  Author)  310 
At  Bala-Sala,  Isle  of  Man.  (Supposed  to  be 

written  by  a Friend) 310 

Tynwald  Hill 310 

Despond  who  will  — 7 heard  a voice  exclaim 311 

In  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  Ailsa  Crag.  During  an 

Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  July  17 311 

On  the  Frith  of  Clyde.  In  a Steam-boat 311 

On  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle 311 

The  Dunolly  Eagle 311 

Cave  of  Staffa 312 

Cave  of  Staffa.  After  the  Crowd  had  departed. . 312 


Cave  of  Staffa 312 

Flowers  on  the  Top  of  the  Pillars  at  the  Entrance 

of  the  Cave 312 

Iona 312 

Iona.  Upon  Landing 313 

The  Black  Stones  of  Iona 313 

Homeward  we  turn.  Isle  of  Columba’s  Cell. . . . 313 

Greenock  313 

“There!”  said  a Stripling,  pointing  with  meet 

pride 313 

Fancy  and  Tradition 313 

The  River  Eden,  Cumberland 314 

Monument  of  Mrs.  Howard,  in  Wetheral  Church  314 

Suggested  by  the  foregoing 314 

Nunnery 314 

Steamboats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways 314 

Lowther 315 

To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale 315 

To  Cordelia  M , Hallsteads,  Ullswater 315 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 315 

Stanzas  suggested  in  a Steam-boat  off  Saint  Bees’ 
Heads,  on  the  Coast  of  Cumberland 315 

MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  ITALY,  1837. 

To  11.  C.  Robinson 318 

Musings  near  Aquapendente 318 

The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario  at  Rome 321 

At  Rome 321 

At  Rome.  — Regrets.  — In  allusion  to  Niebuhr 

and  other  modern  Historians 322 

Continued 322 

Plea  for  the  Historian 322 

At  Rome 322 

Near  Rome,  in  sight  of  St.  Peter’s 322 

At  Albano 322 

Near  Anio’s  stream,  I spied  a gentle  Dove 323 

From  the  Alban  Hills,  looking  towards  Rome  . . . 323 

Near  the  Lake  of  Thrasymene 323 

Near  the  same  Lake 323 

The  Cuckoo  at  Laverna 323 

At  the  Convent  of  Camaldoli 324 

Continued 324 

At  the  Eremite  or  Upper  Convent  of  Camaldoli . 325 

At  Vallombrosa 325 

At  Florence 325 

Before  the  Picture  of  the  Baptist,  by  Raphael,  in 

the  Gallery  at  Florence 325 

At  Florence.  — From  Michael  Angelo 325 

At  Florence.  — From  M.  Angelo 326 

Among  the  Ruins  of  a Convent  in  the  Apennines  326 

In  Lombardy 326 

After  leaving  Italy 326 

Continued 326 

Composed  at  Rydal  on  May  Morning,  1838 326 

The  Pillar  of  Trajan 327 

THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE;  or.  Tub 
Fate  of  the  Nortons. 

Dedication 328 

Canto  1 329 

Canto  II 332 

Canto  III. 334 

Canto  IV 337 

Canto  V 340 

Canto  VI 342 

Canto  VII 313 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS— PART  I.  From 
THE  Introduction  of  Christianity  into  Britain, 
TO  THE  Consummation  of  the  Papal  Dominion. 


Introduction 348 

Conjectures 348 

Trepidation  of  the  Druids 348 

Druidical  Excommunication 348 

Uncertainty 349 

Persecution 349 

Recovery 349 

Temptations  from  Roman  Refinements 349 

Dissensions 349 

Struggle  of  the  Britons  against  the  Barbarians...  349 

Saxon  Conquest 350 

Monastery  of  Old  Bangor 350 

Casual  Incitement 350 

Glad  Tidings 350 

Paulinus 351 

Persuasion 351 

Conversion 351 

Apology 351 

Primitive  Saxon  Clergy 351 

Other  Influences 352 

Seclusion 352 

Continued 352 

Reproof 352 

Saxon  Monasteries,  and  Lights  and  Shades  of  the 

Religion 352 

Missions  and  Travels 352 

Alfred  353 

His  Descendants 353 

Influence  Abused 353 

Danish  Conquests 353 

Canute 353 

The  Norman  Conquest 353 

The  Council  of  Clermont 354 

Crusades 354 

Richard  1 354 

An  Interdict 354 

Papal  Abuses 354 

Scene  in  Venice 354 

Papal  Dominion  355 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS.  — PART  II.  To 
THE  Close  of  the  troubles  in  the  Reign  of 
Charles  I. 


Cistertian  Monastery 355 

Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground 355 

Monks  and  Schoolmen 355 

Other  Benefits 355 

Continued 356 

Crusaders  356 

Transubstantiation 356 

The  Vaudois 356 

Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  mountain  springs  356 

Waldenses 356 

Archbishop  Chichely  to  Henry  V 357 

Wars  of  York  and  Lancaster 357 

Wiclifle 357 

Corruptions  of  the  higher  Clergy 357 

Abuse  of  Monastic  Power 357 

Monastic  Voluptuousness 357 

Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries 358 

The  same  Subject 358 

Continued 358 


Saints  358 

The  Virgin 358 

Apology  358 

Imaginative  Regrets 359 

Reflections 359 

Translation  of  the  Bible 359 

The  Point  at  issue 359 

Edward  VI 359 

Edward  signing  the  Warrant  for  the  Execution  of 

Joan  of  Kent 359 

Revival  of  Popery 360 

Latimer  and  Ridley 360 

Cranmer 360 

General  View  of  the  Troubles  of  the  Reformation  360 

English  Reformers  in  Exile 360 

Elizabeth  360 

Eminent  Reformers 361 

The  Same 361 

Distractions 361 

Gunpowder  Plot 361 

Illustration.  The  Jung-Frau  and  the  Fall  of  the 

Rhine  near  Schaffhausen 361 

Troubles  of  Charles  the  First 362 

Laud 362 

Afflictions  of  England 362 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS.— PART  III.  From 
the  Restoration  to  the  Present  Times. 


I saw  the  figure  of  a lovely  Maid 362 

Patriotic  Sympathies 362 

Charles  the  Second 362 

Latitudinarianism 363 

Clerical  Integrity 363 

Persecution  of  the  Scottish  Covenanters 363 

Acquittal  of  the  Bishops 363 

William  the  Third 363 

Obligations  of  Civil  to  Religious  Liberty 363 

Walton’s  Book  of  Lives 364 

Sacheverel 3f;4 

Down  a Swift  Stream,  thus  far,  a bold  design 364 

Aspects  of  Christianity  in  A.merica  : 

I.  The  Pilgrim  Fathers 364 

II.  Continued 36-1 

HI.  Concluded.  — American  Episcopacy  ... . 365 

Bishops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep 365 

Places  of  Worship 365 

Pastoral  Character 365 

The  Liturgy 365 

Baptism 365 

Sponsors 366 

Catechising 366 

Confirmation 366 

Confirmation — Continued 366 

Sacrament 366 

The  Marriage  Ceremony 366 

Thanksgiving  after  Childbirth 367 

Visitation  of  the  Sick 367 

The  Commination  Service 367 

Forms  of  Prayer  at  Sea 367 

Funeral  Service 367 

Rural  Ceremony 367 

Regrets 363 

Mutability  363 

Old  Abbeys 368 

Emigrant  French  Clergy 368 


XX 


CONTENTS. 


Congratulation  368 

New  Churches 368 

Churches  to  be  Erected 369 

Continued 369 

New  Church-yard 369 

Cathedrals,  etc 369 

Inside  of  King’s  College  Chapel,  Cambridge  ....  369 

The  Same 369 

Continued 370 

Ejaculation 370 

Conclusion 370 


Additional  Ecclesiastical  Sonnets. 

Coldly  we  spake.  The  Saxons  overpowered  ....  370 


How  soon  — Alas!  did  man  created  pure 370 

From  false  assumption  rose,  and  fondly  hailed  ...  371 

As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  warrior's  crest 371 

Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root  . 371 
Notes  to  Poems  of  the  Imagination 373 


Supplementary  Note,  with  Extracts  from  the  Au- 
thor’s prose  work  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra.  392 

\J' 

rOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Expostulation  and  Reply,  1798  393 

The  Tables  Turned.  An  Evening  Scene  on  the 

same  Subject,  1798 393 

Written  in  Germany,  on  one  of  the  coldest  Days 

of  the  Century,  1799  393 

A Night  Thought 394 

Upon  seeing  a coloured  Drawing  of  the  Bird  of 

Paradise  in  an  Album,  1835 394 

Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior,  1806 394 

A Poet’s  Epitaph,  1799 395 

To  the  Spade  of  a Friend,  1804  396 

''  ^ =-To  my  Sister,  1798  396 

To  a Young  Lady,  who  had  been  reproached  for 

taking  long  walks  in  the  Country,  1803 397 

Lines  written  in  Early  Spring,  1798 397 

Simon  Lee,  the  old  Huntsman,  1798  397 

Incident  at  Bruges,  1820  398 

The  Wishing  Gate,  1828 399 

Incident  characteristic  of  a favourite  Dog,  1805  . . 399 
Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  the  same  Dog,  1805...  400 
Matthew.  — If  Nature,  for  a favourite  child,  1799  400 

The  Two  April  Mornings,  1799 401 

The  Fountain.  A Conversation,  1799  401 

A Character,  1800 402 

This  Lawn,  a carpet  all  alive,  1829  402 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive 403 

Written  on  a blank  leaf  of  Macpherson’s  Ossian, 

1824  403 

'Vernal  Ode,  1817 404 

Ode  to  Lycoris 405 

To  the  Same,  1817 405 

Ode,  composed  on  May  Morning,  1826 406 

To  May,  1826  — 1834 407 

Devotional  Incitements,  1832 407 

The  Primrose  of  the  Rock,  1831  408 

Thought  on  the  Seasons,  1829 409 

Fidelity,  1805 409 

The  Gleaner.  Suggested  by  a Picture,  1828  410 

The  Labourer’s  Noon-day  Hymn,  1834  410 


To  the  Lady  Fleming,  on  seeing  the  Foundation 
preparing  for  the  Erection  of  Rydal  Chapel, 
Westmoreland,  1823.... 


On  the  same  Occasion,  1823  412 

The  Force  of  Prayer;  or,  the  Founding  of  Bolton 

Priory.  A Tradition,  1808 412 

A Fact,  and  an  Imagination;  or,  Canute  and 

Alfred,  on  the  Sea-shore,  1816 413 

A little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand,  1816 413 

The  Sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields,  1819 414 

Upon  the  same  Occasion,  1819 414 

The  Wishing  Gate  Destroyed 415 

Dion,  1816 415 

Presentiments,  1830  417 

Lines  written  in  the  Album  of  the  Countess  of 

Lonsdale.  Nov.  5,  1834 418 

Poor  Robin 419 

To  a Redbreast  — (in  sickness)  by  S.  H 419 

Floating  Island,  by  D.  W 419 

Inscription  on  the  Banks  of  a Rocky  Stream  ....  419 

To , upon  the  Birth  of  her  First-born  Child, 

March  1833  429 

The  Warning.  A Sequel  to  the  foregoing,  1833  . 420 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain.  1833 422 

Humanity,  1829  422 

Lines  suggested  by  a Portrait  from  the  pencil  of 

F.  Stone,  1834  423 

The  foregoing  Subject  resumed,  1834  424 

Memory,  1823  425 

Ode  to  Duty,  1805 425 


EVENING  VOLUNTARIES. 


Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose,  1832..-  426 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life  \V!t 426 

By  the  Side  of  Rydal  Mere,  1834  426 

Soft  as  a cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge — the  Mere,  1834  427 
The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill, 

1834  427 

The  Sun  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire.  (On  a 
high  part  of  the  Coast  of  Cumberland,  Easter 
Sunday,  April  7,  1833  ; the  Author’s  Sixty- 

third  Birth-day) 427 

By  the  Sea-side,  1833 428 

The  sun  has  long  been  set,  1804 428 

“ Throned  in  the  Sun’s  descending  car” 428 

Composed  by  the  Sea-shore 429 

The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love 429 

To  the  Moon.  Composed  by  the  Sea-side, — on 

the  Coast  of  Cumberland,  1835 429 

To  the  Moon.  Rydal,  1835..  430 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high 430 

To  Lucca  Giordano,  1846  430 

Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  Moon  on  high, 

1846  430 

Where  lies  the  truth?  has  man,  in  Wisdom’s 

creed,  1846  431 

Notes  to  Poems  of  Sentiment  and  Reflection 432 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


Epistle  to  Sir  George  Howland  Beaumont,  Bart. 
From  the  South-West  Coast  of  Cumberland. 

1811 434 

Upon  perusing  the  foregoing  Epistle  thirty  Years 

after  its  Composition 436 

Prelude,  prefixed  to  the  Volume  entitled  “ Poems 
chiefly  of  Early  and  Late  Years.”  1842....  437 
To  a Chiui.  Writteir.  ia  her  Album 437 


CONTENTS. 


xxi 


Ode  on  the  Installation  of  Prince  Albert  as  Chan- 
cellor of  the  University  of  Cambridge,  1847.  437 

Translation  of  Part  of  the  First  Book  of 


THE  .®NEID 439 

SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER,  MODERN- 
ISED. 

The  Prioress’  Tale  441 

The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale 443 

Troilus  and  Cresida 446 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


In  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton,  the  Seat  of  Sir 
George  Beaumont,  Bart.,  Leicestershire,  1808  449 

In  a Garden  of  the  Same 449 

Written  at  the  Request  of  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
Bart.,  and  in  his  Name,  for  an  Urn,  placed  by 
him  at  the  Termination  of  a newly-planted 

Avenue  449 

For  a Seat  in  the  Groves  of  Coleorton,  1808 449 

Written  with  a Pencil  upon  a Stone  in  the  Wall 

of  the  House  on  the  Island  at  Grasmere 450 

Written  with  a Slate  Pencil  on  a Stone,  on  the 
Side  of  the  Mountain  of  Black  Comb,  1813. . 450 


Written  with  a Slate  Pencil  upon  a Stone,  near  a 
deserted  Quarry  upon  one  of  the  Islands  at 


Rydal,  1800 450 

Inscriptions  supposed  to  be  found  in  and  near  a 
Hermit’s  Cell,  1818. 

1.  Hopes  what  are  they? — Beads  of  morning..  451 

2.  Pause,  Traveller  ! whosoe’er  thou  be 451 

3.  Hast  thou  seen  with  flash  incessant 451 

4.  Near  the  Spring  of  the  Hermitage 451 

5.  Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest 452 

For  the  Spot  where  the  Hermitage  stood  on 

St.  Herbert’s  Island,  Derwent-water,  1800  452 
In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a Tree,  (Rydal 

Mount)  1830 452 

The  Massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights, 

1826  452 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF 


OLD  AGE. 

The  Old  Cumberland  Beggar,  1798 453 

The  Farmer  of  Tilsbury  Vale,  1803  455 

The  Small  Celandine,  1804  456 

The  Two  Thieves  ; or,  the  Last  Stage  of  Avarice, 

1800  456 

Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay,  1798 456 

I know  an  Aged  man  constrained  to  dwell,  1846  . 457 
Sonnet.  — To  an  Octogenarian,  1846 457 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  PIECES. 

Epitaphs  Translated  from  Chiabrera. — 

Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State 458 

O Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a mind 458 

There  never  breathed  a man  who,  when  his  life  458 

Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy 459 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He 459 

Pause,  courteous  Spirit!  — Balbi  supplicates  ..  459 

Weep  not,  beloved  Friends  ! nor  let  the  air 459 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero 459 

O flower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood. . 460  | 


Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained 460 

Cenotaph 460 

Epitaph  in  the  Chapel-yard  of  Langdale,  West- 
moreland   460 

Address  to  the  Scholars  of  the  Village  School 

of 460 

By  the  Side  of  the  Grave  some  years  after 461 

Lines  composed  at  Grasmere,  during  a Walk  one 


Evening,  after  a stormy  Day,  the  Autiior 
having  just  read  in  a Newspaper  that  the 
Dissolution  of  Mr.  Fo.x  was  hourly  expected, 

1806  461 

Elegiac  Verses,  in  Memory  of  my  Brother,  John 
Wordsworth,  Commander  of  the  E.  1.  Com- 
pany’s Ship  the  Earl  of  Abergavenny,  in 
which  he  perished  by  Calamitous  Shipwreck, 


Feb.  6,  1805  462 

Lines  written  in  a Copy  of  “The  Excursion,’’ 
upon  hearing  of  the  Death  of  the  late  Vicar 

of  Kendal 463 

Elegiac  Stanzas,  suggested  by  a Picture  of  Peele 
Castle  in  a Storm,  painted  by  Sir  George 

Beaumont,  1805 463 

To  the  Daisy,  1805 463 

Once  I could  hail  (howe’er  serene  the  sky),  1826.  464 
Elegiac  Stanzas.  Addressed  to  Sir  G.  H.  B.,  upon 

the  Death  of  his  Sister-in-Law 465 

Invocation  to  the  Earth.  February,  1816 465 

By  a Blest  Husband  guided,  Mary  came 466 

Elegiac  Musings  in  the  Grounds  of  Coleorton 
Hall,  the  Seat  of  the  late  Sir  G.  H.  Beaumont, 

Bart.,  1830 466 

Written  after  the  Death  of  Charles  Lamb,  1835..  467 
Extempore  Effusion  upon  the  Death  of  James 

Hogg,  1835 468 

Inscription  for  a Monument  [to  Southey,]  in 

Crosthwaite  Church,  in  the  Vale  of  Keswick  469 
Sonnet  on  the  Death  of  his  Grandchild,  1846  ....  469 
ODE.  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Re- 
collections OF  Early  Childhood,  1803 — 6.  470 
Notes 472 


THE  PRELUDE;  or,  Growth  of  a Poet’s  mind. 
An  Autobiographical  Poem. 

Advertisement 474 

Book  I : 

Introduction.  — Childhood  and  School-Time...  476 


Book  II : 

School-Time.  — {Continued.) 482 

Book  III : 

Residence  at  Cambridge 486 

Book  IV: 

Summer  Vacation 492 

Book  V : 

Books 496 

Book  VI: 

Cambridge  and  the  Alps 502 

Book  VII : 

Residence  in  London 509 

Book  VIII: 

Retrospect.  — Love  of  Nature  leading  to  Love 
of  Man 516 


;gYii 


CONTENTS. 


Book  IX: 

Residence  in  France 

Book  X: 

Residence  in  France.  — {Continued) 

Book  XI : 

France. — Concluded) 

Book  XII: 

Imagination  and  Taste,  How  Impaired  and  Re- 
stored   

Book  XIII: 

Imagination  and  Taste,  How  Impaired  and  Re- 
stored.— {Concluded) 

Book  XIV: 

Conclusion 

THE  EXCURSION. 

Dedication 

Preface  to  the  Edition  of  1814 

Book  I : 

The  Wanderer 

Book  II : 

The  Solitary 

Book  HI : 

Despondency 

Book  IV: 

Despondency  Corrected 


Book  V : 

The  Pastor 593 

Book  VI: 

The  Church-yard  among  the  Mountains.......  603 

Book  VII: 

The  Church-yard  among  the  Mountains. — 

{Continued) gj4 

Book  VIII: 

The  Parsonage ggl 

Book  IX: 

Discourse  of  the  Wanderer,  and  an  Evening 

Visit  to  the  Lake g3o 

Notes  to  the  Excursion ggg 


APPENDIX,  PREFACES,  ETC.,  ETC. 


Preface  to  the  Edition  of  1815 g4j 

Dedication,  prefixed  to  the  Edition  of  1815 648 

Essay,  Supplementary  to  the  Preface g49 


Preface  to  the  Second  Edition  of  several  of  the 
foregoing  Poems,  published  with  an  additional 
Volume  under  the  Title  of  “ Lyrical  Ballads,”  660 


Note  on  Poetic  Diction gyo 

Memoir  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker 572 

Description  of  the  Country  of  the  Lakes 679 

Essay  upon  Epitaphs 700 

Postscript,  etc.,  1835  707 


Index  to  the  Poems 

Index  to  the  First  Lines 


522 

528 

533 

538 

541 

544 

550 

551 

553 

562 

571 

580 


TABLE  OF  GENERAL  TITLES 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH Page  25 

An  Evening  Walk 25 

Descriptive  Sketches 29 

The  Borderers 45 

POEMS  KEFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD  73 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS 87 

POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES 131 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY 137 

The  Waggoner 153 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 163 

Peter  Bell 194 

Miscellaneous  Sonnets 215 

Memorials  of  a Tour  in  Scotland,  1803 287 

Memorials  of  a Tour  in  Scotland,  1814 249 

Poems  Dedicated  to  National  Independence  and  Liberty 253 

Sonnets  Dedicated  to  Liberty  and  Order , 272 

Sonnets  upon  the  Punishment  of  Death 275 

Memorials  of  a Tour  on  the  Continent,  1820  278 

The  River  Duddon 293 

Yarrow  Revisited,  etc.,  etc 300 

Poems  of  a Tour  in  the  Summer  of  1833 307 

Memorials  of  a Tour  in  Italy,  1837  318 

The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone 328 

Ecclesiastical  Sonnets 348 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION  393 

Evening  voluntaries 420 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 434 

SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER  MODERNISED 441 

INSCRIPTIONS  449 

POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE 453 

EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  PIECES 458 

Ode.  Intimations  of  Immortality 470 

THE  PRELUDE 474 

THE  EXCURSION 650 

APPENDIX,  ETC.,  ETC 641 

LNDEx 717 


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POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH 


EXTRACT 

FROM  THE  CONCLUSION  OF  A POEM,  COMPOSED 
UPON  LEAVING  SCHOOL. 

De.\k  native  Regions,  I foretell, 

From  what  I feel  at  this  farewell. 

That,  wheresoe’er  my  steps  may  tend, 

And  whensoe’er  my  course  shall  end. 

If  in  that  hour  a single  tie 
Survive  of  local  sympathy. 

My  soul  will  cast  the  backward  view, 

The  longing  look  alone  on  you. 

Thus,  from  the  precincts  of  the  West, 

The  Sun,  when  sinking  down  to  rest, 

Though  his  departing  radiance  fail 
To  illuminate  the  hollow  Vale, 

A lingering  lustre  fondly  throws 

On  the  dear  mountain-tops  where  first  he  rose. 


AN  EVENING  WALK, 

ADDRESSED  TO  A YOUNG  LADY. 

General  Sketch  of  the  Lakes  — Author’s  Regret  of 
his  Youth  passed  among  them  — Short  description 
of  Noon  — Cascade  Scene  — Noon-tide  Retreat  — 
Precipice  and  sloping  Lights  — Face  of  Nature 
as  the  Sun  declines  — Mountain  Farm,  and  the 
Cock  — Slate  Quarry  — Sunset  — Superstition  of 
the  Country,  connected  with  that  Moment  — Swans 
— Female  Beggar  — Twilight  Sounds  — Western 
Lights  — Spirits  — Night  — Moonlight  — Hope  — 
Night  Sounds — Conclusion. 

Far  from  my  dearest  Friend,  ’t  is  mine  to  rove 
Through  bare  gray  dell,  high  wood,  and  pastoral  cove ; 
Where  Derwent  stops  his  course  to  hear  the  roar 
That  stuns  the  tremulous  cliffs  of  high  Lodore; 

Where  silver  rocks  the  savage  prospect  cheer 
Of  giant  yews  that  frown  on  Rydal’s  mere ; 

Where  peace  to  Grasmere’s  lonely  island  leads. 

To  willowy  hedgerows,  and  to  emerald  meads; 

Leads  to  her  bridge,  rude  church,  and  cottaged  grounds. 
Her  rocky  sheepwalks,  and  her  woodland  bounds ; 

D 


Where,  deep  embosomed,  shy*  Winander  peeps 
’Mid  clustering  isles,  and  holly-sprinkled  steeps; 
Where  twilight  glens  endear  my  Esthwaite’s  shore. 
And  memory  of  departed  pleasures,  more. 

Fair  scenes ! with  other  eyes,  than  once,  I gaze 
Upon  the  varying  charm  your  round  displays, 

Than  when,  erewhile,  I taught,  “ a happy  child,” 

The  echoes  of  your  rocks  my  carols  wild : 

Then  did  no  ebb  of  cheerfulness  demand 
Sad  tides  of  joy  from  Melancholy’s  hand ; 

In  youth’s  keen  eye  the  livelong  day  was  bright, 

The  sun  at  morning,  and  the  stars  of  night. 

Alike,  when  heard  the  bittern’s  hollow  bill. 

Or  the  first  woodcocksf  roamed  the  moonlight  hill. 

In  thoughtless  gaiety  I coursed  the  plain. 

And  hope  itself  was  all  I knew  of  pain. 

For  then,  even  then,  the  little  heart  would  beat 
At  times,  while  young  Content  forsook  her  seat. 

And  wild  Impatience,  panting  upward,  showed 
Where,  tipped  with  gold,  the  mountain-summits  glowed. 
Alas ! the  idle  tale  of  man  is  found 
Depicted  in  the  dial’s  moral  round; 

With  Hope  Reflection  blends  her  social  rays 
To  gild  the  total  tablet  of  his  days ; 

Yet  still,  the  sport  of  some  malignant  Power, 

He  knows  but  from  its  shade  the  present  hour. 

But  why,  ungrateful,  dwell  on  idle  pain? 

To  show  what  pleasures  yet  to  me  remain. 

Say,  will  my  Friend,  with  unreluctant  ear. 

The  history  of  a poet’s  evening  hear? 

When,  in  the  south,  the  wan  noon,  brooding  still. 
Breathed  a pale  steam  around  the  glaring  hill. 

And  shades  of  deep-embattled  clouds  were  seen. 
Spotting  the  northern  cliffs  with  lights  between  ; 
When,  at  the  barren  wall’s  unsheltered  end. 

Where  long  rails  far  into  the  lake  extend. 

Crowded  the  shortened  herds,  and  beat  the  tides 
With  their  quick  tails,  and  lashed  their  speckled  sides , 
When  school-boys  stretched  their  k;ngth  upon  the 
green ; 

And  round  the  humming  elm,  a glimmering  scene  ! 

* These  lines  are  only  applicable  to  the  middle  part  of  that 
lake. 

1 In  the  beginning  of  winter,  these  mountains  are  frequented 
by  woodcocks,  which  in  dark  nights  retire  into  the  woods. 

3 


2G 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  the  brown  park,  in  herds,  the  troubled  deer 
Shook  the  still-twinkling  tail  and  glancing  ear ; 

When  horses  in  the  sunburnt  intake*  stood. 

And  vainly  eyed  below  the  templing  flood, 

Or  tracked  the  Passenger,  in  mute  distress, 

With  forward  neck  the  closing  gate  to  press  — 

Then,  while  I wandered  up  the  huddling  rill 
Brightening  with  water-breaks  the  sombrous  ghyll,+ 

As  by  enchantment,  an  obscure  retreat 
Opened  at  once,  and  stayed  my  devious  feet. 

While  thick  above  the  rill  the  branches  close, 

In  rocky  basin  its  w’ild  waves  repose. 

Inverted  shrubs,  and  moss  of  gloomy  green. 

Cling  from  the  rocks,  with  pale  wood-weeds  between; 
Save  that  aloft,  the  subtle  sunbeam  shine 
On  withered  briars  that  o’er  the  crags  recline, 

Sole  light  admitted  here,  a small  cascade. 

Illumes  with  sparkling  foam  the  impervious  shade; 
Beyond,  along  the  vista  of  the  brook. 

Where  antique  roots  its  bustling  course  o’erlook. 

The  eye  reposes  on  a secret  bridge}; 

Half  gray,  half  shagged  with  ivy  to  its  ridge ; 

Whence  hangs,  in  tlie  cool  shade,  the  listless  swain 
Lingering  behind  his  disappearing  wain. 

— Did  Sabine  grace  adorn  my  living  line, 

Bandusia’s  praise,  wild  Stream,  should  yield  to  thine  ! 

Never  shall  ruthless  minister  of  Death 

’iMid  thy  soft  glooms  the  glittering  steel  unsheath  ; 

No  goblets  shall,  for  thee,  be  crowned  with  flowers. 

No  kid  with  piteous  outcry  thrill  thy  bowers ; 

The  mystic  shapes  that  by  thy  margin  rove 
A more  benignant  sacrifice  approve  ; 

A Mind,  that,  in  a calm  angelic  mood 
Of  happy  wisdom,  meditating  good. 

Beholds,  of  all  from  her  high  powers  required. 

Much  done,  and  much  designed,  and  more  desired,  — 
Harmonious  thoughts,  a soul  by  truth  refined. 

Entire  affection  for  all  human  kind. 

— Sweet  rill,  farewell ! To-morrow’s  noon  again 
Shall  hide  me,  wooing  long  thy  wildwood  strain ; 

But  now  the  sun  has  gained  his  western  road, 

And  eve’s  mild  hour  invites  my  steps  abroad. 

While,  near  the  midway  cliff,  the  silvered  kite 
In  many  a whistling  circle  wheels  her  flight ; 

Slant  watery  lights,  from  parting  clouds,  apace 
Travel  along  the  precipice’s  base ; 

Cheering  its  naked  waste  of  scattered  stone. 

By  lichens  gray,  and  scanty  moss,  o’ergrown  ; 

Where  scarce  the  fox-glove  peeps,  or  thistle’s  beard  : 
And  desert  stone-chat,  all  day  long,  is  heard. 

* The  word  intake  is  local,  and  signifies  a mountain  inclosure, 
t Ghyll  is  also,  I believe,  a term  confined  to  this  country 
Glen,  ghyll,  and  dingle,  have  the  same  meaning. 

} The  reader  who  has  made  the  tour  of  this  country  will 
recognise,  in  this  description,  the  features  which  characterise 
the  lower  waterfall  in  the  grounds  of  Rydale. 


How  pleasant,  as  the  sun  declines,  to  view 
The  spacious  landscape  changed  in  form  and  hue ! 

Here,  vanish,  as  in  mist,  before  a flood 
Of  bright  obscurity,  hill,  lawn,  and  wood ; 

There,  objects,  by  the  searching  beams  betrayed, 

Come  forth,  and  here  retire  in  purple  shade  ; 

Even  the  white  stems  of  birch,  the  cottage  white, 
Soften  their  glare  before  the  mellow  light; 

The  skiffs,  at  anchor  where  with  umbrage  wide 
Yon  chestnuts  half  the  latticed  hoat-house  hide. 

Shed  from  their  sides,  that  face  the  sun’s  slant  beam. 
Strong  flakes  of  radiance  on  the  tremulous  stream ; 
Raised  by  yon  travelling  flock,  a dusty  cloud 
Mounts  from  the  road,  and  spreads  its  moving  shroud 
The  shepherd,  all  involved  in  wreaths  of  fire, 

Now  shows  a shadowy  speck,  and  now  is  lost  entire. 

Into  a gradual  calm  the  zephyrs  sink, 

A blue  rim  borders  all  the  lake’s  still  brink : 

And  now,  on  every  side,  the  surface  breaks 
Into  blue  spots,  and  slowly  lengthening  streaks  ; 

Here,  plots  of  spai  kling  water  tremble  bright 
With  thousand  thousand  twinkling  points  of  light ; 
There,  waves  that,  hardly  weltering,  die  away, 

Tip  their  smooth  ridges  with  a softer  ray. 

And  now  the  universal  tides  repose. 

And,  brightly  blue,  the  burnished  mirror  glows, 

Save  where,  along  the  shady  western  marge, 

Coasts,  with  industrious  oar,  the  charcoal  barge ; 

The  sails  are  dropped,  the  poplar’s  foliage  sleeps. 

And  insects  clothe,  like  dust,  the  glassy  deeps. 

Their  panniered  train  a group  of  potters  goad, 
Winding  from  side  to  side  up  the  steep  road ; 

The  peasant,  from  yon  cliff  of  fearful  edge. 

Shot,  down  the  headlong  path  darts  with  his  sledge; 
Bright  beams  the  lonely  mountain  horse  illume. 
Feeding  ’mid  purple  heath,  “ green  ringsj,”  and  broon^ ; 
While  the  sharp  slope  the  slackened  team  confounds, 
Downward  the  ponderous  timber-wain  resoundsH ; 

In  foamy  breaks  the  rill,  with  merry  song. 

Dashed  o’er  the  rough  rock,  lightly  leaps  along; 

From  lonesome  chapel  at  the  mountain’s  feet. 

Three  humble  bells  their  rustic  chime  repeat: 

Sounds  from  the  water-side  the  hammered  boat; 

And  blasted  quarry  thunders,  heard  remote ! 

Even  here,  amid  the  sweep  of  endless  woods. 

Blue  pomp  of  lakes,  high  cliffs,  and  falling  floods. 

Not  undelightful  are  the  simplest  charms. 

Found  by  the  verdant  door  of  mountain  farms. 

Sweetly  ferociousIT,  round  his  native  walks. 

Pride  of  his  sister-wives,  the  monarch  stalks ; 

$“  Vivid  rings  of  green.” — Greenwood’s  Poem  on  Shooting. 
11  “ Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings.” — 
Be.vttie. 

IT  “ Dolcemenie  feroee.” — Tasso.  — In  this  description  of  the 
cock,  I remembered  a spirited  one  of  the  same  animal  in  I'Agiv 
culture,  ou  Les  Georgiquos  Francoises,  of  M Roasuet 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


27 


Spur-clad  his  nervous  feet,  and  firm  his  tread ; 

A crest  of  purple  tops  his  warrior  head. 

Bright  sparks  his  black  and  haggard  eye-ball  hurls 
Afar,  his  tail  ho  closes  and  unfurls ; 

Whose  state,  like  pine-trees,  waving  to  and  fro, 
Droops,  and  o’er-canopies  his  regal  brow ; 

On  tiptoe  reared,  he  strains  his  clarion  throat, 
Threatened  by  faintly-answering  farms  remote : 

Again  with  his  shrill  voice  the  mountain  rings. 

While,  flapped  with  conscious  pride,  resound  his  wings ! 

Brightening  the  cliffs  between,  where  sombrous  pine 
And  yew-trees  o’er  the  silver  rocks  recline ; 

I love  to  mark  the  quarry’s  moving  trains, 

Dwarf- panniered  steeds,  and  men,  and  numerous  wains ; 
How  busy  the  enormous  hive  within. 

While  Echo  dallies  with  the  various  din! 

Some  (hardly  heard  their  chisels’  clinking  sound) 

Toil,  small  as  pigmies  in  the  gulf  profound ; 

Some,  dim  between  the  aerial  cliff’s  descried, 

O'erwalk  the  slender  plank  from  side  to  side ; 

These,  by  the  pale-blue  rocks  that  ceaseless  ring. 

Glad  from  their  airy  baskets  hang  and  sing. 

Hung  o’er  a cloud,  above  the  steep  that  rears 
An  edge  all  flame,  the  broadening  sun  appears ; 

A long  blue  bar  its  aegis  orb  divides. 

And  breaks  the  spreading  of  its  golden  tides ; 

And  now  it  touches  on  the  purple  steep 
That  flings  its  image  on  the  pictured  deep. 

'Cross  the  calm  lake’s  blue  shades  the  cliffs  aspire. 
With  towers  and  woods  a “ prospect  all  on  fire 
The  coves  and  secret  hollows,  through  a ray 
Of  fainter  gold,  a purple  gleam  betray ; 

The  gilded  turf  invests  with  richer  green 
Each  speck  of  lawn  the  broken  rocks  between ; 

Deep  yellow  beams  the  scattered  stems  illume. 

Far  in  the  level  forest’s  central  gloom ; 

Waving  his  hat,  the  shepherd,  from  the  vale, 

Directs  his  winding  dog  the  cliffs  to  scale. 

That,  barking  busy,  ’mid  the  glittering  rocks; 

Hunts,  where  he  points,  the  intercepted  flocks. 

Where  oaks  o’erhang  the  road  the  radiance  shoots 
On  tawny  earth,  wild  weeds,  and  twisted  roots; 

The  Druid  stones  their  lighted  fane  unfold. 

And  all  the  babbling  brooks  are  liquid  gold ; 

Sunk  to  a curve,  the  day-star  lessens  still. 

Gives  one  bright  glance,  and  drops  behind  the  hill.* 

In  these  secluded  vales,  if  village  fame. 

Confirmed  by  silver  hairs,  belief  may  claim; 

When  up  the  hills,  as  now,  retired  the  light. 

Strange  apparitions  mocked  the  gazer’s  sight. 

A desperate  form  appears,  that  spurs  his  steed 
Along  the  midway  cliffs  with  violent  speed ; 

Unhurt  pursues  his  lengthened  flight,  while  all 
Attend,  at  every  stretch,  his  headlong  fall. 

‘‘From  Thomson. — See  Scott's  Critical  Essays. 


Anon,  in  order  mounts  a gorgeous  sliow 
Of  horsemen  shadows  winding  to  and  fro ; 

At  intervals  imperial  banners  stream. 

And  now  the  van  reflects  the  solar  beam. 

The  rear  through  iron  brown  betrays  a sullen  glean 
Lost  gradual,  o’er  the  heights  in  pomp  they  go. 

While  silent  stands  the  admiring  vale  below; 

Till,  save  the  lonely  beacon,  all  is  fled. 

That  tips  with  eve’s  last  gleam  his  spiry  head.f 

Now,  while  the  solemn  evening  shadows  sail 
On  red  slow-*'aving  pinions,  down  the  vale; 

And,  fronting  the  bright  west,  yon  oak  entwines. 

Its  darkening  boughs  and  leaves,  in  stronger  lines. 
How  pleasant  near  the  tranquil  lake  to  stray 
Where  winds  the  road  along  a secret  bay  ; 

By  rills  that  tumble  down  the  woody  steeps. 

And  run  in  transport  to  the  dimpling  deeps ; 

Along  the  “ wild  meandering  shore”  to  view 
Obsequious  Grace  the  winding  Swan  pursue: 

He  swells  his  lifted  chest,  and  backward  flings 
His  bridling  neck  between  his  towering  wings ; 

In  all  the  majesty  of  ease,  divides 

And,  glorying,  looks  around  the  silent  tides ; 

On  as  he  floats,  the  silvered  waters  glow. 

Proud  of  the  varying  arch  and  moveless  form  of  snow 
While  tender  cares  and  mild  domestic  Loves, 

With  furtive  watch,  pursue  her  as  she  moves; 

The  female  with  a meeker  charm  succeeds. 

And  her  brown  little-ones  around  her  leads. 

Nibbling  the  water-lilies  as  they  pass. 

Or  playing  wanton  with  the  floating  grass. 

She,  in  a mother’s  care,  her  beauty’s  pride 
Forgets,  unwearied  watching  every  side  ; 

She  calls  them  near,  and  with  affection  sweet 
Alternately  relieves  their  weary  feet; 

Alternately  they  mount  her  back,  and  rest 
Close  by  her  mantling  wings’  embraces  prest. 

Long  may  ye  float  upon  these  floods  serene ; 

Yours  be  these  holms  untrodden,  still,  and  green. 
Whose  leafy  shades  fence  off  the  blustering  gale, 
Where  breathes  in  peace  the  lily  of  the  vale. 

Yon  Isle,  which  feels  not  even  the  milk-maid’s  feet, 
Yet  hears  her  song,  “by  distance  made  more  sweet,” 
Yon  isle  conceals  your  home,  your  cottage  bower. 
Fresh  water-rushes  strew  the  verdant  floor ; 

Long  grass  and  willows  form  the  woven  wall. 

And  swings  above  the  roof  the  poplar  tall. 

Thence  issuing  often  with  unwieldy  stalk. 

With  broad  black  feet  ye  crush  your  flowery  walk ; 
Or,  from  the  neighbouring  water,  hear  at  morn 
The  hound,  the  horses’  tread,  and  mellow  horn ; 
Involve  your  serpent  necks  in  changeful  rings. 

Rolled  wantonly  between  your  slippery  wings, 

t See  a description  of  an  appearance  of  this  kind  in  Clarke’s 
Survey  of  the  Lakes,  accompanied  by  vouchers  of  its  veracity, 
that  may  amuse  the  reader. 


28 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or,  starling  up  with  noise  and  rude  delight, 

Force  half  upon  the  wave  your  cumbrous  flight. 

Fair  Swan ! by  all  a mother’s  joys  caressed. 

Haply  some  wretch  has  eyed,  and  called  thee  blessed ; 
The  while  upon  some  sultry  summer’s  day 
She  dragged  her  babes  along  this  weary  way ; 

Or  taught  their  limbs  along  the  burning  road 
A few  short  steps  to  totter  with  their  load. 

I see  her  now,  denied  to  lay  her  head. 

On  cold  blue  nights,  in  hut  or  straw-built  shed. 

Turn  to  a silent  smile  their  sleepy  cry. 

By  pointing  to  a shooting  star  on  high  ; 

1 hear,  while  in  the  forest  depth,  he  sees 

The  Moon’s  fixed  gaze  between  the  opening  trees. 

In  broken  sounds  her  elder  grief  demand. 

And  skyward  lift,  like  one  that  prays,  his  hand, 

If,  in  that  country,  where  he  dwells  afar. 

His  father  views  that  good,  that  kindly  star; 

— Ah  me ! all  light  is  mute  amid  the  gloom. 

The  interlunar  cavern,  of  the  tomb. 

— When  low-hung  clouds  each  star  of  summer  hide. 
And  fireless  are  the  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Where  the  brook  brawls  along  the  painful  road. 

Dark  with  bat-haunted  ashes  stretching  broad. 

Oft  has  she  taught  them  on  her  lap  to  play 
Delighted,  with  the  glow-worm’s  harmless  ray 
Tossed  light  from  hand  to  hand  ; while  on  the  ground 
Small  circles  of  green  radiance  gleam  around. 

Oh  ! when  the  sleety  showers  her  path  assail. 

And  roars  between  the  hills  the  torrent  gale. 

— No  more  her  breath  can  thaw  their  fingers  cold. 
Their  frozen  arms  her  neck  no  more  can  fold  ; 

Weak  roof  a cowering  form  two  babes  to  shield, 

And  faint  the  fire  a dying  heart  can  yield  ! 

Press  the  sad  kiss,  fond  mother ! vainly  fears 
Thy  flooded  cheek  to  wet  them  with  its  tears ; 

No  tears  can  chill  them,  and  no  bosom  warms. 

Thy  breast  their  death-bed,  coffined  in  thine  arms. 

Sweet  are  the  sounds  that  mingle  from  afar. 

Heard  by  calm  lakes,  as  peeps  the  folding  star. 

Where  the  duck  dabbles  ’mid  the  rustling  sedge, 

And  feeding  pike  starts  from  the  water’s  edge. 

Or  the  swan  stirs  the  reeds,  his  neck  and  bill 
Wetting,  that  drip  upon  the  water  still; 

And  heron,  as  resounds  the  trodden  shore. 

Shoots  upward,  darting  his  long  neck  before. 

Now,  with  religious  awe,  the  farewell  light 
Blends  with  the  solemn  colouring  of  the  night ; 

’i\Iid  groves  of  clouds  that  crest  the  mountain’s  brow. 
And  round  the  West’s  proud  lodge  their  shadows 
throw. 

Like  Una  shining  on  her  gloomy  way. 

The  half-seen  form  of  Twilight  roams  astray  ; 
Shedding,  through  paly  loopholes  mild  and  small, 
Gleams  that  upon  the  lake’s  still  bosom  fall, 


Soft  o’er  the  surface  creep  those  lustres  pale 
Tracking  the  fitful  motions  of  the  gale. 

With  restless  interchange  at  once  the  bright 
Wins  on  the  shade,  the  shade  upon  the  light. 

No  favoured  eye  was  e’er  allowed  to  gaze 
On  lovelier  spectacle  in  faery  days ; 

When  gentle  Spirits  urged  a sportive  chase, 
Brushing  with  lucid  wands  the  water’s  face ; 

While  music,  stealing  round  the  glimmering  deeps, 
Charmed  the  tall  circle  of  the  enclianted  steeps. 

— The  lights  are  vanished  from  the  watery  plains 
No  wreck  of  all  the  pageantry  remains. 

Unheeded  night  has  overcome  the  vales: 

On  the  dark  earth,  the  baffled  vision  fails ; 

The  latest  lingerer  of  the  forest  train. 

The  lone  black  fir,  forsakes  the  faded  plain ; 

Last  evening  sight,  the  cottage  smoke,  n6  more. 

Lost  in  the  thickened  darkness,  glimmers  hoar; 

And,  towering  from  the  sullen  dark-brown  mere, 
Like  a black  wall,  the  mountain  steeps  appear. 

Now  o’er  the  soothed  accordant  heart  we  feel 
A sympathetic  twilight  slowly  steal. 

And  ever,  as  we  fondly  muse,  we  find 

The  soft  gloom  deepening  on  the  tranquil  mind. 

Stay  ! pensive,  sadly-pleasing  visions,  stay  ! 

Ah  no ! as  fades  the  vale,  they  fade  away : 

Yet  still  the  lender,  vacant  gloom  remains ; 

Still  the  cold  cheek  its  shuddering  tear  retains. 

The  bird,  who  ceased,  with  fading  light,  to  threaf 
Silent  the  hedge  or  steaming  rivulet’s  bed. 

From  his  gray  re-appearing  tower  shall  soon 
Salute  with  boding  note  the  rising  moon. 

Frosting  with  hoary  light  the  pearly  ground. 

And  pouring  deeper  blue  to  Aether’s  bound; 

And  pleased  her  solemn  pomp  of  clouds  to  fold 
In  robes  of  azure,  fleecy-white,  and  gold. 

See,  o’er  the  eastern  hill,  where  darkness  broods 
O’er  all  its  vanished  dells,  and  lawns,  and  woods; 
Where  but  a mass  of  shade  the  sight  can  trace. 

She  lifts  in  silence  up  her  lovely  face : 

Above  the  gloomy  valley  flings  her  light. 

Far  to  the  western  slopes  with  hamlets  white 
And  gives,  where  woods  the  chequered  upland  strew 
To  the  green  corn  of  summer  autumn’s  hue. 

Thus  Hope,  first  pouring  from  her  blessed  horn 
Her  dawn,  far  lovelier  than  the  Moon’s  own  morn; 
Till  higher  mounted,  strives  in  vain  to  cheer 
The  W'eary  hills,  impervious,  blackening  near ; 

— Yet  does  she  still,  undaunted,  throw  the  while 
On  darling  spots  remote  her  tempting  smile. 

— Even  now  she  decks  for  me  a distant  scene. 

(For  dark  and  broad  the  gulf  of  time  between) 
Gilding  that  cottage  with  her  fondest  ray, 

(Sole  bourn,  sole  wish,  sole  object  of  my  way ; 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


20 


How  fair  its  lawns  and  sheltering  woods  appear ! 
How  sweet  its  streamlet  murmurs  in  mine  ear ! 
Where  we,  my  Friend,  to  happy  days  shall  rise, 
’Till  our  small  share  of  hardly-paining  sighs 
(For  sighs  will  ever  trouble  human  breath) 

Creep  hushed  into  the  tranquil  breast  of  Death. 

But  now  the  clear  bright  Moon  her  zenith  gains, 
And  rimy  without  speck  extend  the  plains ; 

The  deepest  dell  the  mountain's  front  displays 
Scarce  hides  a shadow  from  her  searching  rays ; 
From  the  dark-blue  “ faint  silvery  threads”  divide 
The  hills,  while  gleams  below  the  azure  tide; 

The  scene  is  wakened,  yet  its  peace  unbroke. 

By  silvery  wreaths  of  quiet  charcoal  smoke. 

That,  o’er  the  ruins  of  the  fallen  wood. 

Steal  down  the  hills,  and  spread  along  the  flood. 

The  song  of  mountain  streams,  unheard  by  day. 
Now  hardly  heard,  beguiles  my  homeward  way. 

Air  listens,  as  the  sleeping  water  still. 

To  catch  the  spiritual  music  of  the  hill. 

Broke  only  by  the  slow  clock  tolling  deep. 

Or  shout  that  wakes  the  ferry-man  from  sleep. 

Soon  followed  by  his  hollow-parting  oar. 

And  echoed  hoof  approaching  the  far  shore ; 

Sound  of  closed  gate,  across  the  water  borne, 
Hurrying  the  feeding  hare  through  rustling  corn ; 
The  tremulous  sob  of  the  complaining  owl : 

And  at  long  intervals  the  mill-dog’s  howl ; 

The  distant  forge’s  swinging  thump  profound ; 

Or  yell,  in  the  deep  w'oods,  of  lonely  hound. 


DESCRIPTIVE  SKETCHES, 

TAKEN  DUrfiNG  A PEDESTRIAN  TOUR  AMONG 
THE  ALPS. 

TO  THE  REV.  ROBERT  JONES, 

FELLOW  OF  ST.  JOlI.v’s  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

Dear  Sir, 

However  desirous  I might  have  been  of  giving  you 
proofs  of  the  high  place  you  hold  in  my  esteem,  I 
should  have  been  cautious  of  wounding  your  delicacy 
by  thus  publicly  addressing  you,  had  not  the  circum- 
stance of  my  having  accompanied  you  among  the  Alps, 
seemed  to  give  this  dedication  a propriety  sufficient  to 
do  away  any  scruples  which  your  modesty  might  other- 
wise have  suggested. 

In  inscribing  this  little  work  to  you,  I consult  my 
heart.  You  know  well  how  great  is  the  difference  be- 
tween two  companions  lolling  in  a post-chaise,  and  two 
travellers  plodding  slowly  along  the  road,  side  by  side, 
each  with  his  little  knapsack  of  necessaries  upon  his 
shoulders.  IIovv  much  more  of  heart  between  the  two 
latter ! 


I am  happy  in  being  conscious  I shall  have  one 
reader  who  will  approach  the  conclusion  of  these  few 
pages  with  regret.  You  they  must  certainly  interest, 
in  reminding  you  of  moments  to  w’liich  you  can  hardly 
look  back  without  a pleasure  not  the  less  dear  from  a 
shade  of  melancholy.  You  will  meet  with  few  images 
without  recollecting  the  spot  where  we  observed  them 
together;  consequently,  whatever  is  feeble  in  my  de- 
sign, or  spiritless  in  my  colouring,  will  be  amply  sup- 
plied by  your  own  memory. 

With  still  greater  propriety  I might  have  inscribed 
to  you  a description  of  some  of  the  features  of  your 
native  mountains,  through  which  we  have  wandered 
together,  in  the  same  manner,  with  so  much  pleasure. 
But  the  sea-sunsets,  which  give  such  splendour  to  the 
vale  of  Clwyd,  Snowdon,  the  chair  of  Idris,  the  quiet 
village  of  Bethgelert,  Menai  and  her  Druids,  the  Al- 
pine steeps  of  the  Conway,  and  the  still  more  interest- 
ing windings  of  the  wizard  stream  of  the  Dee,  remain 
yet  untouched.  Apprehensive  that  my  pencil  may 
never  be  exercised  on  these  subjects,  I cannot  let  slip 
this  opportunity  of  thus  publicly  assuring  you  with 
how  much  affection  and  esteem 

I am,  dear  Sir, 

Most  sincerely  yours, 

W.  Wordsworth. 

London,  1793. 


Happiness  (if  she  had  been  to  be  found  on  Earth) 
amongst  the  Charms  of  Nature  — Pleasures  of 
the  pedestrian  Traveller  — Author  crosses  France 
to  the  Alps  — Present  State  of  the  Grande  Char- 
treuse— Lake  of  Como — Time,  Sunset  — Same 
Scene,  Twilight — Same  Scene,  Morning,  its  vo- 
luptuous Character ; Old  Man  and  Forest  Cottage 
Music — River  Tusa  — Via  Mala  and  Orison 
Gipsy  — Sckellcnen-thal  — Lake  of  Uri  — Stormu 
Sunset — Chapel  of  William  Tell  — Force  of 
Local  Emotion  — Chamois-chaser — View  of  the 
higher  Alps  — Manner  of  Life  of  a Swiss  Moun- 
taineer, interspersed  icilh  Views  of  the  higher 
Alps — Golden  Age  of  the  Alps  — Life  and 
Views  continued — Ranz  des  Vaches,  famous 

Swiss  Ah Abbey  of  Einsiedlen  and  its  Pilgrims 

— Valley  of  Chamouny — Mont  Blanc — Slavery 
of  Savoy — Infuence  of  Liberty  on  Cottage  Hap- 
piness — France  — Wish  for  the  Extirpation  of 
Slavery — Conclusion. 

Were  there,  below,  a spot  of  holy  ground 
Where  from  distress  a refuge  might  be  found. 

And  solitude  prepare  the  soul  for  heaven  ; 

Sure,  Nature’s  God  that  spot  to  man  had  given 
Where  falls  the  purple  morning  far  and  wide 
In  flakes  of  light  upon  the  mountain  side; 

Where  with  loud  voice  the  power  of  water  shakes 
The  leafy  wood,  or  sleeps  in  quiet  lakes. 


30 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  not  unrecompensed  the  man  shall  roam, 

Wno  at  the  call  of  summer  quits  his  home, 

And  plods  through  some  far  realm  o’er  vale  and  height, 
Though  seeking  only  holiday  delight; 

At  least,  not  owning  to  himself  an  aim 
To  which  the  Sage  would  give  a prouder  name. 

No  gains  too  cheaply  earned  his  fancy  cloy. 

Though  every  passing  zephyr  whispers  joy  ; 

Brisk  t “1,  alternating  with  ready  ease. 

Feeds  the  clear  current  of  his  sympathies. 

For  him  sod  seats  the  cottage  door  adorn ; 

Arid  peeps  the  far-off  spire,  his  evening  bourn ! 

Dear  is  the  forest  frowning  o’er  his  head. 

And  dear  the  velvet  green-sward  to  his  tread: 

Moves  there  a cloud  o’er  mid-day’s  flaming  eye  I 
Upward  he  looks  — “ and  calls  it  luxury  ; 

Kind  Nature’s  charities  his  steps  attend; 

In  every  babbling  brook  he  finds  a friend ; 

While  chastening  thoughts  of  sweetest  use,  bestowed 
By  Wisdom,  moralize  his  pensive  road. 

Host  of  his  welcome  inn,  the  noon-tide  bower. 

To  his  spare  meal  he  calls  the  passing  poor ; 

He  views  the  Sun  uplift  his  golden  fire. 

Or  sink,  with  heart  alive  like  Memnnn’s  lyre  ;* 

Blesses  the  Moon  that  comes  with  kindly  ray. 

To  light  him  shaken  by  his  rugged  way ; 

Witli  bashful  fear  no  cottage  children  steal 
From  him,  a brother  at  the  cottage  meal ; 

His  humble  looks  no  shy  restraint  impart. 

Around  him  plays  at  will  the  virgin  heart. 

Vfhile  unsuspeiided  wheels  the  village  dance. 

The  maidens  eye  him  with  enquiring  glance. 

Much  wondering  what  sad  stroke  of  crazing  Care 
Or  desperate  Love  could  lead  a Wanderer  there. 

Me,  lured  by  hope  its  sorrows  to  remove, 

A heart  that  could  not  much  itself  approve 
O’er  Gallia’s  wastes  of  corn  dejected  led. 

Her  road  elms  rustling  high  above  my  head. 

Or  through  her  truant  pathways’  native  charms. 

By  secret  villages  and  lonely  farms. 

To  where  the  Alps  ascending  white  in  air. 

Toy  with  the  sun,  and  glitter  from  afar. 

Even  now,  emerging  from  the  forest’s  gloom, 

I heave  a sigh  at  hoary  Chartreuse’  doom. 

Where  now  is  fled  that  Power  whose  frown  severe 
Tamed  “ sober  Reason”  till  she  crouched  in  fear  1 
The  cloister  startles  at  the  gleam  of  arms. 

And  Blasphemy  the  shuddering  fane  alarms; 

Nod  the  cloud-piercing  pines  their  troubled  heads ; 
Spires,  rocks,  and  lawns,  a browner  night  o’erspreads ; 
Strong  terror  checks  the  female  peasant’s  sighs. 

And  start  the  astonished  shades  at  female  eyes. 

* Ttie  lyre  of  Meinnon  is  reported  to  have  emitted  melan- 
choly or  cheerfol  tones,  as  it  was  touched  by  the  suit’s  evening 
or  morning  rays. 


That  thundering  tube  the  aged  angler  hears. 

And  swells  the  groaning  torrent  with  his  tears; 

From  Bruno’s  forest  screams  the  affrighted  jay. 

And  slow  the  insulted  eagle  wheels  away. 

The  cross,  by  angels  on  the  aerial  rock 
Planted!,  a flight  of  laughing  demons  mock. 

The  “ parting  Genius”  sighs  with  hollow  breath 
Along  the  mystic  streams  of  Life  and  Death.! 

Swelling  the  outcry  dull,  that  long  resounds 
Portentous  through  her  old  woods’  trackless  bounds 
VallombreJ,  ’mid  her  falling  fanes,  deplores. 

For  ever  broke,  the  sabbath  of  her  bowers. 

More  pleased,  my  foot  the  hidden  margin  roves 
Of  Como,  bosomed  deep  in  chestnut  groves. 

No  meadows  thrown  between,  the  giddy  steeps 
Tower,  bare  or  sylvan,  from  the  narrow  dfeeps. 

—To  towns,  whose  shades  of  no  rude  sound  complaij. 
To  ringing  team  unknown  and  grating  wain. 

To  flat-roofed  towns,  that  touch  the  water’s  bound. 

Or  lurk  in  woody  sunless  glens  profound. 

Or,  from  the  bending  rocks,  obtrusive  cling. 

And  o’er  the  whitened  wave  their  shadows  fling. 

The  pathway  leads,  as  round  the  steeps  it  twines. 

And  Silence  loves  its  purple  roof  of  vines; 

The  viewless  lingerer  hence,  at  evening,  sees 
From  rock-hewn  steps  the  sai,  Between  the  trees ; 

Or  marks,  ’mid  opening  cliffs,  fair  dark-eyed  maids 
Tend  the  small  harvest  of  their  garden  glades. 

Or  stops  the  solemn  mountain-shades  to  view 
Stretch,  o’er  the  pictured  mirror,  broad  and  blue, 
Tracking  the  yellow  sun  from  steep  to  steep. 

As  up  the  opposing  hills  with  tortoise  foot  they  creep. 
Here,  half  a village  shines,  in  gold  arrayed. 

Bright  as  the  moon ; half  hides  itself  in  shade  : 

While,  from  amid  the  darkened  roofs,  the  spire. 
Restlessly  flashing,  seems  to  mount  like  fire  : 

There,  all  unshaded,  blazing  forests  throw 
Rich  golden  verdure  on  the  waves  below. 

Slow  glides  the  sail  along  the  illumined  shore. 

And  steals  into  the  shade  the  lazy  car ; 

Soft  bosoms  breathe  around  contagious  sighs. 

And  amorous  music  on  the  water  dies. 

How  blessed,  delicious  scene  ! the  eye  that  greets 
Thy  open  beauties,  or  thy  lone  retreats ; 

The  unwearied  sweep  of  wood  thy  cliff  that  scales: 
The  never-ending  waters  of  thy  vales; 

The  cots,  those  dim  religious  groves  embower. 

Or,  under  rocks  that  from  the  water  tower. 

Insinuated,  sprinkling  all  the  shore; 

Each  with  his  household  boat  beside  the  door, 

t .Minding  to  crosLses  seen  on  the  tops  of  the  spiry  rocks  of 
Cliartreuse,  which  have  every  appearance  of  being  inacces 
sible. 

{ Names  of  Rivers  at  the  Chartreuse. 

§ Name  of  one  of  the  valleys  of  the  Chartreuse 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


31 


Whose  flaccid  sails  in  forms  fantastic  droop, 
Brightening  the  gloom  where  tliick  the  forests  stoop; 
— Thy  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 

Thy  towns,  that  cleave  like  swallows’  nests,  on  high ; 
That  glimmer  hoar  in  eve’s  last  light,  descried 
Dim  from  the  twilight  water’s  shaggy  side. 

Whence  lutes  and  voices  down  the  enchanted  woods 
Steal,  and  compose  the  oar-forgotten  floods ; 

— Thy  lake,  ’mid  smoking  woods,  that  blue  and  gray 
Gleams,  streaked  or  dappled,  hid  from  morning’s  ray. 
Slow  travelling  down  the  we.stern  hills,  to  fold 
Its  green-tinged  margin  in  a blaze  of  gold  ; 

From  thickly-glittering  spires,  the  matin  bell 
Calling  the  woodman  from  his  desert  cell, 

A summons  to  the  sound  of  oars  that  pass. 

Spotting  the  steaming  deeps,  to  early  mass; 

Slow  swells  the  service,  o’er  the  water  borne. 

While  fill  each  pause  the  ringing  woods  of  morn. 
Farewell  those  forms  that  in  thy  noon-tide  shade 
Rest  near  their  little  plots  of  wheaten  glade ; 

Those  charms  that  bind  the  soul  in  powerless  trance, 
Lip-dewing  song,  and  ringlet-tossing  dance. 

Where  sparkling  eyes  and  breaking  smiles  illume 
The  sylvan  cabin’s  lute-enlivened  gloom. 

— Alas!  the  very  murmur  of  the  streams 
Breathes  o’er  the  failing  .soul  voluptuous  dreams, 
While  Slavery,  forcing  the  sunk  mind  to  dwell. 

On  joys  that  might  disgrace  the  captive’s  cell. 

Her  shameless  timbrel  shakes  on  Como’s  marge, 

And  winds,  from  bay  to  bay,  the  vocal  barge. 

Yet  arts  are  thine  that  soothe  the  unquiet  heart. 

And  smiles  to  Solitude  and  Want  impart. 

I loved  by  silent  cottage-doors  to  roam. 

The  far-off  peasant’s  day-deserted  home ; 

And  once  I pierced  the  mazes  of  a wood. 

Where,  far  from  public  haunt,  a cabin  stood  ; 

There  by  the  door  a hoary-headed  Sire 
Touched  with  his  withered  hand  an  ancient  lyre ; 
Beneath  an  old  gray  oak,  as  violets  lie. 

Stretched  at  his  feet  with  steadfast,  upward  eye. 

His  children’s  children  joined  the  holy  sound  ; 

— A Hermit  with  his  family  around ! 

But  let  us  hence,  for  fair  Locarno  smiles 
Embowered  in  walnut  slopes  and  citron  isles; 

Or  seek  at  eve  the  banks  of  Tusa’s  stream. 

While,  ’mid  dim  towers  and  woods,  her*  waters  gleam ; 
From  the  bright  wave,  in  solemn  gloom,  retire 
The  dull-red  steeps,  and,  darkening  still,  aspire 
To  where  afiir  rich  orange  lustres  glow 
Round  undistinguished  clouds,  and  rocks,  and  snow ; 
Or,  led  where  Via  Mala’s  chasms  confine 
The  indignant  waters  of  the  infant  Rhine, 

Hang  o’er  the  abyss: — the  else  impervious  gloom 
His  burning  eyes  with  fearful  light  illume. 

* The  nver  along  whoso  banks  you  descend  in  crossing  the 
Alps  by  the  Simplon  pass. 


The  Grison  gipsy  here  her  tent  hath  placed. 

Sole  human  tenant  of  the  piny  waste ; 

Her  tawny  skin,  dark  eyes,  and  glossy  locks. 

Bend  o’er  the  smoke  that  curls  beneath  the  rocks. 

— The  mind  condemned,  without  reprieve,  to  go 
O’er  life’s  long  deserts  with  its  charge  of  woe, 

With  sad  congratulation  joins  the  train. 

Where  beasts  and  men  together  o’er  the  plain 
Move  on  — a mighty  caravan  of  pain; 

Hope,  strength,  and  courage,  social  suffering  brings. 
Freshening  the  waste  of  sand  with  shades  and  springs. 
She,  solitary,  through  the  desert  drear 
Spontaneous  wanders,  hand  in  hand  with  Fear. 

A giant  moan  along  the  forest  swells 
Protracted,  and  the  twilight  storm  foretells. 

And  ruining  from  the  cliffs,  their  deafening  load 
Tumbles,  — the  wildering  Thunder  slips  abroad  ; 

On  the  high  suminits  Darkness  comes  and  goes. 
Hiding  their  fiery  clouds,  their  rocks,  and  snows; 

The  torrent,  traversed  by  the  lustre  broad. 

Starts,  like  a horse  beside  the  flashing  road ; 

In  the  roofed  bridge,!  that  terrific  hour. 

She  seeks  a shelter  from  the  battering  shower. 

— Fierce  comes  the  river  down;  the  crashing  wood 
Gives  way,  and  half  its  pines  torment  the  flood ; 
Fearful,  beneath,  the  Water-spirits  call,j; 

And  the  bridge  vibrates,  tottering  to  its  fall. 

— Heavy,  and  dull,  and  cloudy  is  the  night 
No  star  supplies  the  comfort  of  its  light, 

A single  taper  in  the  vale  profound 

Shifts,  while  the  Alps  dilated  glimmer  round; 

And,  opposite,  the  waning  Moon  hangs  still 
And  red,  above  her  melancholy  hill. 

By  the  deep  quiet  gloom  appalled,  she  sighs, 

Stoops  her  sick  head,  and  shuts  her  weary  eyes. 

She  hears,  upon  the  mountain  forest’s  brow. 

The  death-dog,  howling  loud  and  long  below; 

On  viewless  fingers  counts  the  vallej^-clock. 

Followed  by  drowsy  crow  of  midnight  cock. 

The  dry  leaves  stir  as  with  a serpent’s  walk. 

And,  far  beneath.  Banditti  voices  talk ; 

Behind  her  hill,  the  Moon,  all  crimson,  rides. 

And  his  red  eyes  the  slinking  water  hides. 

— Vexed  by  the  darkness,  from  the  piny  gujf 
Ascending,  nearer  howls  the  famished  wolf. 

While  through  the  stillness  scatters  wild  dismay 
Her  babe’s  small  cry,  that  leads  him  to  his  p*ey. 

Now,  passing  Urseren’s  open  vale  serene. 

Her  quiet  streams,  and  hills  of  downy  green, 

t Most  of  tlie  bridges  among  the  Alps  are  of  wood,  and  co 
vered ; these  bridges  have  a heavy  appearance,  and  rather 
injure  the  effect  of  the  scenery  in  some  placc.s. 

t“  Red  came  the  river  down,  and  loud  and  oft 
The  angry  Spirit  of  the  water  shrieked.” 

Home’s  Douglas. 


32 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Plunge  with  the  Russ  embrowned  by  Terror’s  breath ; 
Where  danger  roofs  the  narrow  walks  of  death; 

By  floods,  that,  thundering  from  their  dizzy  height. 
Swell  more  gigantic  on  the  steadfast  sight ; 

Black  drizzling  crags,  that,  beaten  by  the  din, 

Vibrate,  as  if  a voice  complained  within; 

Bare  steeps,  where  Desolation  stalks,  afraid, 
Unsteadfast,  by  a blasted  yew  upstayed  ; 

By  cells*  whose  image,  trembling  as  he  prays. 
Awe-struck,  the  kneeling  peasant  scarce  surveys ; 
Loose-hanging  rocks  the  Day’s  blessed  eye  that  hide. 
And  crosses!  reared  to  Death  on  every  side. 

Which  with  cold  kiss  Devotion  planted  near. 

And,  bending,  watered  with  the  human  tear. 

That  faded  “silent”  from  her  upward  eye. 

Unmoved  with  each  rude  form  of  Danger  nigh, 

Fixed  on  the  anchor  left  by  Him  who  saves 
Alike  in  whelming  snows  and  roaring  waves. 

On  as  we  move,  a softer  prospect  opes. 

Calm  huts,  and  lawns  between,  and  sylvan  slopes, 
While  mists,  suspended  on  the  expiring  gale. 

Moveless  o’erhang  the  deep  secluded  vale. 

The  beams  of  evening,  slipping  soft  between. 

Gently  illuminate  a sober  scene ; 

Winding  its  dark-green  wood  and  emerald  glade. 

The  still  vale  lengthens  underneath  the  shade ; 

While  in  soft  gloom  the  scattering  bowers  recede, 
Green  dewy  lights  adorn  the  freshened  mead. 

On  the  low  brown  wood-huts^  delighted  sleep 
Along  the  brightened  gloom  reposing  deep : 

While  pastoral  pipes  and  streams  the  landscape  lull. 
And  bells  of  passing  mules  that  tinkle  dull, 

In  solemn  shapes  before  the  admiring  eye 
Dilated  hang  the  misty  pines  on  high, 

Huge  convent  domes  with  pinnacles  and  towers. 

And  antique  castles  seen  tlirough  drizzling  showers. 

From  such  romantic  dreams,  my  soul,  awake ! 

Lo ! Fear  looks  silent  down  on  Uri’s  lake. 

Where,  by  the  unpathwayed  margin,  still  and  dread, 
Was  never  heard  the  plodding  peasant’s  tread. 

Tower  like  a wall  the  naked  rocks,  or  reach 
Far  o’er  the  secret  water  dark  with  beech ; 

More  high,  to  where  creation  seems  to  end. 

Shade  above  shade,  the  aerial  pines  ascend. 

Yet  with  his  infants  Man  undaunted  creeps 
And  hangs  his  small  wood-cabin  on  the  steeps 
Where’er  below  amid  the  savage  scene 
Peeps  out  a little  speck  of  smiling  green, 

♦ The  Catholic  religion  prevails  here : these  cells  are,  as  is 
well  known,  very  common  in  the  Catholic  countries,  planted, 
like  the  Roman  tombs,  along  the  road  side. 

t Crosses  commemorative  of  the  deaths  of  travellers  by  the 
fall  of  snow  and  other  accidents  are  very  common  along  this 
dreadful  road. 

1 The  houses  in  the  more  retired  Swiss  valleys  are  all  built 
of  wood  ^ 


A garden-plot  the  desert  air  perfumes, 

’Mid  the  dark  pines  a little  orchard  blooms; 

A zig-zag  path  from  the  domestic  skiff, 

Tliridding  the  painful  crag,  surmounts  the  cliff 

— Before  those  hermit  doors,  that  never  know 
The  face  of  traveller  passing  to  and  fro. 

No  peasant  leans  upon  his  pole,  to  tell 
For  whom  at  morning  tolled  the  funeral  bell ; 

Their  watch-dog  ne’er  his  angry  bark  foregoes. 
Touched  by  the  beggar’s  moan  of  human  woes; 

The  grassy  scat  beneath  their  casement  shade 
The  pilgrim’s  wistful  eye  hath  never  stayed. 

— TJiere,  did  the  iron  Genius  not  disdain 

The  gentle  Power  that  haunts  the  myrtle  plain. 
There,  might  the  love-sick  maiden  sit,  and  chide 
The  insuperable  rocks  and  severing  tide; 

There,  watch  at  eve  her  lover’s  sun-gilt  ski! 
Approaching,  and  upbraid  the  tardy  gale  ; 

There,  list  at  midnight  till  is  heard  no  more, 

Below,  the  echo  of  Jiis  parting  oar. 

’Mid  stormy  vapours  ever  driving  by. 

Where  ospreys,  cormorants,  and  herons  cry. 

Hovering  o’er  rugged  wastes  too  bleak  to  rear 
Tliat  common  growth  of  earth,  the  foodful  ear; 
Where  the  green  apple  shrivels  on  the  spray. 

And  pines  the  unripened  pear  in  summer’s  kindliest  ray 
Even  here  Content  has  fixed  her  smiling  reign 
With  Independence,  child  of  high  Disdain. 

Exulting  ’mid  the  winter  of  the  skies, 

Sliy  as  the  jealous  chamois.  Freedom  flies. 

And  often  grasps  her  sw'ord,  and  often  eyes ; 

Her  crest  a bough  of  Winter’s  bleakest  pine. 

Strange  “ weeds”  and  Alpine  plants  her  helm  entwine 
And,  wildly  pausing,  oft  she  hangs  aghast. 

While  thrills  the  “ Spartan  fife”  between  the  blast. 

’T  is  stonn  ; and,  hid  in  mist  from  hour  to  hour, 

All  day  the  floods  a deepening  murmur  pour; 

The  sky  is  veiled,  and  every  cheerful  sight: 

Dark  is  the  region  as  with  coming  night ; 

But  what  a sudden  burst  of  overpowering  light! 
Triumphant  on  the  bosom  of  the  storm. 

Glances  the  fire-clad  eagle’s  wheeling  form  ; 
Eastward,  in  long  perspective  glittering,  shine 
The  wood-crowned  cliffs  that  o’er  the  lake  recline; 
Wide  o’er  the  Alps  a hundred  streams  unfold. 

At  once  to  pillars  turned  tliat  flame  with  gold : 

Behind  his  sail  the  peasant  strives  to  shun 
The  west,  that  burns  like  one  dilated  sun. 

Where  in  a mighty  crucible  expire 

The  mountains,  glowing  hot,  like  coals  of  fire. 

But,  lo ! the  Boatman,  overawed,  before 
The  pictured  fane  of  Tell  suspends  his  oar ; 

Confused  the  Marathonian  tale  appears, 

W’hile  burn  in  his  full  eyes  the  glorious  tears 


rOEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


33 


And  who  that  walks  where  men  of  ancient  days 
Have  wrouglit  with  godlike  arm  the  deeds  of  praise, 
Peels  not  the  spirit  of  the  place  control, 

Exalt,  and  agitate,  his  labouring  soul  1 
Say,  who,  by  thinking  on  Canadian  hills. 

Or  wild  Aosta  lulled  by  Alpine  rills. 

On  Zutphen’s  plain ; or  where,  with  softened  gaze. 
The  old  gray  stones  the  plaided  chief  surveys; 

Can  guess  the  high  resolve,  the  cherished  pain. 

Of  him  whom  passion  rivets  to  the  plain. 

Where  breathed  the  gale  that  caught  Wolfe’s  hap- 
piest sigh. 

And  the  last  sunbeam  fell  on  Bayard’s  eye ; 

Where  bleeding  Sidney  from  the  cup  retired. 

And  glad  Dundee  in  “ faint  huzzas”  expired  1 

But  now  with  other  mind  I stand  alone 
Upon  the  summit  of  this  naked  cone. 

And  watch,  from  pike  to  pike*,  amid  the  sky. 

Small  as  a bird  the  chamois-chaser  fly, 
fThrough  vacant  worlds  where  Nature  never  gave 
A brook  to  murmur  or  a bough  to  wave. 

Which  unsubstantial  Phantoms  sacred  keep ; 

Through  worlds  where  Life,  and  Sound,  and  Motion 
sleep ; 

Where  Silence  still  her  death-like  reign  extends. 

Save  when  the  startling  cliff  unfrequent  rends ; 

In  the  deep  snow  the  mighty  ruin  drowned. 

Mocks  the  dull  ear  of  Time  with  deaf  abortive  sound. 
— ’T  is  his  while  wandering  on,  from  height  to  height, 
To  see  a planet’s  pomp  and  steady  light 
In  the  least  star  of  scarce-appearing  night. 

While  the  near  Moon,  that  coasts  the  vast  profound. 
Wheels  pale  and  silent  her  diminished  round. 

And  far  and  wide  the  icy  summits  blaze. 

Rejoicing;  in  the  glory  of  her  rays : 

To  him  the  day-star  glitters  small  and  bright. 

Shorn  of  its  beams,  insufferably  white, 

And  he  can  look  beyond  the  sun,  and  view 
Those  fast->-3ceding  depths  of  sable  blue. 

Flying  till  vision  can  no  more  pursue  ! 

— At  once  bewildering  mists  around  him  close. 

And  cold  and  hunger  are  his  least  of  woes ; 

The  Demon  of  the  Snow,  with  angry  roar 
Descending,  shuts  for  aye  his  prison  door. 

Then  with  Despair’s  whole  weight  his  spirits  sink 
No  bread  to  feed  him,  and  the  snow  his  drink. 

While,  ere  his  eyes  can  close  upon  the  day, 

The  eagle  of  the  Alps  o’ershades  her  prey. 

Hence  shall  we  turn  where,  heard  with  fear  afar. 
Thunders  thiough  echoing  pines  the  headlong  Aarl 

* Pike  IS  a word  very  commonly  used  in  the  north  of  Eng- 
land, to  signify  a high  mountain  of  the  conic  form,  as  Langdale 
pike,  &c. 

t For  most  of  the  images  in  the  next  sixteen  verses  I am  in- 
debted to  M.  Raymond's  interesting  observations  annexed  to 
his  translation  of  Coxe’s  Tour  in  Switzerland. 

E 


Or  rather  stay  to  taste  the  mild  delights 
Of  pensive  Underwalden’sf  pastoral  heights? 

— Is  there  who  ’mid  these  awful  wilds  has  seen 
The  native  Genii  walk  the  mountain  g’reen  1 
Or  heard,  while  other  worlds  their  charms  reveal. 
Soft  music  from  the  aerial  summit  steal  ? 

While  o’er  the  desert,  answering  every  close. 

Rich  steam  of  sweetest  perfume  comes  and  goes. 

— And  sure  there  is  a secret  power  that  reigns 
Here,  where  no  trace  of  man  the  spot  profanes. 
Nought  but  the  herds  that,  pasturing  upward,  creepj. 
Hung  dim  discovered  from  the  dangerous  steep. 

Or  summer  hamlet,  flat  and  bare,  on  high 
Suspended,  ’mid  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

How  still ! no  irreligious  sound  or  sight 
Rouses  the  soul  from  her  severe  delight. 

An  idle  voice  the  sabbath  region  fills 
Of  Deep  that  calls  to  Deep  across  the  hills. 

Broke  only  by  the  melancholy  sound 
Of  Drowsy  bells,  for  ever  tinkling  round  ; 

Faint  wail  of  eagle  melting  into  blue 

Beneath  the  cliffs,  and  pine-woods’  steady  su^h  1| ; 

The  solitary  heifer’s  deepened  low ; 

Or  rumbling,  heard  remote,  of  falling  snow  ; 

Save  when,  a stranger  seen  below,  the  boy 
Shouts  from  the  echoing  hills  with  savage  joy. 

When  warm  from  myrtle  bays  and  tranquil  seas. 
Comes  on,  to  whisper  hope,  the  vernal  breeze. 

When  hums  the  mountain  bee  in  May’s  glad  ear. 

And  emerald  isles  to  spot  the  heights  appear. 

When  shouts  and  lowing  herds  the  valley  fill. 

And  louder  torrents  stun  the  noon-tide  hill. 

When  fragrant  scents  beneath  the  enchanted  tread 
Spring  up,  his  choicest  wealth  around  him  spread, 

The  pastoral  Swiss  begins  the  cliffs  to  scale. 

To  silence  leaving  the  deserted  vale ; 

Mounts,  where  the  verdure  leads,  from  stage  to  stage, 
And  pastures  on,  as  in  the  Patriarchs’  age  : 

O’er  lofty  heights  serene  and  still  they  go. 

And  hear  the  rattling  thunder  far  below ; 

They  cross  the  chasmy  torrent’s  foam-lit  bed. 

Rocked  on  the  dizzy  larch’s  narrow  tread ; 

Or  steal  beneath  loose  mountains,  half  deterred, 

That  sigh  and  shudder  to  the  lowing  herd. 

— I see  him,  up  the  midway  cliff  he  creeps 
To  where  a scanfy  knot  of  verdure  peeps. 

Thence  down  the  steep  a pile  of  grass  he  throws, 

The  fodder  of  his  herds  in  winter  snows. 

Far  different  life  to  what  tradition  hoar 
Transmits  of  days  more  blest  in  times  of  yore ; 


JTlie  people  of  this  Canton  are  supposed  to  be  of  a more 
melancboly  disposition  than  the  other  inhabitants  of  the  Alps 
this,  if  true,  may  proceed  from  their  living  more  secluded. 

^This  pictitre  is  from  the  middle  region  of  the  Alps. 

11  Sugh,  a Scotch  word  expressive  of  the  sound  of  the  w ina 
through  the  trees. 


34 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tlien  Summer  leng-thened  out  his  season  bland, 

And  with  rock-honey  flowed  tlie  happy  land. 

Continual  fountains  welling  cheered  the  waste, 

And  plants  were  wholesome,  now  of  deadly  taste. 

Nor  Winter  yet  his  frozen  stores  had  piled, 

Usurping  where  the  fairest  herbage  smiled  : 

Nor  Hunger  forced  the  herds  from  pastures  bare 
For  scanty  food  the  treacherous  cliffs  to  dare. 

Then  the  milk-thistle  bade  those  herds  demand 
Three  times  a day  the  pail  and  welcome  hand. 

But  human  vices  have  provoked  the  rod 
Of  angry  Nature  to  avenge  her  God. 

Tims  does  the  father  to  his  sons  relate, 

On  the  lone  mountain-top,  their  changed  estate. 

Still,  Nature,  ever  just,  to  him  imparts 
Joys  only  given  to  uncorrupted  hearts. 

’T  is  morn : with  gold  the  verdant  mountain  glows ; 
More  high,  the  snowy  peaks  with  hues  of  rose. 
Far-stretched  beneath  the  many-tinted  hills, 

A mighty  waste  of  mist  the  valley  fills, 

A solemn  sea  ! whose  vales  and  mountains  round 
Stand  motionless,  to  awful  silence  bound : 

A gulf  of  gloomy  blue,  that  opens  wide 
And  bottomless,  divides  the  midway  tide: 

Like  leaning  masts  of  stranded  ships  appear 
The  pines  that  near  the  coast  their  summits  rear; 

Of  cabins,  woods,  and  lawns,  a pleasant  shore 
Bounds  calm  and  clear  the  chaos  still  and  hoar ; 

Loud  through  that  midway  gulf  ascending,  sound 
Unnumbered  streams  with  hollow  roar  profound  : 
Mount  through  the  nearer  mist  the  chant  of  birds. 
And  talking  voices,  and  the  low  of  herds, 

The  bark  of  dogs,  the  drowsy  tinkling  bell. 

And  wild-wood  mountain  lutes  of  saddest  swell. 

Think  not,  suspended  from  the  cliff  on  high. 

He  looks  below  with  undelighted  eye. 

— No  vulgar  joy  is  his,  at  even-tide 
Stretched  on  the  scented  mountain’s  purple  side : 

For  as  the  pleasures  of  his  simple  day 
Beyond  his  native  valley  seldom  stray. 

Nought  round  its  darling  precincts  can  he  find 
But  brings  some  past  enjoyment  to  his  mind, 

WHiile  Hope,  that  ceaseless  leans  on  Pleasure’s  urn. 
Binds  her  wild  wreaths,  and  whispers  his  return. 

Once  Man  entirely  free,  alone  and  wild. 

Was  blessed  as  free  — for  he  was  Nature’s  child. 

He,  all  superior  but  his  God  disdained. 

Walked  none  restraining,  and  by  none  restrained. 
Confessed  no  law  but  what  his  reason  taught. 

Did  all  he  wished,  and  wished  but  what  he  ought. 

As  Man,  in  his  primeval  dower  arrayed. 

The  image  of  his  glorious  Sire  displayed. 

Even  so,  by  vestal  Nature  guarded,  here 
The  traces  of  primeval  Man  appear; 

The  native  dignity  no  forms  debase. 

The  eye  sublime,  and  surly  lion-grace. 


The  slave  of  none,  of  beasts  alone  the  lord 
His  book  he  prizes,  nor  neglects  the  sword ; 

Well  taught  by  that  to  feel  his  rights,  prepared 
With  this  “ the  blessings  he  enjoys  to  guard.” 

And,  as  his  native  hills  encircle  ground 
For  many  a wondrous  victory  renowned. 

The  work  of  Freedom  daring  to  oppose. 

With  few  in  arms*,  innumerable  foes. 

When  to  those  glorious  fields  his  stops  are  led. 

An  unknown  power  connects  him  with  the  dead: 

For  images  of  other  worlds  are  there ; 

Awful  the  light,  and  holy  is  the  air. 

Uncertain  through  his  fierce  uncultured  soul. 

Like  lighted  tempests,  troubled  transports  roll , 

To  viewless  realms  his  Spirit  towers  amain, 

Beyond  the  senses  and  their  little  reign.  _ 

And  oft,  when  passed  that  solemn  vision  by. 

He  holds  with  God  himself  communion  high. 

Where  the  dread  peal  of  swelling  torrents  fills 
The  sky-roofed  temple  of  the  eternal  hills ; 

Or,  when  upon  the  mountain’s  silent  brow 
Reclined,  he  sees,  above  him  and  below. 

Bright  stars  of  ice  and  azure  fields  of  snow ; 

While  needle  peaks  of  granite  shooting  bare 
Tremble  in  ever-varying  tints  of  air: 

— Great  joy,  by  horror  tamed,  dilates  his  heart. 

And  the  near  heavens  their  own  delights  impart. 

— When  the  Sun  bids  the  gorgeous  scene  farewell. 
Alps  overlooking  Alps  their  state  upswell ; 

1 Huge  Pikes  of  Darkness  named,  of  Fear  and  Stormsi 
Lift,  all  serene,  their  still,  illumined  forms, 
j In  sea-like  reach  of  prospect  round  him  spread. 

Tinged  like  an  angel’s  smile  all  rosy  red. 

When  downward  to  his  winter  hut  he  goes. 

Dear  and  more  dear  the  lessening  circle  grows ; 

That  hut  which  from  the  hills  his  eye  employs 
So  oft,  the  central  point  of  all  his  joys. 

And  as  a Swift,  by  tender  cares  opprest. 

Peeps  often  ere  she  dart  into  her  nest. 

So  to  the  untrodden  floor,  where  round  him  looks 
His  father,  helpless  as  the  babe  he  rocks. 

Oft  he  descends  to  nurse  the  brother  pair. 

Till  storm  and  driving  ice  blockade  him  there. 

There,  safely  guarded  by  the  woods  behind. 

He  hears  the  chiding  of  the  baffled  wind, 

* Alluding  to  several  battles  which  the  Swiss  in  very  small 
numbers  have  gained  over  their  oppressors,  the  house  of  .Aus- 
tria; and,  in  particular,  to  one  fought  at  NEeffcIs,  near  Giants, 
where  three  hundred  and  thirty  men  defeated  an  army  of  be- 
tween fifteen  and  twenty  thousand  Austrians.  Scattered  ovei 
the  valley  are  to  be  found  eleven  stones,  with  this  inscription, 
1388,  the  year  the  battle  was  fought,  marking  out,  as  I was  told 
upon  tlie  spot,  the  several  places  where  the  Austrians  attemp* 
ing  to  make  a stand  were  repulsed  anew. 

t .As  Schreck-IIorn,  the  pike  of  terror;  Wetter-IIom.  the  piles 
of  stonns,  <S:c  &C. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


35 


Hears  W'iiiter,  calling  all  his  terrors  round, 

Rush  down  the  living  rocks  with  whirlwind  sound. 
Through  Nature’s  vale  his  homely  pleasures  glide, 
Unstained  by  envy,  discontent,  and  pride ; 

The  bound  of  all  his  vanity,  to  deck. 

With  one  bright  bell,  a favourite  Heifer’s  neck  ; 

Well  pleased  upon  some  simple  annual  feast. 
Remembered  half  the  year  and  hoped  the  rest, 

If  dairy  produce  from  his  inner  hoard 
Of  thrice  ten  summers  consecrate  the  board. 

— Alas ! in  every  clime  a flying  ray 
Is  all  we  have  to  cheer  our  wintry  way 
“ Here,’’  cried  a thoughtful  Swain,  upon  whose  head 
The  “ blossoms  of  the  grave”  were  thinly  spread. 
Last  night,  while  by  his  dying  fire,  as  closed 
The  day,  in  luxury  my  limbs  reposed, 

“Here  Penury  oil  from  Misery’s  mount  will  guide 
Even  to  the  summer  door  his  icy  tide. 

And  here  the  avalanche  of  Death  destroy 
The  little  cottage  of  domestic  joy. 

But,  ah  ! the  unwilling  mind  may  more  than  trace 
The  general  sorrows  of  the  human  race: 

The  churlish  gales,  that  unremitting  blow 
Cold  from  necessity’s  continual  snow, 

To  us  the  gentle  groups  of  bliss  deny 
That  on  the  noon-day  bank  of  leisure  lie. 

Yet  more; — compelled  by  Powers  which  only  deign 
That  solitary  man  disturb  their  reign. 

Powers  that  support  a never-ceasing  strife 
With  all  the  tender  charities  of  life, 

The  father,  as  his  sons  of  strength  become 
To  pay  the  filial  debt,  for  food  to  roam. 

From  his  bare  nest  amid  the  storms  of  heaven 
Drives,  eagle-like,  those  sons  as  he  was  driven  ; 

His  last  dread  pleasure  watches  to  the  plain  — 

And  never,  eagle-like,  beholds  again!” 

When  the  poor  heart  has  all  its  joys  resigned. 

Why  does  their  sad  remembrance  cleave  behind  I 
Lo ! where  through  flat  Batavia’s  willowy  groves, 

Or  by  the  lazy  Seine,  the  exile  roves ; 

Soft  o’er  the  waters  mournful  measures  swell. 
Unlocking  tender  thought’s  “ memorial  cell 
Past  pleasures  are  transformed  to  mortal  pains. 

While  poison  spreads  along  the  listener’s  veins, 
Poison,  which  not  a frame  of  steel  can  brave. 

Bows  his  young  head  with  sorrow  to  the  grave.* 

Gay  lark  of  hope,  thy  silent  song  resume ! 

Fair  smiling  lights  the  purpled  hills  illume! 

Soft  gales  and  dews  of  life’s  delicious  morn. 

And  thou,  lost  fragrance  of  the  heart,  return ! 

Soon  flies  the  little  joy  to  man  allowed. 

And  grief  before  him  travels  like  a cloud  ; 

For  come  Diseases  on,  and  Penury’s  rage. 

Labour,  and  Care,  and  Pain,  and  dismal  Age, 

* The  effect  of  the  famous  air,  called  in  French  Ranz  des 
Vaches,  upon  the  Swiss  troops. 


Till,  Hope-deserted,  long  in  vain  his  breath 
Implores  the  dreadful  untried  sleep  of  Death. 

— ’Mid  savage  rocks,  and  seas  of  snow  that  shine 
Between  interminable  tracts  of  pine, 

A Temple  stands,  wdiich  holds  an  awful  shrine. 

By  an  uncertain  light  revealed,  that  falls 
On  the  mute  Image  and  the  troubled  walls : 

Pale,  dreadful  faces  round  the  Shrine  appear. 

Abortive  Joy,  and  Hope  that  works  in  fear ; 

While  strives  a secret  Power  to  hush  the  crowd. 
Pain’s  wild  rebellious  burst  proclaims  her  rights  aloud 

Oh ! give  me  not  that  eye  of  hard  disdain 
Tliat  views  undimmed  Ensiedlen’sf  wretched  fane. 
’Mid  muttering  prayers  all  sounds  of  torment  meet. 
Dire  clap  of  hands,  distracted  chafe  of  feet ; 

While,  loud  and  dull,  ascends  the  weeping  cry. 

Surely  in  other  thoughts  contempt  may  die. 

If  the  sad  grave  of  human  ignorance  boar 
One  flower  of  hope  — oh,  pass  and  leave  it  there! 

— The  tall  Sun,  tiptoe  on  an  Alpine  spire. 

Flings  o’er  the  wilderness  a stream  of  fire; 

Now  let  us  meet  the  pilgrims,  ere  the  day 
Close  on  the  remnant  of  their  weary  way ; 

Wliile  they  are  drawing  towards  the  sacred  floor 
Wliere  the  charmed  w'orm  of  pain  shall  gnaw  no  more. 
IIow  gaily  murmur  and  how  sweetly  taste 
The  fountains^;  reared  for  them  amid  the  waste  ! 

There  some  with  tearful  kiss  each  other  greet. 

And  some,  w'ith  reverence,  wash  their  toil-worn  feet. 
Yes,  I will  see  you  when  ye  first  behold 
Those  holy  turrets  tipped  with  evening  gold. 

In  that  glad  moment  when  the  hands  are  prest 
In  mute  devotion  on  the  thankful  breast. 

Last  let  us  turn  to  where  ChamoiinyJ  shields 
With  rocks  and  gloomy  woods  her  fertile  fields: 

Five  streams  of  ice  amid  her  cots  descend, 

And  with  wild  flowers  and  blooming  orchards  blend ; — 
A scene  more  fair  than  wliat  the  Grecian  feigns 
Of  purple  lights  and  ever-vernal  plains; 

Here  lawms  and  shades  by  breezy  rivulets  fanned. 

Here  all  the  Seasons  revel  hand  in  hand. 

— Red  stream  the  cottage-lights;  the  landscape  fades. 
Erroneous  wavering  ’mid  the  twilight  shades. 

Alone  ascends  that  Hill  of  matchless  height||, 

That  holds  no  commerce  with  the  summer  Night; 
From  age  to  age,  amid  his  lonely  bounds 
The  crash  of  ruin  fitfully  resounds; 

t This  shrine  is  resorted  to,  from  a hope  of  relief  by  nmlli- 
tiidcs,  from  every  corner  of  the  Catholic  world,  labouring  under 
menial  or  bodily  afflictions. 

t Rude  fountains  built  and  covered  with  sheds  for  the  ac- 
commodation of  the  Pilgrims,  in  their  ascent  of  the  mounlain. 

5 ff'his  word  is  pronounced  upon  the  spot  Chamouny  : I have 
taken  the  liberty  of  changing  the  accent. 

II  It  is  only  from  the  higher  part  of  the  valley  of  Chamouny 
.hat  Mont  Blanc  is  visible. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


3G 


Mysterious  havoc  ! but  serene  liis  brow, 

Where  daylight  lingers  ’mid  perpetual  snow; 

Glitter  the  stars  above,  and  all  is  black  below. 

At  such  an  hour  I heaved  a pensive  sigh, 

\\'hcn  roared  the  sullen  Arve  in  anger  by. 

That  not  for  thy  reward,  delicious  Vale  ! 

Waves  the  ripe  harvest  in  the  autumnal  gale; 

That  thou,  the  slave  of  slaves,  art  doomed  to  pine ; 
Hard  lot ! — for  no  Italian  arts  are  thine. 

To  soothe  or  cheer,  to  soften  or  refine. 

Beloved  Freedom  ! were  it  mine  to  stray. 

With  shrill  winds  roaring  round  my  lonely  way. 

O’er  the  bleak  sides  of  Cumbria’s  heath-clad  moors. 

Or  where  dank  sea-weed  lashes  Scotland’s  shores ; 

To  scent  the  sweets  of  Piedmont’s  breathing  rose. 

And  orange  gale  that  o’er  Lugano  blows; 

In  tlie  wide  range  of  many  a varied  round. 

Fleet  as  my  passage  was,  I still  have  found 
That  where  despotic  courts  their  gems  display. 

The  lillies  of  domestic  joy  decay, 

Wliile  the  remotest  hamlets  blessings  share. 

In  thy  dear  presence  known,  and  only  there  ! 

The  casement’s  shed  more  luscious  woodbine  binds. 

And  to  the  door  a neater  pathway  winds ; 

At  early  morn,  the  careful  housewife,  led 
To  cull  her  dinner  from  its  garden  bed. 

Of  weedless  herbs  a healthier  prospect  sees. 

While  hum  with  busier  joy  her  happy  bees  ; 

In  brighter  rows  her  table  wealth  aspires. 

And  laugh  with  merrier  blaze  her  evening  fires  ; 

Her  infants’  cheeks  with  fresher  roses  glow. 

And  wilder  graces  sport  around  their  brow  ; 

By  clearer  taper  lit,  a cleanlier  board 
Receives  at  supper  hour  her  tempting  hoard  ; 

The  chamber  hearth  with  fresher  boughs  is  spread. 

And  w'hiter  is  the  hospitable  bed. 

And  oh,  fair  France  ! though  now  along  the  shade,  j 
Where  erst  at  will  the  gray-clad  peasant  strayed. 
Gleam  war’s  discordant  vestments  through  the  trees. 
And  the  red  banner  fluctuates  in  the  breeze; 

Though  martial  songs  have  banished  songs  of  love. 

And  nightingales  forsake  the  village  grove. 

Scared  by  the  fife  and  rumbling  drum’s  alarms. 

And  the  short  thunder,  and  the  flash  of  arms ; 

While,  as  Night  bids  the  startling  uproar  die. 

Sole  sound,  the  Sourd*  renews  his  mournful  cry ! 

— Yet,  hast  thou  found  that  Freedom  spreads  her 
power 

Beyond  the  cottage  hearth,  tlie  cottage  door ; 

All  nature  smiles,  and  owns  beneath  lier  eyes 
Her  fields  peculiar,  and  peculiar  skies. 

Yes,  as  I roamed  where  Loiret’s  waters  glide 
Through  rustling  aspens  heard  from  side  to  side, 

♦ An  insect  is  so  called,  which  emits  a short,  melancholy  cry, 
heard  at  the  close  of  the  summer  evenings,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Loire. 


When  from  October  clouds  a milder  liglit 
Fell,  where  the  blue  flood  rippled  into  white, 
Methought  from  every  cot  the  watchful  bird 
Crowed  with  ear-piercing  power  till  then  unheard; 
Each  clacking  mill,  that  broke  the  murmuring  streams, 
Rocked  the  charmed  thought  in  more  delightfel 
dreams ; 

Chasing  those  long,  long  dreams,  the  falling  leaf 
Awoke  a faintei  pang  of  moral  grief ; 

The  measured  echo  of  the  distant  flail 
Wound  in  more  welcome  cadence  down  the  vale; 

A more  majestic  lidef  the  water  rolled. 

And  glowed  the  sun-gilt  groves  in  richer  gold. 

— Though  Liberty  shall  soon,  indignant,  raise 
Red  on  the  hills  liis  beacon’s  comet  blaze; 

Bid  from  on  high  his  lonely  cannon  sound. 

And  on  ten  thousand  hearths  his  shout  rebound ; 

His  larum-bell  from  village  tower  to  tower 
Swing  on  the  astounded  ear  its  dull  undying  roar; 
Yet,  yet  rejoice,  though  Pride’s  perverted  ire 
Rouse  Hell’s  own  aid,  and  wrap  thy  hills  in  fire ! 

Lo  ! from  the  innocuous  flames,  a lovely  birth. 

With  its  own  Virtues  springs  another  earth  : 

Nature,  as  in  her  prime,  her  virgin  reign 
Begins,  and  Love  and  Truth  compose  her  train ; 
While,  with  a pulseless  hand,  and  steadfast  gaze. 
Unbreathing  Justice  her  still  beam  surveys. 

Oh  give,  great  God,  to  Freedom’s  waves  to  ride 
Sublime  o’er  Conquest,  Avarice,  and  Pride, 

To  sweep  where  Pleasure  decks  her  guilty  bowers. 
And  dark  Oppression  builds  her  thick-ribbed  towers 

— Give  them,  beneath  their  breast  while  gladness 

springs. 

To  brood  the  nations  o’er  with  Nile-like  wings; 

And  grant  that  every  sceptred  Child  of  clay. 

Who  cries,  presumptuous,  “ Here  their  tides  shall  stay,” 
Swept  in  their  anger  from  the  affrighted  shore. 

With  all  his  creatures  sink — to  rise  no  more  ! 

To-night,  my  friend,  within  this  humble  cot 
Be  the  dead  load  of  mortal  ills  forgot 
In  timely  sleep;  and,  when  at  break  of  day. 

On  the  tall  peaks  the  glistening  sunbeams  play. 

With  lighter  heart  our  course  we  may  renew. 

The  first  w’hose  footsteps  print  the  mountain  dew. 


t The  duties  upon  many  parts  of  the  French  rivers  were  so 
exorbitant,  that  tlie  poorer  people,  deprived  of  the  benefit  of 
water  carriage  were  obliged  to  transport  their  goods  by  land. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


37 


WRITTEN  IN  VERY  EARLY  YOUTH. 

Calm  is  all  nature  as  a resting  wheel. 

The  kine  are  couched  upon  the  dewy  grass; 
The  horse  alone,  seen  dimly  as  I pass, 

Is  cropping  audibly  his  later  meal : 

Dark  is  the  ground;  a slumber  seems  to  steal 
O’er  vale,  and  mountain,  and  the  starless  sky. 
Now,  in  this  blank  of  things,  a harmony 
Homefelt,  and  home  created,  seems  to  heal 
That  grief  for  which  the  senses  still  supply 
Fresh  food  ; for  only  then,  when  memory 
Is  hushed,  am  I at  rest.  My  Friends!  restrain 
Those  busy  cares  that  would  allay  my  pain ; 

Oh ! leave  me  to  myself,  nor  let  me  feel 
The  officious  touch  that  makes  me  droop  again. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  WHILE  SAILING  IN  A BOAT  AT  EVENING. 

How  richly  glows  the  water's  breast 
Before  us,  tinged  with  evening  hues. 

While,  facing  thus  the  crimson  west. 

The  boat  her  silent  course  pursues ! 

And  see  how  dark  the  backward  stream! 

A little  moment  passed  so  smiling! 

And  still,  perhaps,  with  faithless  gleam. 

Some  other  loiterers  beguiling. 

Such  views  the  youthful  bard  allure; 

But,  heedless  of  the  following  gloom. 

He  dreams  their  colours  shall  endure 
Till  peace  go  with  him  to  the  tomb. 

— And  let  him  nurse  his  fond  deceit, 

And  what  if  he  must  die  in  sorrow ! 

Who  would  not  cherish  dreams  so  sweet. 

Though  grief  and  pain  may  come  to-morrow  ? 


REMEMBRANCE  OF  COLLINS, 

COMPOSED  UPON  THE  THAMES  NEAR  RICHMOND. 

Glide  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide, 

O Thames!  that  other  bards  may  see 
As  lovely  visions  by  thy  side 
As  now,  fair  river ! come  to  me. 

O glide,  fair  stream  ! for  ever  so. 

Thy  quiet  soul  on  all  bestowing. 

Till  all  our  minds  for  ever  flow 
As  thy  deep  waters  now  are  flowing. 

Vain  thought!  — Yet  be  as  now  thou  art, 

That  in  thy  waters  may  be  seen 
The  image  of  a poet’s  heart. 

How  bright,  how  solemn,  how  serene ! 


Such  as  did  once  the  Poet  bless. 

Who  murmuring  here  a later*  ditty. 
Could  find  no  refuge  from  distress 
But  in  the  milder  grief  of  pity. 

Now  let  us,  as  we  float  along. 

For  him  suspend  the  dashing  oar; 

And  pray  that  never  child  of  song 
May  know  that  Poet’s  sorrows  more. 
IIow  calm!  how  still!  the  only  sound. 
The  dripping  of  the  oar  suspended ! 

— The  evening  darkness  gathers  round 
By  virtue’s  holiest  Powers  attended.]^ 


i 

LINES 

Left  apon  a Seat  in  a Yew-tree,  which  stands  near  the  Lake 
of  Esihvvaite,  on  a desolate  part  of  ilie  Shore,  commandiiig  a 
beautiful  Prospect. 

Nay,  Traveller ! rest.  This  lonely  Yew-tree  stands 
Far  from  all  human  dwelling;  what  if  here 
No  sparkling  rivulet  spread  the  verdant  hcrbi 
What  if  the  bee  love  not  these  barren  boughs  1 
Yet,  if  the  wind  breathe  soft,  the  curling  W'aves, 

That  break  against  the  shore,  shall  lull  thy  mind 
By  one  soft  impulse  saved  from  vacancy, 

Who  he  was 

That  piled  these  stones,  and  with  the  mossy  sod 
First  covered,  and  here  taught  this  aged  Tree 
With  its  dark  arms  to  form  a circling  bower, 

I well  remember.  — lie  was  one  who  owned 
No  common  soul.  In  youth  by  science  nursed. 

And  led  by  nature  into  a wild  scene 
Of  lofty  hopes,  he  to  the  world  went  fijrth 
A favoured  Being,  knowing  no  desire 
Which  genius  did  not  hallow;  ’gainst  the  taint 
Of  dissolute  tongues,  and  jealousy,  and  hate. 

And  scorn, — against  all  enemies  prepared. 

All  but  neglect.  The  world,  for  so  it  thought. 

Owed  him  no  service;  wherefore  he  at  once 
With  indignation  turned  himself  away. 

And  with  the  food  of  pride  sustained  his  soul 
In  solitude.  — Stranger!  these  gloomy  boughs 
Had  charms  for  him ; and  here  he  loved  to  sit. 

His  only  visitants  a straggling  sheep. 

The  stone-chat,  or  the  glancing  sand-piper: 

And  on  these  barren  rocks,  with  fern  and  heath. 

And  juniper  and  thistle,  sprinkled  o’er. 

Fixing  his  downcast  eye,  he  many  an  hour 

* Collins’s  Ode  on  the  Death  of  Thomson,  the  last  written, 
I believe,  of  the  poems  which  were  published  during  his 
lifetime.  This  Ode  is  also  alluded  to  in  the  next  stanza. 

t [“  Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore 

When  Thames  in  summer  wreaths  is  drest, 
And  oft  suspend  the  dashing  oar,  * 

To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest  !” 

Collins.  — II.  R.] 


4 


oS 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WOPxKS. 


A morbid  pleasure  nourished,  tracing  liere 
An  emblem  of  his  own  unfruitful  life: 

And,  lifting  up  liis  head,  he  tlien  would  gaze 
t)n  the  more  distant  scene, — how  lovely  ’tis 
riioti  scest, — and  he  would  gaze  till  it  became 
Far  lovelier,  and  his  heart  could  not  sustain 
The  beauty,  still  more  beauteous!  Nor,  that  time, 
When  nature  had  subdued  him  to  herself. 

Would  he  forget  those  Beings  to  whose  minds, 

Warm  from  the  labours  of  benevolence, 

'J'he  world  and  human  life  appeared  a scene 
Of  kindred  loveliness:  then  he  would  sigh, 

Itily  disturbed,  to  think  that  others  felt 
What  he  must  never  feel : and  so,  lost  Man ! 

On  visionary  views  would  fancy  feed. 

Till  his  eye  streametl  with  tears.  In  this  deep  vale 
He  died, — this  seat  his  only  monument. 

If  Thou  be  one  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 

Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure 

Stranger  ! henceforth  be  warned  ; and  know  that  pride, 

Howe’er  disguised  in  its  own  majesty. 

Is  littleness;  that  he  who  feels  contempt 

For  any  living  thing,  hath  faculties 

Which  he  has  never  used ; that  thought  w’ith  him 

Is  m its  infancy.  The  man  whose  eye 

Is  ever  on  himself  doth  look  on  one. 

The  least  of  Nature’s  works,  one  who  might  move 
'I’lie  wise  man  to  that  scorn  which  wdsdom  holds 
Unlawful,  ever.  O be  wiser,  thou  ! 

In.stmcted  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love; 

True  dignity  abides  with  him  alone 
^V'ho,  in  the  silent  hour  of  inward  thought, 

Can  still  suspect,  and  still  revere  himself, 

In  lowliness  of  heart. 


GUILT  AND  SORROW; 

OR, 

INCIDENTS  UPON  SALISBURY  PLAIN. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  THIS  POE.M,  PUBLISHED  IN  1842. 

Not  less  tlian  one  tliird  of  tlie  following  poem,  though  it  h.Ts 
from  time  to  time  heen  altered  in  the  expression,  was  published  so 
far  hack  as  the  year  17H8,  under  the  title  of  “ 'J’he  Female  Vagrant.” 
The  extract  is  of  such  length  that  .-in  apology  .seems  to  he  reipiired 
for  reprinting  it  here;  but  it  was  nece.ssary  to  restore  it  to  its  origi- 
nal position,  or  the  rest  would  have  heen  unintelligible.  The  whole 
was  written  before  the  close  of  the  year  1794,  and  I will  detail, 
rather  as  matter  of  literary  biography  than  for  any  other  reason, 
the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  produced. 

During  the  latter  pait  of  the  summer  of  ITI'.'I,  having  passed  a 
month  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  in  view  of  the  fleet  which  was  then 
preparing  for  sea  oft'  Portsmouth  at  the  commencement  of  the  war, 
I irft  the  place  with  melancholy  forebodings.  The  .Vmerican  war 
was  still  resit  in  memory.  The  struggle  which  was  beginning,  and 
wliich  many  thought  would  be  brought  to  a speedy  close  by  the  irre- 


sistible arms  of  Great  Britain  being  added  to  those  of  the  allies,  . 
was  assuied  in  my  own  mind  would  he  of  long  continuance,  and 
productive  of  distress  and  misery  beyond  all  possible  calculation 
This  conviction  was  pressed  upon  me  by  having  been  a witness, 
during  a long  residence  in  revolutionary  France,  of  the  spirit  v\  hicli 
prevailed  in  that  country.  After  leaving  the  Isle  of  Wight,  1 spent 
two  days  in  wandering  on  foot  over  Salisbury  Plain,  which,  though 
cultivation  was  then  widely  spread  through  parts  of  it.  had  upon 
the  whole  a still  more  impressive  appearance  than  it  now  retains. 

The  monuments  and  traces  of  antitiuity,  scattered  in  abundance 
over  that  region,  led  mi;  unavoidably  to  compare  what  we  know  oi 
guess  of  those  remote  times  with  certain  aspects  of  modern  society, 
and  with  calamities,  principally  those  consequent  itpon  war,  to 
which,  more  than  other  classes  of  men,  the  poor  are  subject.  In 
those  reflections,  Joined  w ith  particular  facts  that  had  come  to  mj 
knowledge,  the  following  stanzas  originated. 

In  conclusion,  to  obviate  some  distraction  in  the  minds  of  those 
who  are  well  acquainted  with  Salisbury  Plain,  it  may  be  proper  to 
say,  that  of  the  features  described  as  belonging  to  it,  one  or  two 
are  taken  from  other  desolate  parts  of  England. 


A Traveller  on  the  skirt  of  Sarum’s  Plain 
Pursued  his  vagrant  way,  with  feet  half  bare; 

Stooping  his  gait,  but  not  as  if  to  gain 
Help  from  the  staff  he  bore  ; for  mien  and  air 
Were  hardy,  though  his  cheek  seemed  worn  with  care 
Both  of  the  time  to  come,  and  time  long  fled  : 

Down  fell  in  straggling  locks  his  thin  grey  hair; 

A coat  he  wore  of  military  red. 

But  faded,  and  stuck  o'er  with  many  a patch  and  shred 

II. 

While  thus  he  journeyed,  step  by  step  led  on. 

He  saw  and  passed  a stately  inn,  full  sure 
'I’liat  welcome  in  such  house  for  him  was  none. 

No  board  inscribed  the  needy  to  allure 
Hung  there,  no  bush  proclaimed  to  old  and  poor 
And  desolate,  “ Here  you  will  find  a friend  !” 

The  pendent  grapes  glittered  above  the  door;  — 

On  he  must  pace,  perchance  ’till  night  descend, 
Where’er  the  dreary  roads  their  bare  white  lines  extend. 

III. 

The  gathering  clouds  grew  red  with  stormy  fire, 

In  streaks  diverging  wide  and  mounting  high  ; 

That  inn  he  long  had  passed  ; the  distant  spire,  • 
Which  oft  as  he  looked  back  had  fixed  his  eye. 

Was  lost,  though  still  he  looked,  in  the  blank  sky. 
Perplexed  and  comfortless  he  gazed  around. 

And  scarce  could  any  trace  of  man  descry. 

Save  cornfields  stretched  and  stretching  without  bound; 
But  where  the  sower  dwelt  was  nowhere  to  be  found. 

IV. 

No  tree  was  there,  no  meadow’s  pleasant  green. 

No  brook  to  wet  his  lip  or  soothe  his  ear; 

Long  files  of  corn-stacks  here  and  there  were  seen, 

But  not  one  dwelling-place  his  heart  to  cheer. 

Some  labourer,  thought  he,  may  perchance  be  near; 
And  so  he  sent  a feeble  shout  — in  vain  ; 

No  voice  made  answer,  he  could  only  hear 
Winds  rustling  over  plots  of  unripe  grain. 

Or  whistling  thro’  thin  grass  along  the  unfurrowed  plain. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


!9 


V. 

Long  had  he  fancied  eacli  successive  slope 
Concealed  some  cottage,  whither  he  might  turn 
And  rest;  but  now  along  heaven’s  darkening  cope 
The  crows  rushed  by  in  eddies,  homeward  borne. 

Thus  warned  he  sought  some  shepherd’s  spreading  thorn 
Or  hovel  from  the  storm  to  sliield  his  head. 

But  sought  in  vain  ; for  now,  all  wild,  forlorn. 

And  vacant,  a huge  waste  around  him  spread  ; 

The  wet  cold  ground,  he  feared,  must  be  his  only  bed. 

VI. 

And  be  it  so — for  to  the  chill  night  shower 
And  the  sharp  wind  his  head  he  oft  hath  bared  ; 

A Sailor  he,  who  many  a wretched  hour 
Hath  told;  for,  landing  after  labour  hard. 

Full  long  endured  in  hope  of  just  reward. 

He  to  an  armed  fleet  was  forced  away 
By  seamen,  who  perhaps  themselves  had  shared 
Like  fate;  was  hurried  off,  a helpless  prey, 

’Gainst  all  that  in  his  heart,  or  theirs  perliap.s,  said  nay. 

VII. 

For  years  the  work  of  carnage  did  not  cease. 

And  death’s  dire  aspect  daily  he  surveyed. 

Death’s  minister;  then  came  his  glad  release. 

And  hope  returned,  and  pleasure  fondly  made 

Her  dwelling  in  his  dreams.  By  Fancy’s  aid 

The  happy  husband  flies,  his  arms  to  throw 

Round  his  wife's  neck ; the  prize  of  victory  laid 

In  her  full  lap,  he  sees  such  sweet  tears  flow 

As  if  thenceforth  nor  pain  nor  trouble  she  could  know. 

VIII. 

Vain  hope ! for  fraud  took  all  that  he  had  earned. 

The  lion  roars  and  gluts  bis  tawny  brood 
Even  in  the  desert’s  heart;  but  he,  returned. 

Bears  not  to  those  he  loves  their  needful  food. 

His  home  approaching,  but  in  such  a mood 
That  from  his  sight  his  children  might  have  run. 

He  met  a traveller,  robbed  him,  shed  his  blood; 

And  when  the  miserable  work  was  done 

He  fled,  a vagrant  since,  the  murderer’s  fate  to  shun. 

^ IX. 

From  that  day  forth  no  place  to  him  could  be. 

So  lonely,  but  that  thence  might  come  a pang 
Brought  from  without  to  inw’ard  misery. 

Now,  as  he  plodded  on,  with  sullen  clang 
A sound  of  chains  along  the  desert  rang; 

He  looked,  and  saw  upon  a gibbet  high 
A human  body  that  in  irons  swang. 

Uplifted  by  the  tempest  whirling  by; 

And,  hovering,  round  it  often  did  a raven  fly.* 

X. 

It  was  a spectacle  which  none  might  view. 

In  spot  so  savage,  but  with  shuddering  pain  ; 

Nor  only  did  for  him  at  once  renew 

All  he  had  feared  from  man,  but  roused  a train 


* See  Note  2. 


Of  the  mind’s  phantoms,  horrible  as  vain. 

The  stones,  as  if  to  cover  him  from  day. 

Rolled  at  his  back  along  the  living  plain  ; 

He  fell,  and  without  sense  or  motion  lay; 

But,  when  the  trance  was  gone,  feebly  pursued  his  way. 

XI. 

As  one  whose  brain  habitual  phrensy  fires 
Owes  to  the  fit  in  which  his  soul  hath  tossed 
Frofbunder  quiet,  when  the  fit  retires. 

Even  so  the  dire  phantasma  which  had  crossed 
His  sense,  in  sudden  vacancy  quite  lost. 

Left  his  mind  still  as  a deep  evening  stream. 

Nor,  if  accosted  now,  in  thought  engrossed, 

Moody,  or  inly  troubled,  would  he  seem 
To  traveller  who  might  talk  of  any  casual  theme. 

XII. 

Hurtle  the  clouds  in  deeper  darkness  piled, 

Gone  is  the  raven  timely  rest  to  seek ; 

He  seemed  the  only  creature  in  the  wild 
On  whom  the  elements  their  rage  might  wreak; 

Save  that  the  bustard,  of  tho.se  regions  bleak 
Shy  tenant,  seeing  by  the  uncertain  light 
A man  there  wandering,  gave  a mournful  shriek. 

And  half  upon  the  ground,  with  strange  affright, 
Forced  hard  against  the  wind  a thick  unwieldy  flight. 

XIII. 

All,  all  was  cheerless  to  the  horizon’s  bound  ; 

The  weary  eye  — which,  wheresoe’er  it  strays, 

Marks  nothing  but  the  red  sun’s  setting  round. 

Or  on  the  earth  strange  lines,  in  former  days 
Left  by  gigantic  arms  — at  length  surveys 
What  seems  an  antique  castle  spreading  wide  ; 

Hoary  and  naked  are  its  walls,  and  raise 
Their  brow  sublime:  in  shelter  there  to  bide 
He  turned,  while  rain  poured  down  smoking  on  every 
side. 

XIV. 

Pile  of  Stone-henge ! so  proud  to  hint  yet  keep 
Tliy  secrets,  thou  that  lov’st  to  stand  and  hear 
The  plain  resounding  to  the  whirlwind’s  sweep. 

Inmate  of  lonesome  Nature’s  endless  year ; 

Even  if  thou  saw’st  the  giant  wicker  rear 
For  sacrifice  its  throngs  of  living  men. 

Before  thy  face  did  ever  wretch  appear. 

Who  in  his  heart  had  groaned,  with  deadlier  pain 
Than  he  who,  tempest-driven,  thy  shelter  now  would 
gain. 

XV. 

Within  that  fabric  of  mysterious  form. 

Winds  met  in  conflict,  each  by  turns  supreme; 

And,  from  the  perilous  ground  dislodged,  through  store? 
And  rain  he  wilderea  on,  no  moon  to  stream 
From  gulf  of  parting  clouds  one  friendly  beam. 

Nor  any  friendly  sound  nis  footsteps  led  ; 

Once  did  the  lightning’s  faint  disastrous  gleam 
Disclose  a naked  guide-post’s  double  head. 

Sight  which  tho’  lost  at  once  a gleam  of  pleasure  shed. 


40 


WORDSWOETirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 

No  swinging'  sign-board  creaked  from  cottage  elm 
To  stay  liis  steps  with  faintness  overcome  ; 

’Twas  dark  and  void  as  ocean’s  watery  realm 
Roaring  with  storms  beneatli  night’s  starless  gloom  ; 

No  gipsy  cower’d  o’er  fire  of  furze  or  broom  ; 

No  labourer  watched  his  red  kiln  glaring  brigiit, 

Nor  taper  glimmered  dim  from  sick  man’s  room ; 

Along  the  waste  no  line  of  mournful  light 
From  lamp  of  lonely  toll-gate  streamed  athwart  the 
night. 

XVII. 

At  length,  though  hid  in  clouds,  the  moon  arose ; 

The  downs  were  visible  — and  now  revealed 
A structure  stands,  which  two  bare  slopes  enclose. 

It  was  a spot,  where,  ancient  vows  fulfilled, 

Kind  pious  hands  did  to  the  virgin  build 

A lonely  spital,  the  belated  swain 

From  the  night  terrors  of  that  waste  to  shield  : 

But  there  no  human  being  could  remain. 

And  now  the  walls  are  named  the  “ Dead  House”  of  the 
plain. 

XVIII. 

Tliough  he  had  little  cause  to  love  the  abode 
Of  man,  or  covet  sight  of  mortal  fiice. 

Yet  when  faint  beams  of  light  that  ruin  showed. 

How  glad  he  was  at  length  to  find  some  trace 
Of  human  shelter  in  that  dreary  place ! 

Till  to  his  flock  the  early  shepherd  goes. 

Here  shall  much-needed  sleep  his  frame  embrace. 

In  a dry  nook  where  fern  the  floor  bestrows 

He  lays  his  stiffened  limbs,  — his  eyes  begin  to  close; 

XIX. 

When  hearing  a deep  sigh,  that  seemed  to  come 
From  one  who  mourned  in  sleep,  he  raised  his  head. 
And  saw  a woman  in  the  naked  room 
Outstretched,  and  turning  on  a restless  bed : 

The  moon  a wan  dead  light  around  her  shed. 

He  waked  her  — spake  in  tone  that  would  not  fail, 

He  hoped,  to  calm  her  mind  ; but  ill  he  sped, 

For  of  that  ruin  she  had  heard  a tale 
Which  now  with  freezing  thoughts  did  all  her  powers 
assail ; 

XX. 

Had  heard  of  one  who,  forced  from  storms  to  shroud. 
Felt  the  loose  walls  of  this  decayed  retreat 
Rock  to  inc§s.?ant  neighings  shrill  and  loud. 

While  his  horse  pawed  the  floor  with  furious  heat; 

Till  on  a stone,  that  sparkled  to  his  feet. 

Struck,  and  still  struck  again,  the  troubled  horse : 

The  man  half  raised  the  stone  with  pain  and  sweat, 
Half  raised,  for  well  his  arm  might  lose  its  force 
Disclosing  the  grim  head  of  a late  murdered  corse. 

XXI. 

Such  tale  of  this  lone  mansion  she  had  learned, 

.And,  when  that  shape,  with  eyes  in  sleep  half  drowned, 
3y  the  moon’s  sullen  lamp  she  first  discerned, 

'Jold  stony  horror  all  her  senses  bound. 


Her  he  addressed  in  words  of  cheering  sound; 
Recovering  heart,  like  answer  did  she  make; 

And  well  it  was  that,  of  the  corse  there  found, 

In  converse  that  ensued  she  notliing  spake; 

She  knew  not  what  dire  pangs  in  him  such  tale  could 
wake. 

XXII. 

But  soon  his  voice  and  words  of  kind  intent 
Banished  that  dismal  thought;  and  now  the  wind 
In  fainter  bowlings  told  its  rage  was  spent: 

Meanwhile  discourse  ensued  of  various  kind. 

Which  by  degrees  a confidence  of  mind 
And  mutual  interest  failed  not  to  create, 

And,  to  a natural  sympathy  resigned. 

In  that  forsaken  building  where  they  sate 
The  woman  tlius  retraced  her  own  untoward  fate. 

XXIII.  > 

“ By  Derwent’s  side  my  father  dwelt  — a man 
Of  virtuous  life,  by  pious  parents  bred; 

And  I believe  that,  soon  as  I began 
To  lisp,  he  made  me  kneel  beside  my  bed. 

And  in  his  hearing  there  my  prayers  I said : 

And  afterwards,  by  my  good  father  taught, 

I read,  and  loved  the  books  in  which  I read ; 

For  books  in  every  neighbouring  house  I sought. 

And  nothing  to  my  mind  a sweeter  pleasure  brought. 

XXIV 

A little  croft  we  owned  — a olot  of  corn, 

A garden  stored  with  peas,  and  mn.i,  and  thyme. 

And  flowers  for  posies,  oft  on  Sunday  morn 
Plucked  while  the  church  bells  rang  their  earliest  cliime. 
Can  I forget  our  freaks  at  shearing  time ! 

My  hen’s  rich  nest  through  long  grass  scarce  e.spied ; 
Tlie  cowslip’s  gathering  in  June’s  dewy  prime; 

The  swans  that  with  white  chests  upreared  in  pride 
Rushing  and  racing  came  to  meet  me  at  the  water-side  \ 

XXV. 

The  staff  I well  remember  which  upbore 
The  bending  body  of  my  active  sire ; 

His  seat  beneath  the  honied  sycamore 

Where  the  bees  hummed,  and  chair  by  winter  fire; 

When  market-morning  came,  the  neat  attire 

With  which,  though  bent  on  haste,  myself  I decked  ; 

Our  watchful  house-ilog,  that  would  tease  and  tire 

The  stranger  till  its  barking  fit  I checked ; 

The  red-breast,  known  for  years,  which  at  my  casement 
pecked. 

XXVI. 

The  suns  of  twenty  summers  danced  along, — 

Too  little  marked  how  fast  they  rolled  away : 

But,  through  severe  mischance  and  cruel  wrong. 

My  father’s  substance  fell  into  decay: 

We  toiled  and  struggled,  lioping  for  a day 
When  fortune  miglit  put  on  a kinder  look ; 

But  vain  were  wishes,  efforts  vain  as  they  ; 

He  from  his  old  hereditary  nook 
Must  part;  the  summons  came;  — our  final  leave  we 
took. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


41 


XXVII. 

It  was  indeed  a miserable  hour 

When,  from  the  last  hill-top,  my  sire  surveyed. 

Peering^  above  the  trees,  the  steeple  tower 
That  on  his  marriage  day  sweet  music  made! 

Till  then,  he  hoped  his  bones  might  there  be  laid 
Close  by  my  mother  in  their  native  bowers: 

Bidding  me  trust  in  God,  he  stood  and  prayed ; — 

I could  not  pray ; — through  tears  that  fell  in  showers 
Glimmered  our  dear-loved  home,  alas ! no  longer  ours ! 

XXVIII. 

There  was  a youth  whom  1 had  loved  so  long. 

That  when  I loved  him  not  I cannot  say  : 

’Mid  the  green  mountains  many  a thoughtless  song 
We  two  had  sung,  like  gladsome  birds  in  May; 

When  we  began  to  tire  of  childish  play. 

We  seemed  still  more  and  more  to  prize  each  other ; 
We  talked  of  marriage  and  our  marriage  day; 

And  I in  truth  did  love  him  like  a brother. 

For  never  could  I hope  to  meet  with  such  another. 

XXIX. 

Two  years  were  passed  since  to  a distant  town 
He  had  repaired  to  ply  a gainful  trade: 

What  tears  of  bitter  grief,  till  then  unknown  I 
What  tender  vows  our  last  sad  kiss  delayed  I 
To  him  we  turned  : — we  had  no  other  aid  : 

Like  one  revived,  upon  his  neck  I wept; 

And  her  whom  he  had  loved  in  joy,  he  said. 

He  well  could  love  in  grief;  his  faith  he  kept; 

And  in  a quiet  home  once  more  my  father  slept. 

XXX. 

We  lived  in  peace  and  comfort;  and  were  blest 
With  daily  bread,  by  constant  toil  supplied. 

Three  lovely  babes  had  laid  upon  my  breast ; 

And  often,  viewing  their  sweet  smiles,  I sighed. 

And  knew  not  why.  My  happy  father  died. 

When  threatened  war  reduced  the  children’s  meal : 
Thrice  happy  ! that  for  him  the  grave  could  hide 
The  empty  loom,  cold  hearth,  and  silent  wheel, 

And  tears  that  flowed  for  ills  which  patience  might  not 
heal. 

XXXI. 

’Twas  a hard  change  ; an  evil  time  was  come  ; 

We  had  no  hope,  and  no  relief  could  gain: 

But  soon,  with  proud  parade,  the  noisy  drum 
Beat  round  to  clear  the  streets  of  want  and  pain. 

My  husband’s  arms  now  only  served  to  strain 
Me  and  his  children  hungering  in  his  view; 

In  such  dismay  my  prayers  and  tears  were  vain : 

To  join  those  miserable  men  he  flew. 

And  now  to  the  sea-coast,  with  numbers  more,  we  drew. 

XXXII. 

There  were  we  long  neglected,  and  we  bore 
Much  sorrow  ere  the  fleet  its  anchor  weighed ; 

Green  fields  before  us,  and  our  native  shore. 

We  oreathed  a pestilential  air,  that  made 
F 


Ravage  for  which  no  knell  was  heard.  We  prayed 
For  our  departure;  wished  and  wished — nor  knew, 
’MiePthat  long  sickness  and  those  hopes  delayed. 

That  happier  days  we  never  more  must  view. 

The  parting  signal  streamed — at  last  the  land  withdrew. 

XXXIII. 

But  the  calm  summer  season  now  was  past. 

On  as  we  drove,  the  equinoctial  deep 

Ran  mountains  high  before  the  howling  blast. 

And  many  perished  in  the  whirlwind’s  sweep. 

We  gazed  with  terror  on  their  glooir}  sleep. 

Untaught  that  soon  such  anguisli  must  ensue, 

Our  hopes  such  harvest  of  affliction  reap. 

That  we  the  mercy  of  the  waves  should  ru': 

We  reached  the  western  world,  a poor  devoted  crew. 

XXXIV. 

The  pains  and  plagues  that  on  our  heads  came  dow’i 
Disease  and  famine,  agony  and  fear. 

In  wood  or  wilderness,  in  camp  or  town. 

It  would  unman  the  firmest  heart  to  hear. 

All  perished — all  in  one  remorseless  year. 

Husband  and  children  I one  by  one,  by  sword 
And  ravenous  plague,  all  perished  : every  tear 
Dried  up,  despairing,  desolate,  on  board 
A British  ship  I waked,  as  from  a trance  restored.” 

XXXV. 

Here  paused  she  of  all  present  thought  forlorn. 

Nor  voice,  nor  sound,  that  moment’s  pain  expressed 
Yet  nature,  with  excess  of  grief  o’erborne. 

From  her  full  eyes  their  w'atery  load  released. 

He  too  was  mute ; and,  ere  her  weeping  ceased. 

He  rose,  and  to  the  ruin’s  portal  went. 

And  saw  the  dawn  opening  the  silveiy  east 
With  rays  of  promise,  north  and  soutliward  sent; 

And  soon  with  crimson  fire  kindled  the  firmament. 

XXXVI. 

“ O come,”  he  cried,  “ come,  after  w'eary  night 
Of  such  rough  storm,  this  happy  change  to  view.” 

So  forth  she  came,  and  eastward  looked  ; the  sight 
Over  her  brow,  like  dawn  of  gladness  tlirew; 

Upon  her  cheek,  to  which  its  youthful  hue 
Seemed  to  return,  dried  the  last  lingering  tear. 

And  from  her  grateful  heart  a fresh  one  drew  : 

The  whilst  her  comrade  to  her  pensive  cheer 
Tempered  fit  words  of  hope;  and  the  lark  warbled 
near. 

XXXVII. 

They  looked,  and  saw  a lengthening  road,  and  wain 
That  rang  down  a bare  slope  not  far  remote : 

The  barrows  glistered  bright  with  drops  of  rain. 
Whistled  the  wagoner  with  merry  note, 

The  cock  far  off  sounded  his  clarion  tliroat; 

But  town,  or  farm,  or  hamlet,  none  they  viewed. 

Only  were  told  there  stood  a lonely  cot 
A long  mile  thence.  While  thither  they  pursued 
Their  way,  the  Woman  thus  her  mournful  tale  renewed 
4* 


42 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXVII. 

“Peaceful  as  this  immeasurable  plain 
Is  now,  by  beams  of  dawning  light  imprest, 

In  the  calm  sunshine  slept  the  glittering  main; 

The  very  ocean  hath  its  hour  of  rest. 

I too  forgot  the  heavings  of  my  breast. 

How  quiet  ’round  me  ship  and  ocean  were! 

As  quiet  all  within  me.  I was  blest, 

And  looked,  and  fed  upon  the  silent  air 
Until  it  seemed  to  bring  a joy  to  my  despair. 

XXXIX. 

Ah ! how  unlike  those  late  terrific  sleeps, 

And  groans  tliat  rage  of  racking  famine  spoke; 

The  unburied  dead  that  lay  in  festering  heaps, 

The  breathing  pestilence  that  rose  like  smoke, 

Tlie  shriek  tliat  from  the  distant  battle  broke. 

The  mine’s  dire  earthquake,  and  the  pallid  host 
Driven  by  the  bomb’s  incessant  thunder-stroke 
To  loathsome  vaults,  where  heart-sick  anguish  tossed, 
Hope  died,  and  fear  itself  in  agony  was  lost! 

XL. 

Some  mighty  gulf  of  separation  past, 

I seemed  transported  to  another  world ; 

A thouglit  resigned  with  pain,  when  from  the  mast 
The  impatient  mariner  the  sail  unfurled. 

And,  whistling,  called  the  wind  that  hardly  curled 
The  silent  sea.  From  the  sweet  thoughts  of  home 
And  from  all  hope  I was  for  ever  hurled. 

For  me— farthest  from  earthly  port  to  roam 
Was  best,  could  I but  shun  the  spot  where  man  might 
come. 

XLI. 

And  ofl  I thought  (my  fancy  w'as  so  strong) 

That  I,  at  last,  a resting-place  had  found ; 

‘ Here  will  I dwell,’  said  I,  ‘ my  whole  life  long. 
Roaming  the  illimitable  waters  round; 

Here  will  I live,  of  all  but  heaven  disowned. 

And  end  my  days  upon  the  peaceful  flood.’ — 

To  break  my  dream  the  vessel  reached  its  bound; 

And  homeless  near  a thousand  homes  I stood. 

And  near  a thousand  tables  pined  and  wanted  food. 

XLII. 

No  help  I sought,  in  sorrow  turned  adrift. 

Was  hopeless,  as  if  cast  on  some  bare  rock ; 

Nor  morsel  to  my  mouth  that  day  did  lift. 

Nor  raised  my  hand  at  any  door  to  knock. 

I lay  where,  w’ith  his  drowsy  mates,  the  cock 
From  the  cross-timber  of  an  outhouse  hung: 

Dismally  tolled,  that  night,  the  city  clock  ! 

At  morn  my  sick  heart  hunger  scarcely  stung. 

Nor  to  the  beggar’s  language  could  I fit  my  tongue. 

XLIII. 

So  passed  a second  day ; and,  when  the  third 
Was  come,  I tried  in  vain  the  crowd’s  resort. 

— In  deep  despair,  by  frightful  wishes  stirred, 
f*6ar  the  sea-side  I reached  a ruined  fort; 


There,  pains  which  nature  could  no  more  support, 

With  blindness  linked,  did  on  my  vitals  fall ; 

And,  after  many  interruptions  short 
Of  hideous  sense,  I sank,  nor  step  could  crawl; 
Unsought  for  was  the  help  that  did  my  life  recal. 

XLIV. 

Borne  to  a hospital,  I lay  with  brain 
Drowsy  and  weak,  and  shattered  memory ; 

I heard  my  neighbours  in  their  beds  complain 
Of  many  things  which  never  troubled  me  — 

Of  feet  still  bustling  round  with  busy  glee. 

Of  looks  where  common  kindness  had  no  part. 

Of  service  done  with  cold  formality. 

Fretting  the  fever  round  the  languid  heart. 

And  groans  which,  as  they  said,  might  make  a dead 
man  start. 

XLV.  ' 

These  things  just  served  to  stir  the  slumbering  sense, 
Nor  pain  nor  pity  in  my  bosom  raised. 

W’ith  strength  did  memory  return ; and,  thence 
Dismissed,  again  on  open  day  I gazed. 

At  houses,  men,  and  common  light,  amazed. 

The  lanes  I sought,  and,  as  the  sun  retired. 

Came  where  beneath  the  trees  a faggot  blazed: 

The  travellers  saw  me  weep,  my  fate  inquired. 

And  gave  me  food — and  rest,  more  welcome,  more  desired. 

XLVI. 

Rough  potters  seemed  they,  trading  soberly 
With  panniered  asses  driven  from  door  to  door; 

But  life  of  happier  sort  set  forth  to  me. 

And  other  joys  my  fancy  to  allure  — 

The  bag-pipe  dinning  on  the  midnight  moor 
In  barn  uplighted  ; and  companions  boon. 

Well  met  from  far  with  revelry  secure 

Among  the  forest  glades,  while  jocund  June 

Rolled  fast  along  the  sky  his  warm  and  genial  moon. 

XLVII. 

But  ill  they  suited  me  — those  journeys  dark 
O’er  moor  and  mountain,  midnight  theft  to  hatch! 

To  charm  the  surly  house-dog’s  faithful  bark. 

Or  hang  on  tip-toe  at  the  lifted  latch. 

The  gloomy  lantern,  and  the  dim  blue  match. 

The  black  disguise,  the  warning  whistle  shrill. 

And  ear  still  busy  on  its  nightly  watch. 

Were  not  for  me,  brought  up  in  nothing  ill: 

Besides,  on  griefs  so  fresh  my  thoughts  were  brooding 
still. 

XLVIII. 

W’hat  could  I do,  unaided  and  unblest? 

My  father  ! gone  was  every  friend  of  thine : 

And  kindred  of  dead  husband  are  at  best 
Small  help ; and,  after  marriage  such  as  mine. 

With  little  kindness  would  to  me  incline. 

Nor  was  I then  for  toil  or  service  fit ; 

My  deep-drawn  sighs  no  effiirt  could  confine; 

In  open  air  forgetful  would  I sit 

Whole  hours,  with  idle  arms  in  moping  sorrow  knit. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


43 


XLIX. 

The  roads  I paced,  I loitered  through  the  fields ; 
Contentedly,  yet  sometimes  self-accused. 

Trusted  my  life  to  what  chance  bounty  yields, 

Now  coldly  given,  now  utterly  refused. 

« The  ground  I for  my  bed  have  often  used : 

But  what  afflicts  my  peace  with  keenest  ruth, 

Is  that  I have  my  inner  self  abused, 

Foregone  the  home  delight  of  constant  truth. 

And  clear  and  open  soul,  so  prized  in  fearless  youth. 

L. 

Through  tears  the  rising  sun  I oft  have  viewed. 
Through  tears  have  seen  liim  towards  that  world  descend 
Where  my  poor  heart  lost  all  its  fortitude : 

Three  years  a wanderer  now  my  course  I bend — 

Oh  ! tell  me  whither — for  no  earthly  friend 
Have  I.” — She  ceased,  and  weeping  turned  away ; 

As  if  because  her  tale  was  at  an  end. 

She  wept ; because  she  had  no  more  to  say 
Of  that  perpetual  weight  which  on  her  spirit  lay. 

LI. 

True  sympathy  the  sailor’s  looks  expressed, 

Ilis  looks — for  pondering  he  was  mute  the  while. 

Of  social  order’s  care  for  wretchedness. 

Of  time’s  sure  help  to  calm  and  reconcile, 

Joy’s  second  spring  and  hope’s  long-treasured  smile, 
’Twas  not  for  him  to  speak  — a man  so  tried. 

Vet,  to  relieve  her  heart,  in  friendly  style 
Proverbial  words  of  comfort  he  applied. 

And  not  in  vain,  while  they  went  pacing  side  by  side. 

Ln. 

Ere  long,  from  heaps  of  turf,  before  their  sight. 
Together  smoking  in  the  sun’s  slant  beam. 

Rise  various  wreaths  that  into  one  unite 
Which  high  and  higher  mounts  with  silver  gleam; 

Fair  spectacle,  — but  instantly  a scream 
Thence  bursting  shrill  did  all  remark  prevent; 

They  paused,  and  heard  a hoarser  voice  blaspheme. 

And  female  cries.  Their  course  they  thither  bent. 

And  met  a man  who  foamed  with  anger  vehement. 

LIII. 

A woman  stood  with  quivering  lips  and  pale. 

And,  pointing  to  a little  child  that  lay 
Stretched  on  the  ground,  began  a piteous  tale; 

How  in  a simple  freak  of  thoughtless  play 
He  had  provoked  his  father,  who  straightway. 

As  if  each  blow  were  deadlier  than  the  last. 

Struck  the  poor  innocent.  Pallid  with  dismay 
The  soldier’s  widow  heard  and  stood  aghast; 

And  stern  looks  on  the  man  her  grey-haired  comrade  cast. 

LIV. 

His  voice  with  indignation  rising  high 
Such  further  deed  in  manhood’s  name  forbade; 

Tbo  peasant,  wild  in  passion,  made  reply 
With  bitter  insult  and  revilings  sad ; 


Asked  him  in  scorn  what  business  there  he  had ; 

What  kina  of  plunder  he  was  hunting  now; 

The  gallows  would  one  day  of  him  be  glad ; — 

Though  inward  anguish  damped  the  sailor’s  blow. 

Yet  calm  he  seemed  as  thoughts  so  poignant  would  allow. 

LV. 

Softly  he  stroked  the  child,  who  lay  outstretched 
With  face  to  earth ; and,  as  the  boy  turned  round 
His  battered  head,  a groan  the  sailor  fetched 
As  if  he  saw  — there  and  upon  that  ground  — 

Strange  repetition  of  the  deadly  wound 
He  had  himself  inflicted.  Through  his  brain 
At  once  the  griding  iron  passage  found  ; 

Deluge  of  tender  thoughts  then  rushed  amain. 

Nor  could  his  sunken  eyes  the  starting  tear  rest^-ain. 

LVI. 

Within  himself  he  said  — What  hearts  have  w«  ! 

The  blessing  this  a father  gives  his  child! 

Yet  happy  thou,  poor  boy  I compared  with  me, 
Suffering  not  doing  ill  — fate  far  more  mild. 

The  stranger’s  looks  and  tears  of  wrath  beguiled 
The  father,  and  relenting  thoughts  awoke  ; 

He  kissed  his  son  — so  all  was  reconciled. 

Then,  with  a voice  which  inward  trouble  broke 
Ere  to  his  lips  it  came,  the  sailor  them  bespoke. 

Lvir. 

“Bad  is  the  world,  and  hard  is  the  world’s  law 
Even  for  the  man  who  wears  the  warmest  fleece ; 

Much  need  have  ye  that  time  more  closely  draw 
The  bond  of  nature,  all  unkindness  cease. 

And  that  among  so  few  there  still  be  peace : 

Else  can  ye  hope  but  with  such  numerous  foes 
YMur  pains  shall  ever  with  your  years  increase  1” — 
While  from  his  heart  the  appropriate  lesson  flows, 

A correspondent  calm  stole  gently  o’er  his  woes. 

LVIII. 

Forthwith  the  pair  passed  on;  and  down  they  look 
Into  a narrow  valley’s  pleasant  scene 
Where  wreaths  of  vapour  tracked  a winding  brook. 
That  babbled  on  through  groves  and  meadows  green; 

A low-roofed  house  peeped  out  the  trees  between ; 

The  dripping  groves  resound  with  cheerful  lays. 

And  melancholy  lowings  intervene 
Of  scattered  herds,  that  in  the  meadow  graze. 

Some  amid  lingering  shade,  some  touched  by  the  sun’s 
rays. 

LIX. 

They  saw  and  heard,  and  winding  with  the  road 
Down  a thick  wood,  they  dropt  into  the  vale  ; 
i Comfort  by  prouder  mansions  unbestowed 
Their  weary  frames,  she  hoped,  would  soon  regale. 
Erelong  they  reached  that  cottage  in  the  dale 
It  was  a rustic  inn  ; — the  board  was  spread. 

The  milk-maid  followed  with  her  brimming  pail, 

And  lustily  the  master  carved  the  bread. 

Kindly  the  housewife  pressed,  and  they  in  comfort  fed. 


44 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LX. 

Their  breakfast  done,  the  pair,  though  loth,  must  part; 
Wanderers  whose  course  no  longer  now  agrees. 

She  rose  and  bade  farewell!  and,  while  her  heart 
Struggled  with  tears  nor  could  its  sorrow  ease. 

She  left  him  there  ; for,  clustering  round  his  knees, 
With  his  oak  staff  the  cottage  children  played; 

And  soon  she  reached  a spot  o’erhung  with  trees 
And  banks  of  ragged  earth ; beneath  the  shade 
Across  the  pebbly  road  a little  runnel  strayed. 

LX  I. 

A cart  and  horse  beside  the  rivulet  stood ; 

Chequering  the  canvas  roof  the  sunbeams  shone. 

She  saw  the  carman  bend  to  scoop  the  flood 
As  the  wain  fronted  her, — wherein  lay  one, 

A pale-faced  woman,  in  disease  far  gone. 

The  carman  wet  her  lips  as  well  behoved  ; 

Bed  under  her  lean  body  there  was  none. 

Though  even  to  die  near  one  she  most  had  loved 
She  could  not  of  herself  those  wasted  limbs  have  moved. 
Lxn. 

The  soldier's  widow  learned  with  honest  pain 
And  homefelt  force  of  sympathy  sincere. 

Why  thus  that  worn-out  wretch  must  there  sustain 
The  jolting  road  and  morning  air  severe. 

The  wain  pursued  its  way;  and  following  near 
In  pure  compassion  she  her  steps  retraced 
Far  as  the  cottage.  “ A sad  sight  is  here,” 

She  cried  aloud  ; and  forth  ran  out  in  haste 
The  friends  whom  she  had  left  but  a few  minutes  p 

LXIII. 

W’hile  to  the  door  witli  eager  speed  they  ran. 

From  her  bare  straw  the  woman  half  upraised 
Her  bony  visage  — gaunt  and  deadly  wan; 

No  pity  asking,  on  the  group  she  gazed 
With  a dim  eye,  distracted  and  amazed  ; 

Then  sank  upon  her  straw  with  feeble  moan. 

Fervently  cried  the  housewife  — “God  be  praised, 

I have  a house  that  I can  call  my  own ; 

Nor  shall  she  perish  there,  untended  and  alone !” 

LXIV. 

So  in  they  bear  her  to  the  chimney  seat. 

And  busily,  though  yet  witli  fear,  untie 
Her  garments,  and,  to  warm  her  icy  feet 
And  chafe  her  temples,  careful  hands  apply. 

Nature  reviving,  with  a deep-drawn  sigh 
She  strove,  and  not  in  vain,  her  head  to  rear; 

Then  said — “I  thank  you  all;  if  I must  die. 

The  God  in  heaven  my  prayers  for  yon  will  hear; 

Till  now  I did  not  think  my  end  had  been  so  near. 

LXV. 

“Barred  every  comfort  labour  could  procure. 

Suffering  what  no  endurance  could  assuage, 

I was  compelled  to  seek  my  father’s  door. 

Though  loth  to  be  a burthen  on  his  age. 


But  sickness  stopped  me  in  an  early  stage 
Of  my  sad  journey;  and  within  the  wain 
They  placed  me  — there  to  end  life’s  pilgrimage. 

Unless  beneath  your  roof  I may  remain : 

For  I shall  never  see  my  father’s  door  again. 

LXVI.  ® 

“ My  life.  Heaven  know's,  hath  long  been  burthensome ; 

But,  if  I have  not  meekly  suffered,  meek 

May  my  end  be!  Soon  will  this  voice  be  dumb: 

Should  child  of  mine  e’er  w’ander  hither,  speak 
Of  me,  say  that  the  worm  is  on  my  cheek. — 

Torn  from  our  hut,  that  stood  beside  the  sea 
Near  Portland  lighthouse  in  a lonesome  creek. 

My  husband  served  in  sad  captivity 
On  shipboard,  bound  till  peace  or  death  should  set  him 
free.  , 

LXVII. 

“A  sailor’s  w’ife  I knew  a widow’s  cares. 

Yet  two  sweet  little  ones  partook  my  bed ; 

Hope  cheered  my  dreams,  and  to  my  daily  prayers 
: Our  heavenly  Father  granted  each  day’s  bread  ; 

Till  one  was  found  by  stroke  of  violence  dead. 

Whose  body  near  our  cottage  chanced  to  lie ; 

A dire  suspicion  drove  us  from  our  shed  ; 

In  vain  to  find  a friendly  face  we  try. 

Nor  could  we  live  together  those  poor  boys  and  I ; 


LXIX. 

Alas ! the  thing  she  told  with  labouring  breath 

The  sailor  knew  too  well.  That  wickedness 

His  hand  had  wrought ; and  when,  in  the  hour  of  death, 

lie  saw  his  wife’s  lips  move  his  name  to  bless 

With  her  last  words,  unable  to  suppress 

His  anguish,  with  his  heart  he  ceased  to  strive; 

And,  weeping  loud  in  this  extreme  distress. 

He  cried  — “Do  pity  me!  That  thou  shouldst  live 
I neither  ask  nor  wish  — forgive  me,  but  forgive!” 

j LXX. 

To  tell  the  change  that  voice  within  her  wrought 
j Nature  by  sign  or  sound  made  no  essay  ; 

I A sudden  joy  surprised  expiring  thought, 
i And  every  mortal  pang  dissolved  away. 

Borne  gently  to  a bed,  in  death  she  lay ; 

Yet  still  while  over  her  the  husband  bent, 

A look  was  in  her  face  which  seemed  to  say, 

“ Be  blest ; by  sight  of  thee  from  heaven  was  sent 
Peace  to  my  parting  soul,  the  fulness  of  content.” 


LXVIII. 

“ For  evil  tongues  made  oath  how  on  that  day 
My  husband  lurked  about  the  neighbourhood  ; 

Now  he  had  fled,  and  whither  none  could  say. 

And  he  had  done  the  deed  in  the  dark  wood  — 

Near  his  own  home!  — but  he  was  mild  and  good; 
Never  on  earth  was  gentler  creature  seen  ; 

He’d  not  have  robbed  the  raven  of  its  food. 

My  husband’s  loving  kindness  stood  between 

Me  and  all  worldly  harms  and  wrongs  however  keen.” 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  TOUT II. 


45 


LXXI. 

She  slept  in  peace, — his  pulses  throbbed  and  stopped, 
Breathless  he  g-azed  upon  her  face,  — then  took 
Her  hand  in  his,  and  raised  it,  but  both  dropped. 

When  on  his  own  he  cast  a rueful  look. 

His  ears  were  never  silent;  sleep  forsook 
His  burning  eyelids  stretched  and  stiff  as  lead; 

All  night  from  time  to  time  under  him  shook 
The  floor  as  he  lay  shuddering  on  his  bed ; 

And  oft  he  groaned  aloud,  “ O God,  that  I were  dead !” 

LXXIl. 

The  soldier’s  widow  lingered  in  the  cot; 

And,  when  he  rose,  he  thanked  her  pious  care 
Through  which  his  wife,  to  that  kind  shelter  brought. 
Died  in  his  arms ; and  with  those  thanks  a prayer” 

He  breathed  for  her,  and  for  that  merciful  pair. 

The  corse  interred,  not  one  hour  he  remained 
Beneath  their  roof,  but  to  the  open  air 
A burthen,  now  with  fortitude  sustained. 

He  bore  within  a breast  where  dreadful  quiet  reigned. 

LXXIII. 

Confirmed  of  purpose,  fearlessly  prepared 
For  act  and  suffering,  to  the  city  straight 
He  journeyed,  and  forthwith  his  crime  declared  ; 

“And  from  your  doom,”  he  added,  “now  I wait. 

Nor  let  it  linger  long,  the  murderer’s  fate.” 

Not  ineffectual  was  that  piteous  claim  : 

“O  welcome  sentence  which  will  end  though  late,” 

He  said,  “the  pangs  that  to  my  conscience  came 
Out  of  that  deed.  My  trust.  Saviour!  is  in  thy  name!” 

LXXIV. 

His  fate  was  pitied.  Him  in  iron  case 
(Reader,  forgive  the  intolerable  thought) 

They  hung  not : — no  one  on  his  form  or  face 
Could  gaze,  as  on  a show  by  idlers  sought; 

No  kindred  sufferer,  to  his  death-place  "brought 
By  lawless  curiosity  or  chance. 

When  into  storm  the  evening  sky  is  wrought, 

Upon  his  swinging  corse  an  eye  can  glance, 

And  drop,  as  he  once  dropped,  in  miserable  trance. 


THE  BORDERERS, 

^ Eraccbjj. 

(Composed  1795-6.)* 


Readers  already  acquainted  with  my  Poems  will  recognise,  in  the 
following  composition,  some  eight  or  ten  lines,  which  I have  not 
scrupled  to  retain  in  the  places  where  they  originally  stood.  It  is 
proper  however  to  add,  that  they  would  not  have  been  used  else- 
where, if  I had  foreseen  the  time  when  1 might  be  induced  to  publish 
this  Tragedy. 

February  28,  1842. 

ACT  I. 

Scene,  road  in  a Wood. 

Wallace  and  Lacy. 

Lacy.  The  troop  will  be  impatient;  let  us  hie 
Back  to  our  post,  and  strip  the  Scottish  foray 
Of  their  rich  spoil,  ere  they  recross  the  border. 

— Pity  that  our  young  chief  will  have  no  part 
In  this  good  service. 

Wa/.  Rather  let  us  grieve 

That,  in  the  undertaking  which  has  caused 
His  absence,  he  hath  sought,  whate’er  his  aim. 
Companionship  with  one  of  crooked  ways, 

From  whose  perverted  soul  can  come  no  good 
To  our  confiding,  open-hearted,  leader. 

Lacy.  True;  and,  remembering  how  the  band  hav* 
proved 

That  Oswald  finds  small  favour  in  our  sight. 

Well  may  we  wonder  he  has  gained  such  power 
Over  our  much-loved  captain. 

Wa^.  I have  heard 

Of  some  dark  deed  to  which  in  early  life 
His  passion  drove  him  — then  a voyager 
Upon  the  midland  Sea.  You  knew  his  bearing 
In  Palestine  ] 

Lacy.  Where  he  despised  alike 
Mohammedan  and  Christian.  But  enough  ; 

Let  us  begone  — the  band  may  else  be  foiled. 

[Exeunt 

Enter  Marmaduke  and  Wilfred. 

Wil.  Be  cautious,  my  dear  master! 

Mar,  j perceive 

That  fear  is  like  a cloak  which  old  men  huddle 
About  their  love,  as  if  to  keep  it  warm. 

Wil.  Nay,  but  I grieve  that  we  should  part.  Thi. 
stranger. 

For  such  he  is 

Mar.  Your  busy  fancies,  Wilfred, 

Might  tempt  me  to  a smile  ; but  what  of  him  ? 

Wil.  You  know  that  you  have  saved  his  life. 

I know  i- 


dramatis  persons. 


Marmaduke. 

Oswald. 

Wallace. 

Lacy. 

I-ENNOK. 


Of  the  band  of 
Borderers. 


Herbert. 

WlLFRED.ServanltoMARMADDKE, 

Host. 


Forester. 

Eldred,  a Peasant. 
Peasant,  Pilgrims,  &c. 


Idonea. 

Female  Beggar. 

Eleanor,  Wife  to  Eldred. 


Scene,  Borders  of  England  and  Scotland. 
Time,  the  Reign  of  Henry  III. 


* See  Note  3. 


Wil.  And  that  he  hates  you  ! — Pardon  me,  perhaps 
That  word  was  hasty. 

Mar.  Fy  ! no  more  of  it. 

Wil.  Dear  master ! gratitude ’s  a heavy  burden 
To  a proud  soul  — Nobody  loves  this  Oswald- 
Yourself,  you  do  not  love  him. 

Mar.  j f]Q  more, 

I honour  him.  Strong  feelings  to  his  heart 
Are  natural ; and  from  no  one  can  be  learnt 
More  of  man’s  thoughts  and  ways  than  his  experience 
Has  given  him  power  to  teach:  and  then  for  courage 
And  enterprise  — what  perils  hath  he  shunned  ’ 


4G 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


What  obstacles  hath  he  failed  to  overcome? 

Answer  these  questions,  from  our  common  knowledge, 
And  be  at  rest. 

Wil.  Oh,  Sir ! 

Mar.  Peace,  my  good  Wilfred ; 

Repair  to  Liddesdale,  and  tell  the  band 
I shall  be  with  them  in  two  days,  at  farthest. 

Wil.  May  He  whose  eye  is  over  all  protect  you  ! 

\_Exil. 

Enter  Oswald,  (a  bunch  of  plants  in  his  hand.) 
Osw.  This  wood  is  rich  in  plants  and  curious  simples. 
Mar.  {looking  at  them.)  The  wild  rose,  and  the 
poppy,  and  the  nightshade : 

Which  is  your  favourite,  Oswald? 

Osw.  That  which,  while  it  is 

Strong  to  destroy,  is  also  strong  to  heal  — 

{^Looking  forward. 

Not  yet  in  sight ! — We  ’ll  saunter  here  awhile ; 

They  cannot  mount  the  hill,  by  us  unseen. 

Mar.  {a  letter  in  his  hand.)  It  is  no  common  thing 
when  one  like  you 

Performs  these  delicate  services,  and  therefore 
I feel  myself  much  bounden  to  you,  Oswald ; 

■Tis  a strange  letter  this! — You  saw  her  write  it? 
Osw.  And  saw  the  tears  with  which  she  blotted  it. 
Mar.  And  nothing  less  would  sati.sfy  Imn  ? 

Osw.  No  less ; 

For  that  another  in  his  child’s  affection 
Should  hold  a place,  as  if ’t  were  robbery. 

He  seemed  to  quarrel  with  the  very  thought. 

Besides,  I know  not  what  strange  prejudice 
Is  rooted  in  his  mind  ; this  band  of  ours. 

Which  you’ve  collected  for  the  noblest  ends. 

Along  the  confines  of  the  Esk  and  Tweed 
To  guard  the  innocent  — he  calls  us  “Outlaws;” 

And,  for  yourself,  in  plain  terms  he  asserts 
This  garb  was  taken  up  that  indolence 
Might  want  no  cover,  and  rapacity 
Be  better  fed. 

Mar.  Ne’er  may  I own  the  heart 

That  cannot  feel  for  one,  helpless  as  he  is. 

Osw.  Thou  know’st  me  for  a man  not  easily  moved. 
Yet  was  I grievously  provoked  to  think 
Of  what  I witnessed. 

Mar.  This  day  will  suffice 

To  end  her  wrongs. 

Osw.  But  if  the  blind  man’s  tale 

Should  yet  be  true  ? 

Mar.  Would  it  were  possible  ! 

Did  not  the  soldier  tell  thee  that  himself. 

And  others  who  survived  the  wreck,  beheld 
Tlie  Baron  Herbert  perish  in  the  waves 
Upon  the  coast  of  Cyprus? 

Osw.  Yes,  even  so, 

And  I had  heard  the  like  before;  in  sooth. 

The  tale  of  this  his  quondam  Barony 
Is  cunningly  devised  ; and,  on  the  back 
O*”  his  forlorn  appearance,  could  not  fail 


To  make  the  proud  and  vain  his  tributaries. 

And  stir  the  pulse  of  lazy  charity. 

The  seignories  of  Herbert  are  in  Devon ; 

We,  neighbours  of  the  Esk  and  Tweed:  ’tis  much 
The  Arch-impostor 

Mar.  Treat  him  gently,  Oswald; 

Though  I have  never  seen  his  face,  methinks. 

There  cannot  come  a day  when  I shall  cease 
To  love  him.  I remember,  when  a boy 
Of  scarcely  seven  years’  growth,  beneath  the  Elm 
That  casts  its  shade  over  our  village  school, 

’T  was  my  delight  to  sit  and  hear  Idonea 
Repeat  her  father’s  terrible  adventures. 

Till  all  the  band  of  play-mates  wept  together; 

And  that  was  the  beginning  of  my  love. 

And,  through  all  converse  of  our  later  years. 

An  image  of  this  old  man  still  was  present^ 

When  I had  been  most  happy.  Pardon  me 
If  this  be  idly  spoken. 

Osw.  See,  they  come. 

Two  travellers  I 

Mar.  {points.)  The  woman  is  Idonea. 

Osw.  And  leading  Herbert. 

Mar.  We  must  let  them  pass  ■ 

This  thicket  will  conceal  us.  [They  step  aside. 

Enter  Idonea,  leading  Herbert  blind. 

Idon.  Dear  fiither,  you  sigh  deeply;  ever  since 
We  left  the  willow  shade  by  the  brook-side. 

Your  natural  breathing  has  been  troubled. 

Her.  Nay, 

You  are  too  fearful ; yet  must  I confess, 

Our  march  of  yesterday  had  better  suited 
A firmer  step  than  mine. 

Idon.  That  dismal  Moor  — 

In  spite  of  all  the  larks  that  cheered  our  path, 

I never  can  forgive  it:  but  how  steadily 
You  paced  along,  when  the  bewildering  moonlight 
Mocked  me  with  many  a strange  fantastic  shape  !■  - 
I thought  the  convent  never  would  appear; 

It  seemed  to  move  away  from  us  : and  yet. 

That  you  are  thus  the  fault  is  mine ; for  the  air 
Was  soft  and  warm,  no  dew  lay  on  the  grass. 

And  midway  on  the  waste  ere  night  had  fallen 
I spied  a covert  walled  and  roofed  with  sods — 

A miniature;  belike  some  shepherd-boy. 

Who  might  have  found  a nothing-doing  hour 
Heavier  than  work,  raised  it;  within  that  hut 
We  might  have  made  a kindly  bed  of  heatb. 

And  thankfully  there  rested  side  by  side 
Wrapped  in  our  cloaks,  and,  with  recruited  strength, 
Have  hailed  the  morning  sun.  But  cheerily,  father,- 
That  staff  of  yours,  I could  aldost  have  heart 
To  fling ’t  away  from  you : you  make  no  use 
Of  me,  or  of  my  strength  ; — come,  let  me  feel 
That  you  do  press  upon  me.  There  — indeed 
You  are  quite  exhausted.  Let  us  rest  awhile 
On  this  green  bank.  [He  sits  down. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


47 


Her.  {after  some  lime.)  Idonea,  you  are  silent, 

And  I divine  the  cause. 

I Jon.  Do  not  reproach  me: 

I pondered  patiently  your  wish  and  will 
When  I g-ave  way  to  your  request ; and  now, 

When  I behold  the  ruins  of  that  face. 

Those  eyeballs  jlark  — dark  beyond  hope  of  light. 

And  think  that  they  were  blasted  for  my  sake. 

The  name  of  Marmaduke  is  blown  away  : 

Father,  I would  not  change  that  sacred  feeling 
For  all  this  world  can  give. 

Her.  Nay,  be  composed : 

Few  minutes  gone  a faintness  overspread 
My  frame,  and  1 bethought  me  of  two  things 
I ne’er  had  heart  to  separate  — my  grave. 

And  thee,  my  child  ! 

Mon.  Believe  me,  honoured  sire ! 

’Tis  weariness  that  breeds  these  gloomy  fancies. 

And  you  mistake  the  cause:  you  hear  the  woods 
Resound  with  music,  could  you  see  the  sun. 

And  look  upon  the  pleasant  face  of  Nature 

Her.  I comprehend  thee  — I should  be  as  cheerful 
As  if  we  two  were  twins ; two  songsters  bred 
In  the  same  nest,  my  spring-time  one  with  thine. 

My  fancies,  fancies  if  they  be,  are  such 
As  come,  dear  child!  from  a far  deeper  source 
Than  bodily  weariness.  While  here  we  sit 
I feel  my  strength  returning.  — The  bequest 
Of  tliy  kind  patroness,  which  to  receive 
We  have  thus  far  adventured,  will  suffice 
To  save  thee  from  the  extreme  of  penury; 

But  when  thy  father  must  lie  down  and  die. 

How  will  thou  stand  alone  1 

Mon.  Is  he  not  strong  I 

Is  he  not  valiant  1 

Her.  Am  I then  so  soon 

Forgotten!  have  my  warnings  passed  so  quickly 
Out  of  thy  mind  1 My  dear,  my  only  child  ; 

Thou  vvouldst  be  leaning  on  a broken  reed  — 

This  Marmaduke 

Mon.  O could  you  hear  his  voice : 

Alas!  you  do  not  know  him.  He  is  one 
(I  wot  not  what  ill  tongue  has  wronged  him  with  you) 
All  gentleness  and  love.  His  face  bespeaks 
A deep  and  simple  meekness:  and  that  soul. 

Which  with  the  motion  of  a virtuous  act 
Flashes  a look  of  terror  upon  guilt. 

Is,  after  conflict,  quiet  as  the  ocean. 

By  a miraculous  finger,  stilled  at  once. 

Her.  Unhappy  w'oman ! 

Mon.  Nay,  it  was  my  duty 

Thus  much  to  speak;  but  think  not  I forget  — 

Dear  father!  how  couM  I forget  and  live  — 

You  and  the  story  of  that  doleful  night 
Wlien,  Antioch  blazing  to  her  topmost  towers. 

You  rushed  into  the  murderous  flames,  returned 
Blind  as  the  grave,  but,  as  you  oft  have  told  me, 
Clasping  your  infant  daugliter  to  your  heart. 


Her.  Thy  mother  too  !— scarce  had  I gained  the  door, 
I caught  her  voice;  she  threw  lierself  upon  me, 

' I felt  thy  infant  brother  in  her  arms; 

She  saw  my  blasted  face  — a tide  of  soldiers 
That  instant  rushed  between  us,  and  I heard 
I Her  last  death-shriek,  distinct  among  a thousand. 

Mon.  Nay,  father,  stop  not ; let  me  hear  it  all. 

! Her.  Dear  daughter ! precious  relic  of  that  time  — 
For  my  old  age,  it  doth  remain  with  thee 
To  make  it  what  thou  wilt.  7’hou  hast  been  told. 

That  when,  on  our  return  from  Palestine, 

I found  how  my  domains  had  been  usurped, 

I took  thee  in  my  arms,  and  we  began 
Our  wanderings  together.  Providence 
At  length  conducted  ns  to  Rossland,  — there. 

Our  melancholy  story  moved  a stranger 
To  take  thee  to  her  home  — and  for  myself, 

Soon  after,  the  good  Abbot  of  St.  Cuthbert’s 
Supplied  my  helplessness  with  food  and  raiment, 

And,  as  thou  know’st,  gave  me  that  humble  cot 
Where  now  we  dwell.  — For  many  years  1 bore 
1 Thy  absence,  till  old  age  and  fresh  infirmities 
Exacted  thy  return,  and  our  reunion. 

I did  not  think  that,  during  that  long  absence. 

My  child,  forgetful  of  the  name  of  Herbert, 

Had  given  her  love  to  a vvild  freebooter. 

Who  here,  upon  the  borders  of  the  Tweed, 

Doth  prey  alike  on  two  distracted  countries. 

Traitor  to  both. 

Mon.  Oh,  could  you  hear  his  voice ! 

I will  not  call  on  Heaven  to  vouch  for  me. 

But  let  this  kiss  speak  what  is  in  my  heart. 

Enter  a Peasant. 

Pea.  Good  morrow,  strangers!  If  you  want  a guide. 
Let  me  have  leave  to  serve  you  ! 

' Mon.  My  companion 

Hath  need  of  rest ; the  sight  of  hut  or  hostel 
Would  be  most  welcome. 

Pea.  Yon  white  hawthorn  gained. 

You  will  look  down  into  a dell,  and  there 
Will  see  an  ash  from  which  a sign-board  hangs; 

The  house  is  hidden  by  the  shade.  Old  man. 

You  seem  worn  out  with  travel  — shall  I support  you? 

Her.  I thank  you;  but,  a resting-place  so  near, 

’T  were  wrong  to  trouble  you. 

Pea.  God  speed  you  both. 

[Exit  Peasant. 

Her.  Idonea,  we  must  part.  Be  not  alarmed  — 

’T  is  but  for  a few  days  — a thought  has  struck  me. 

Mon.  That  I should  leave  you  at  this  house,  and  thence 
Proceed  alone.  It  shall  be  so;  for  strength 
Would  fail  you  ere  our  journey’s  end  be  reached. 

[Exit  Herbert,  supported  by  Idonea. 

Re-enter  Marmadure  and  Oswald. 

Mar.  This  instant  will  we  stop  him 

Osw.  Be  not  hasty. 

For,  sometimes,  in  despite  of  my  conviction, 


48 


WOllDSWOKTirS  POETICAL  AYORKS. 


lie  tempted  me  to  think  the  story  true; 

’T  is  plain  he  loves  the  maid,  and  what  he  said 
That  savoured  of  aversion  to  thy  name 
Appeared  tlie  jremiine  colour  of  his  soul  — 

Anxiety  lest  mischief  should  befal  her 
After  his  death. 

J\Iar.  I have  been  much  deceived. 

Osw.  But  sure  he  loves  the  maiden,  and  never  love 
('ould  find  delight  to  nurse  itself  so  strangely, 

Thus  to  torment  her  with  inventions — death  — 

There  must  be  truth  in  this. 

Mur.  Truth  in  his  story ! 

He  must  have  felt  it  then,  known  what  it  was. 

And  in  such  wise  to  rack  her  gentle  heart 
Had  been  a tenfold  cruelty. 

Osw.  Strange  pleasures 

Do  we  poor  mortals  cater  for  ourselves! 

To  see  him  thus  provoke  her  tenderness 
With  tales  of  weakness  and  infirmity  ! 

I’d  wager  on  his  life  for  twenty  years. 

Mar.  We  will  not  waste  an  hour  in  such  a cause. 

Osw.  Why,  this  is  noble!  shake  lier  off  at  once. 

Mar.  Her  virtues  are  his  instruments.  — A man 
Who  has  so  practised  on  the  world’s  cold  sense. 

May  well  deceive  his  child  — what!  leave  her  thus, 

A prey  to  a deceiver? — no  — no  — no  — 

’T  is  but  a word  and  then 

Osw.  Something  is  here 

More  tiian  we  see,  or  whence  this  strong  aversion? 
IMarmaduke  ! I suspect  unworthy  tales 
Have  readied  his  ear  — you  have  had  enemies. 

Mar.  Enemies ! — of  his  own  coinage. 

Osw.  That  may  be. 

But  wherefore  slight  protection  such  as  you 
Have  power  to  yield  ? perhaps  he  looks  elsewhere.  — 

1 am  perplexed. 

Mar.  What  hast  thou  lieard  or  seen  ? 

Osw.  No  — no  — the  thing  stands  clear  of  mystery  ; 
(As  you  have  said)  he  coins  himself  the  slander 
With  wliich  he  taints  her  ear;  — for  a plain  reason; 

He  dreads  the  presence  of  a virtuous  man 

Like  you  ; he  knows  your  eye  would  search  his  heart. 

Your  justice  stamp  upon  his  evil  deeds 

The  punishment  they  merit.  All  is  plain: 

It  cannot  be 

Mar.  What  cannot  be  ? 

Osw.  Yet  that  a father 

Should  in  his  love  admit  no  rivalship. 

And  torture  thus  the  heart  of  his  own  child 

Mur.  Nay,  you  abuse  my  friendship ! 

Dsw.  Heaven  forbid  ! — 

There  was  a circumstance,  trifling  indeed  — 

It  struck  me  at  the  time  — yet  I believe 
, I never  should  have  thought  of  it  again 
But  for  the  scene  which  we  by  chance  have  witnessed. 

Mar.  What  is  your  meaning? 

Osw.  Two  days  gone  I saw. 

Though  at  a distance  and  he  was  disguised. 


Hovering  round  Herbert’s  door,  a man  whose  figure 
Resembled  much  that  cold  voluptuary. 

The  villain,  Clifford.  ^ He  hates  you,  and  he  knows 
Where  he  can  stab  you  deepest. 

Mar.  Clifford  never 

Would  stoop  to  skulk  about  a cottage  door  — 

It  could  not  be. 

Osiv.  And  yet  I now  remember. 

That,  when  your  praise  was  warm  upon  my  tongue. 
And  the  blind  man  was  told  how  you  had  rescued 
A maiden  from  the  ruffian  violence 
Of  this  same  Clifford,  he  became  impatient 
And  would  not  hear  me. 

Mar.  No  — it  cannot  be  — 

I dare  not  trust  myself  with  such  a thought  — 

Yet  whence  this  strange  aversion?  You  are  a man 
Not  used  to  rash  conjectures 

Osw.  If  you  deem  it 

A thing  worth  further  notice,  we  must  act 
With  caution,  sift  the  matter  artfully. 

[Exeunt  Marmaduke  aaid  Oswald. 

Scene,  the  door  of  the  Hostel. 

Herbert,  Idonea,  and  Host. 

Her.  (sealed.)  As  I am  dear  to  you,  remember,  child  1 
This  last  request. 

ldo7i.  You  know  me,  sire;  farewell! 

Her.  And  are  you  going  then?  Come,  come,  Idonea, 
We  must  not  part,  — I have  measured  many  a league 
Wlien  these  old  limbs  had  need  of  rest,  — and  now 
I will  not  play  the  sluggard. 

Idon.  Nay,  sit  down. 

[Turning  to  Host. 

Good  host,  such  tendance  as  you  would  expect 
From  your  own  children,  if  yourself  were  sick. 

Let  this  old  man  find  at  your  hands;  poor  Leader, 

[Looking  at  the  dog. 

We  soon  shall  meet  again.  If  thou  neglect 
This  charge  of  thine,  then  ill  befal  thee  ! — Look, 

Tlie  little  fool  is  loth  to  stay  behind. 

Sir  Host!  by  all  the  love  you  bear  to  courtesy. 

Take  care  of  him,  and  feed  the  truant  well. 

Host.  Fear  not,  I will  obey  you ; — but  one  so  young. 
And  one  so  fair,  it  goes  against  my  heart 
That  you  should  travel  unattended,  lady  ! — 

I have  a palfrey  and  a groom  : the  lad 
Shall  squire  you,  (would  it  not  be  better,  sir?) 

And  for  less  fee  than  I would  let  him  run 
For  any  lady  I have  seen  this  twelvemonth. 

Idon.  You  know,  sir,  I have  been  too  long  your  guard 
Not  to  have  learnt  to  laugh  at  little  fears. 

Why,  if  a wolf  should  leap  from  out  a thicket, 

A look  of  mine  would  send  him  scouring  back. 

Unless  I differ  from  the  thing  I am 
When  yon  are  by  my  side. 

Her.  Idonea,  wolves 

Are  not  the  enemies  that  move  my  fears. 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


49 


Idon.  No  more,  I pray,  of  this.  Three  days  at  farthest 
Will  bring  me  back  — protect  him.  Saints  — farewell! 

\_Exil  Idonea. 

Host.  ’T  is  never  drought  with  us — St.  Cuthbert  and 
his  pilgrims. 

Thanks  to  them,  are  to  us  a stream  of  comfort: 

Pity  the  maiden  did  not  wait  a while ; 

She  could  not,  sir,  have  failed  of  company. 

Her.  Now  she  is  gone,  I fain  would  call  her  back. 
Host,  (calling.)  Holla  ! 

Her.  No,  no,  the  business  must  be  done. — 

What  means  this  riotous  noise  1 
Host.  The  villagers 

Are  flocking  in  — a wedding  festival  — 

That’s  all  — God  save  you,  sir. 

Enter  Oswald. 

Osw.  Ha  I as  I live. 

The  Baron  Herbert. 

Host.  Mercy,  the  Baron  Herbert! 

Osw.  So  far  into  your  journey  ! on  my  life. 

You  are  a lusty  Traveller.  But  how  fare  you  J 
Her.  Well  as  the  wreck  I am  permits.  And  you,  sir? 
Osw.  I do  not  see  Idonea. 

Her.  Dutiful  girl. 

She  is  gone  before,  to  spare  my  weariness. 

But  what  has  brought  you  hither? 

Osw.  A slight  affair. 

That  will  be  soon  despatched. 

Her.  Did  Marmaduke 

Receive  that  letter? 

Osto.  Be  at  peace.  — The  tie 

Is  broken,  you  will  hear  no  more  of  him. 

Her.  This  is  true  comfort,  thanks  a thousand  times! — 
That  noise  ! — would  I had  gone  with  her  as  far 
As  the  Lord  Clifford’s  castle:  I have  heard 
That,  in  his  milder  moods,  he  has  expressed 
Compassion  for  me.  His  influence  is  great 
With  Henry,  our  good  king;  — the  Baron  might 
Have  heard  my  suit,  and  urged  my  plea  at  court. 

No  matter  — he ’s  a dangerous  man.  — That  noise  ! — 

’T  is  too  disorderly  for  sleep  or  rest. 

Idonea  would  have  fears  for  me,  — the  convent 
Will  give  me  quiet  lodging.  You  have  a boy,  good  host, 
And  he  must  lead  me  back. 

Osw.  You  are  most  lucky  ; 

I have  been  waiting  in  the  wood  hard  by 
For  a companion  — here  he  comes  ; our  Journey 

Enter  Marmaduke. 

Lies  on  your  way;  accept  us  as  your  guides. 

Her.  Alas!  I creep  so  slowly. 

Osw.  Never  fear; 

We  ’ll  not  complain  of  that. 

Her.  My  limbs  are  stiff 

And  need  repose.  Could  you  but  wait  an  hour? 

Osw.  Most  willingly  ! — Come,  let  me  lead  you  in. 

G 


And,  while  you  take  your  rest,  think  not  of  us; 

We’ll  stroll  into  the  wood  ; lean  on  my  arm. 

[Conducts  Herbert  into  the  house. 
Exit  RIaumaduke. 

Enter  Villagers. 

Osw.  (to  himself  coming  out  of  the  Hostel.)  I have 
prepared  a most  apt  instrument  — 

The  vagrant  must,  no  doubt,  be  loitering  somewhere 
About  this  ground  ; she  hath  a tongue  well  skilled. 

By  mingling  natural  matter  of  her  own 
With  all  the  daring  fictions  I have  taught  her, 

To  win  belief,  such  as  my  plot  requires. 

[Exit  Oswald. 

Enter  more  Villagers,  a Musician  among  them. 

Host,  (to  them.)  Into  the  court,  my  friend,  and  perch 
yourself 

Aloft  upon  the  elm-tree.  Pretty  maids. 

Garlands  and  flowers,  and  cakes  and  merry  thoughts. 
Are  here,  to  send  the  sun  into  the  west 
More  speedily  than  you  belike  would  wish. 


Scene  changes  to  the  Wood  adjoining  the  Hostel  — 
M.armaduke  and  Oswald  entering. 

Mar.  I would  fain  hope  that  we  deceive  ourselves: 
When  first  I saw  him  sitting  there,  alone. 

It  struck  upon  my  heart  I knew  not  how. 

Osw.  To-day  will  clear  up  all.  — You  marked  a 
cottage. 

That  ragged  dwelling  close  beneath  a rock 
By  the  brook-side : it  is  the  abode  of  one, 

A maiden  innocent  till  ensnared  by  Clifford, 

Who  soon  grew  weary  of  her;  but,  alas  ! 

What  she  had  seen  and  suffered  turned  her  brain. 

Cast  off  by  her  betrayer,  she  dwells  alone. 

Nor  moves  her  hands  to  any  needful  work : 

She  eats  her  food  which  every  day  the  peasants 
Bring  to  her  hut;  and  so  the  wretch  has  lived 
Ten  years;  and  no  one  ever  heard  her  voice; 

But  every  night  at  the  first  stroke  of  twelve 

She  quits  her  house,  and,  in  the  neighbouring  churchyard 

Upon  the  self-same  spot,  in  rain  or  storm. 

She  paces  out  the  hour  ’twixt  twelve  and  one 

She  paces  round  and  round  an  infant’s  grave. 

And  in  the  churchyard  sod  her  feet  have  worn 

A hollow  ring;  they  say  it  is  knee-deep 

Ah!  what  is  here? 

[A  female  Beggar  rises  up,  rubbing  her  eyes 
as  if  in  sleep  — a child  in  her  arms. 

Oh  ! gentlemen,  I thank  you  ; 

I’ve  had  the  saddest  dream  that  ever  troubled 
The  heart  of  living  creature.  — My  poor  babe 
Was  crying,  as  I thought,  crying  for  bread 
When  I had  none  to  give  him ; whereupon 
I put  a slip  of  foxglove  in  his  hand. 

Which  pleased  him  so,  that  he  was  hushed  at  once: 
b 


50 


WOIlDSWORTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When,  into  one  of  tliose  same  spotted  bells 
A bee  came  darting-,  which  the  child  with  joy 
Imprisoned  there,  and  held  it  to  his  car. 

And  suddenly  grew  black,  as  he  would  die. 

Mar.  We  iiave  no  time  for  this,  my  babbling  gossip; 
Here 's  what  will  comfort  you.  [Gives  her  money. 

Beg.  The  Saints  reward  you 

For  this  good  deed  ! — Well,  sirs,  this  passed  away; 

And  afterwards  I fancied,  a strange  dog. 

Trotting  alone  along  the  beaten  road. 

Came  to  my  child  as  by  my  side  he  slept. 

And,  fondling,  licked  his  face,  then  on  a sudden 
Snapped  fierce  to  make  a morsel  of  his  head : 

But  here  he  is,  [kissing  the  child]  it  must  have  been  a 
dream. 

Osw.  When  next  inclined  to  sleep,  take  my  advice. 
And  put  your  head,  good  woman,  under  cover. 

Beg.  Oh,  sir,  yon  would  not  talk  thus,  if  you  knew 
What  life  is  this  of  ours,  how  sleep  will  master 
Tlie  weary-worn.  — You  gentle  folk  have  got 
Warm  chambers  to  your  wish.  I ’d  rather  be 
A stone  than  what  I am. — But  two  nights  gone, 

The  darkness  overtook  me  — wind  and  rain 
Boat  hard  upon  my  head  — and  yet  I saw 
A glow-worm,  through  tlie  covert  of  the  furze, 

Shine  calmly  as  if  nothing  ailed  the  sky: 

At  which  I half  accused  the  God  in  Heaven. — 

^’ou  must  forgive  me. 

Oslo.  Ay,  and  if  you  think 

The  fairies  are  to  blame,  and  you  should  chide 
Your  favourite  saint — no  matter  — this  good  day 
Has  made  amends. 

Beg.  Thanks  to  you  both  ; but,  O sir ! 

How  would  you  like  to  travel  on  wliole  hours 
As  I have  done,  my  eyes  upon  tlie  ground. 

Expecting  still,  I knew  not  how,  to  find 
A piece  of  money  glittering  through  the  dust. 

Mar.  This  woman  is  a prater.  Pray,  good  lady  ! 

Do  you  tell  fortunes! 

Beg.  O,  sir,  you  are  like  the  rest. 

This  little-one  — it  cuts  me  to  the  heart  — 

Well ! they  might  turn  a beggar  from  their  doors, 

But  there  are  mothers  who  can  see  the  babe 
Here  at  my  breast,  and  ask  me  where  1 bought  it: 

This  they  can  do,  and  look  upon  my  face  — 

But  you,  sir,  should  be  kinder. 

Mar.  Come  hither,  fathers, 

And  learn  what  nature  is  from  tliis  poor  wretch  ! 

Beg.  Ay,  sir,  there’s  nobody  that  feels  for  us. 

Why  now  — but  yesterday  I overtook 
A blind  old  greybeard  and  accosted  him, 
r th’  name  of  all  the  saints,  and  by  the  Mass 
He  should  have  used  me  better ! — Charity  ! 

If  yon  can  melt  a rock,  he  is  your  man ; 

But  ril  be  even  w-ith  him  — here  again 
Have  I been  waiting  for  him. 

Osw.  Well,  but  softly, 

Wlio  is  it  that  hath  wronged  you! 

Beg.  Mark  you  me ; 


I’ll  point  him  out; — a maiden  is  his  guide. 

Lovely  as  Spring’s  first  rose ; a little  dog. 

Tied  by  a woollen  cord,  moves  on  before 
j With  look  as  sad  as  he  were  dumb ; the  cur, 

I owe  him  no  ill  will,  but  in  good  sooth 
He  does  his  master  credit. 

Mar.  As  I live, 

’T  is  Herbert  and  no  other! 

Beg.  ’T  is  a feast  to  see  him, 

Lank  as  a ghost  and  tall,  his  shoulders  bent. 

And  long  beard  white  with  age  — yet  evermore. 

As  if  he  were  the  only  saint  on  earth. 

He  turns  his  face  to  heaven. 

Osw.  But  why  sc  violent 

Against  this  venerable  man! 

Beg.  I ’ll  tell  you  : 

He  has  the  very  hardest  heart  on  earth ; , 

I had  as  lief  turn  to  the  Friar’s  school 
And  knock  for  entrance,  in  mid  holiday. 

Mar.  But  to  your  story. 

Beg.  I was  saying.  Sir  — 

Well ! — he  has  often  spurned  me  like  a toad. 

But  yesterday  was  worse  than  all ; — at  last 
I overtook  him,  sirs,  my  babe  and  I, 

And  begged  a little  aid  for  charity: 

But  he  was  snappish  as  a cottage  cur. 

Well  then,  says  I — I’ll  out  with  it;  at  which 

I cast  a look  upon  the  girl,  and  felt 

As  if  my  heart  would  burst;  and  so  I left  him. 

Osw.  I think,  good  woman,  you  are  the  very  person 
Whom,  but  a few  days  past,  I saw  in  Eskdale, 

At  Herbert’s  door. 

Beg.  Ay ; and  if  truth  were  known 

I have  good  business  there. 

Osw.  I met  you  at  the  threshold, 

And  he  seemed  angry. 

Beg.  Angry!  well  he  might; 

And  long  as  I can  stir  I’ll  dog  him.  — Yesterday, 

To  serve  me  so,  and  knowing  that  he  owes 
The  best  of  all  he  has  to  me  and  mine, 
i But ’t  is  all  over  now.  — That  good  old  lady 
Has  left  a power  of  riches ; and  I say  it. 

If  there’s  a lawyer  in  the  land,  the  knave 
Shall  give  me  half. 

Osw.  What ’s  this ! — I fear,  good  woman, 

You  have  been  insolent. 

Beg.  And  there ’s  the  Baron, 

I spied  him  skulking  in  his  peasant’s  dress. 

Osw.  How  say  you!  in  disguise!  — 

Mar.  But  what ’s  your  business 

j With  Herbert  or  his  daughter ! 

I Beg.  Daughter!  truly  — 

{ But  how ’s  the  day ! — I fear,  my  little  boy, 

' We ’ve  overslept  ourselves.  — Sirs,  have  you  seen  him ! 

[ Offers  to  go. 

Mar.  I must  have  more  of  this;  — you  shall  not  stir 
An  inch,  till  I am  answered.  Know  you  aught 
That  doth  concern  this  Herbert! 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


51 


Beg.  You  are  provoked, 

And  will  misuse  me,  sir! 

Mar.  No  trifling,  woman  ! — 

Osw.  You  are  as  safe  as  in  a sanctuary ; 

Speak. 

Mar.  Speak! 

Beg.  He  is  a most  hard-hearted  man. 

3Iar.  Your  life  is  at  my  mercy. 

Beg.  Do  not  harm  me. 

And  I will  tell  you  all ! — You  know  not,  sir. 

What  strong  temptations  press  upon  the  poor. 

Osw.  Speak  out. 

Beg.  O,  sir,  I ’ve  been  a wicked  woman. 

Osw.  Nay,  but  speak  out ! 

Beg.  He  flattered  me,  and  said 

What  harvest  it  would  bring  us  both ; and  so, 

I parted  with  the  child. 

Mar.  Parted  with  whomi 

Beg.  Idonea,  as  he  calls  her ; but  the  girl 
Is  mine. 

Mar.  Yours,  woman  ! are  you  Herbert’s  wife  1 
Beg.  Wife,  sir!  his  wife  — not  I;  my  husband,  sir. 
Was  of  Kirkoswald  — many  a snowy  winter 
We ’ve  weathered  out  together.  My  poor  Gilfred  ! 

He  has  been  two  years  in  his  grave. 

Mar.  Enough. 

Osw.  We’ve  solved  the  Middle  — Miscreant! 

Mar.  Do  you. 

Good  dame,  repair  to  Liddesdale,  and  wait 
For  my  return ; be  sure  you  shall  have  justice. 

Osw.  A lucky  woman!  — go,  you  have  done  good 
service.  [AsMe. 

Mar.  {to  himself.)  Eternal  praises  on  the  power 
that  saved  her ! — 

Osw.  {gives  her  money.)  Here’s  for  your  little  boy 
— and  when  you  christen  him 
I ’ll  be  his  godfather. 

Beg.  O,  sir,  you  are  merry  with  me. 

In  grange  or  farm  this  Hundred  scarcely  owns 
A dog  that  does  not  know  me.  — These  good  folks. 

For  love  of  God,  I must  not  pass  their  doors  ; 

But  I ’ll  be  back  with  my  best  speed  : for  you  — 

God  bless  and  thank  you  both,  my  gentle  masters. 

[Exit  Beggar. 

Mar.  {to  himself.)  The  cruel  viper  ! — Poor  devoted 
maid. 

Now  I do  love  thee. 

Oslo.  I am  thunderstruck. 

Mar.  Where  is  she  — holla ! 

[Calling  to  the  Beggar,  who  returns;  he  looks 
at  her  steadfastly. 

You  are  Idonea’s  mother?  — 
Nay,  be  not  terrified  — it  does  rne  good 
To  look  upon  you. 

Osw.  {interrupting.)  In  a peasant’s  dress 
You  saw,  who  was  it? 

Beg.  Nay,  I dare  not  speak ; 


He  is  a man,  if  it  should  come  to  his  ears 
I never  shall  be  heard  of  more. 

Osw.  Lord  Cliflord? 

Beg.  What  can  I do?  believe  me,  gentle  sirs, 

I love  her,  though  I dare  not  call  her  daughter. 

Osw.  Lord  Cliflord — did  you  see  him  talk  with 
Herbert? 

Beg.  Yes,  to  my  sorrow  — under  the  great  oak 
At  Herbert’s  door  — and  when  he  stood  beside 
The  blind  man  — at  the  silent  girl  he  looked 
With  such  a look  — it  makes  me  tremble,  sir. 

To  think  of  it. 

Osw.  Enough  ! you  may  depart. 

Mar.  {to  himself.)  Father!  — to  God  himself  we 
cannot  give 

A holier  name ; and,  under  such  a mask. 

To  lead  a spirit  spotless  as  the  blessed. 

To  that  abhorred  den  of  brutish  vice ! — 

Oswald,  the  firm  foundation  of  my  life 

Is  going  from  under  me;  these  strange  discoveries  — 

Looked  at  from  every  point  of  fear  or  hope. 

Duty,  or  love  — involve,  I feel,  my  ruin. 


ACT  II. 

Scene,  A chamber  in  the  Hostel  — Oswald  alone, 
rising  from  a table  on  which  he  had  been  writing. 

Osw.  They  chose  him  for  their  chief!  — what  covert 
part 

He,  in  the  preference,  modest  youth,  might  take, 

I neither  know  nor  care.  The  insult  bred 
More  of  contempt  than  hatred  ; both  are  flown ; 

That  either  e’er  existed  is  my  shame : 

’T  was  a dull  spark  — a most  unnatural  fire 
That  died  the  moment  the  air  breathed  upon  it. 

— These  fools  of  feeling  are  mere  birds  of  winter 
That  haunt  some  barren  island  of  tlie  north, 

Where,  if  a famishing  man  stretch  forth  his  hand. 

They  think  it  is  to  feed  them.  I have  left,  him 

To  solitary  meditation  ; — now 

For  a few  swelling  phrases,  and  a flash 

Of  truth,  enough  to  dazzle  and  to  blind. 

And  he  is  mine  for  ever  — here  he  comes. 

Enter  Marmaduke. 

Mar.  These  ten  years  she  has  moved  her  lips  all  day 
And  never  speaks ! 

Oslo.  Who  is  it  ? 

Mar.  I have  seen  her. 

Osw.  Oh ! the  poor  tenant  of  that  ragged  homestead, 
Her  whom  the  monster,  Clifford,  drove  to  madness. 

Mar.  I met  a peasant  near  the  spot;  he  told  me. 
These  ten  years  she  had  sate  all  day  alone 
Within  those  empty  walls. 

Osw.  I too  have  seen  her; 

Chancing  to  pass  this  way  some  six  months  gone. 

At  midnight,  I betook  me  to  the  churchyard  : 


52 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  moon  shone  clear,  the  air  was  still,  so  still 
The  trees  were  silent  as  the  graves  beneath  them. 

Long  did  I watch,  and  saw  her  pacing  round 
Upon  the  self-same  spot,  still  round  and  round. 

Her  lips  for  ever  moving. 

Afar.  At  her  door 

Rooted  I stood  ; for,  looking  at  the  woman, 

I thought  I saw  the  skeleton  of  Idonea. 

Osw.  But  the  pretended  father 

Afar.  Earthly  law 

Measures  not  crimes  like  his. 

Osw.  He  rank  not,  happily. 

With  those  who  take  the  spirit  of  their  rule 
From  that  soft  class  of  devotees  who  feel 
Reverence  for  life  so  deeply,  that  they  spare 
The  verminous  brood,  and  cherish  what  they  spare 
While  feeding  on  their  bodies.  Would  that  Idonea 
Were  present,  to  the  end  that  we  might  hear 
What  she  can  urge  in  his  defence ; she  loves  him. 

A/ar.  Yes,  loves  him;  ’t  is  a truth  that  multiplies 
Ilis  guilt  a thousand-fold. 

Osw.  ’T is  most  perplexing: 

What  must  be  done! 

Afar.  We  will  conduct  her  hither; 

These  walls  shall  witness  it — from  first  to  last 
He  shall  reveal  himself. 

Osw.  Happy  are  we. 

Who  live  in  these  disputed  tracts,  that  own 
No  law  but  what  each  man  makes  for  himself; 

Here  justice  has  indeed  a field  of  triumph. 

A/ar.  Let  us  begone  and  bring  her  hither;  — here 
The  truth  shall  be  laid  open,  his  guilt  proved 
Before  her  face.  The  rest  be  left  to  me. 

Osw.  You  will  be  firm : but  though  we  well  may  trust 
The  issue  to  the  justice  of  the  cause. 

Caution  must  not  be  flung  aside ; remember, 

Yours  is  no  common  life.  Self-stationed  here, 

Llpon  these  savage  confines,  we  have  seen  you 
Stand  like  an  isthmus  ’twixt  two  stormy  seas 
That  oft  have  checked  their  fury  at  your  bidding. 

’Mid  the  deep  holds  of  Solway’s  mossy  waste, 

Your  single  virtue  has  transformed  a band 
Of  fierce  barbarians  into  ministers 
Of  peace  and  order.  Aged  men  with  tears 
Have  blessed  their  steps,  the  fatherless  retire 
For  shelter  to  their  banners.  But  it  is, 

As  you  must  needs  have  deeply  felt,  it  is 
In  darkness  and  in  tempest  that  we  seek 
The  majesty  of  Him  who  rules  the  world. 

Benevolence,  that  has  not  heart  to  use 
The  wholesome  ministry  of  pain  and  evil. 

Becomes  at  last  weak  and  contemptible. 

Y'our  generous  qualities  have  won  due  praise. 

But  vigorous  spirits  look  for  something  more 
Than  youth’s  spontaneous  products;  and  to-day 
Ifou  will  not  disappoint  them;  and  hereafter 

Afar.  You  are  wasting  words;  hear  me  then,  once 
for  all : 

You  are  a man — and  therefore,  if  compassion,  I 


Which  to  our  kind  is  natural  as  life. 

Be  known  unto  you,  you  will  love  this  woman. 

Even  as  I do;  but  I should  loathe  the  light. 

If  I could  think  one  weak  or  partial  feeling 

Osw.  You  will  forgive  me 

Afar.  If  I ever  knew 

My  heart,  could  penetrate  its  inmost  core, 

’T  is  at  this  moment.  — Oswald,  1 have  loved 
To  be  the  friend  and  father  of  the  oppressed, 

A comforter  of  sorrow  ; — there  is  sometliing 
Which  looks  like  a transition  in  my  soul. 

And  yet  it  is  not.  — Let  us  lead  him  hither. 

Osw.  Stoop  for  a moment ; ’t  is  an  act  of  justice ; 
And  where’s  the  triumph  if  the  delegate 
Must  fall  in  the  execution  of  his  office? 

The  deed  is  done — if  you  will  have  it  so  — 

Hero  where  we  stand  — that  tribe  of  vulgai;  wretches 
(You  saw  them  gathering  for  the  festival) 

Rush  in  — the  villains  seize  us 

Afar.  Seize ! 

Csw.  Yes,  they  — 

Men  who  are  little  given  to  sift  and  weigh  — 

Would  wreak  on  us  the  passion  of  the  moment. 

Afar.  The  cloud  will  soon  disperse  — farewell  — but 
stay. 

Thou  wilt  relate  the  story. 

Osw.  Am  I neither 

To  bear  a part  in  this  man’s  punishment, 

Nor  be  its  witness  ? 

Afar.  I had  many  hopes 

That  were  most  dear  to  me,  and  some  will  bear 
To  be  transferred  to  thee. 

Osw.  When  I’m  dishonoured  ! 

Afar.  I would  preserve  thee.  How  may  this  be  done  ? 

Osw.  By  showing  that  you  look  beyond  the  instant. 

A few  leagues  hence  we  shall  have  open  ground, 

And  nowhere  upon  earth  is  place  so  fit 
To  look  upon  the  deed.  Before  we  enter 
The  barren  moor,  hangs  from  a beetling  rock 
The  shattered  castle  in  which  Clifford  oft 
Has  held  infernal  orgies  — with  the  gloom. 

And  very  superstition  of  the  place. 

Seasoning  his  wickedness.  The  debauchee 
Would  there  perhaps  have  gathered  the  first  fruits 
Of  this  mock  father’s  guilt. 

Enter  Host,  conducting  Herbert. 

flost.  The  Baron  Herbert 

Attends  your  pleasure. 

Osw.  (to  Host.)  We  are  ready  — 

{to  Herbert.)  Sir ! 

I hope  you  are  refreshed.  — I have  just  written 
A notice  for  your  daughter,  that  she  may  know 
What  is  become  of  you. — Y’ou  ’ll  sit  down  and  sign  it; 
’T  will  glad  her  heart  to  see  her  father’s  signature. 

[Gives  the  letter  he  had  written. 

Her.  Thanks  for  your  care. 

[Sits  down  and  writes.  Exit  Host. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


5.S 


Oslo,  (aside  to  Marmaduke.)  Perhaps  it  would  be  Meanwhile  the  storm  fell  lieavy  on  the  woods; 

Our  little  fire  sent  forth  a cheering  warmth 

That  you  too  should  subscribe  your  name.  And  we  were  comforted,  and  talked  of  comfort; 

[Mar.maduke  overlooks  Herbert  — then  writes—  But ’t  was  an  angry  niglit,  and  o’er  our  heads 

examines  the  letter  eagerly.  The  thunder  rolled  in  peals  that  would  have  made 

Mar.  I cannot  leave  this  paper.  A sleeping  man  uneasy  in  his  bed. 

[He  puts  it  up,  agitated.  O lady,  you  have  need  to  love  your  fatlier. 

Osw.  (aside.)  Dastard  ! Come.  His  voice  - methinks  I hoar  it  now,  his  voice 

[Marmaduke  goes  towards  Herbert  and  supports  When,  after  a broad  flash  that  filled  the  cave, 

Ara— Marmaduke  tremblingly  beckons  Oswald  He  said  to  me,  that  he  had  seen  his  child, 
to  take  his  place.  A face  (no  cherub’s  face  more  beautiful) 

Mar.  (as  he  quits  Herbert.)  There  is  a palsy  in  Revealed  by  lustre  brought  with  it  from  heaven; 
his  limbs  — he  shakes.  And  it  was  you,  dear  lady 

[Exeunt  Oswald  anrHlERBERT— Marmaduke  Idon.  God  be  praised, 

following.  That  I have  been  his  comforter  till  now  ! 

And  will  be  so  througli  every  change  of  fortune 

And  every  sacrifice  his  peace  requires. — 

Scene  changes  to  a Wood— a Group  0/  Pilgrims  Let  us  be  gone  with  speed,  that  he  may  hear 


and  Idonea  with  them. 

First  Pil.  A grove  of  darker  and  more  lofty  shade 
I never  saw. 

Sec.  PiL  The  music  of  the  birds 
Drops  deadened  from  a roof  so  thick  with  leaves. 

Old  Pil.  This  news ! It  made  my  heart  leap  up  with 

joy- 

Idon.  I scarcely  can  believe  it. 

Old  Pil.  Myself,  I heard 

The  Sheriff  read,  in  open  court,  a letter 
Which  purported  it  was  the  royal  pleasure 
The  Baron  Herbert,  who,  as  was  supposed, 

Had  taken  refuge  in  this  neighbourhood, 

Should  be  forthwitli  restored.  The  hearing,  lady. 
Filled  my  dim  eyes  with  tears.  — When  I returned 
From  Palestine,  and  brought  with  me  a heart. 

Though  rich  in  heavenly,  poor  in  earthly,  comfort, 

I met  your  father,  then  a wandering  outcast: 

He  had  a guide,  a shepherd’s  boy;  but  grieved 
He  was  that  one  so  young  should  pass  his  youth 
In  such  sad  service;  and  he  parted  with  him. 

We  joined  our  tales  of  wretchedness  together. 

And  begged  our  daily  bread  from  door  to  door. 

I talk  familiarly  to  you,  sweet  lady! 

For  once  you  loved  me. 

Idon.  You  shall  back  with  me 

And  see  your  friend  again.  The  good  old  man 
Will  be  rejoiced  to  greet  you. 

Old  Pil.  It  seems  but  yesterday 

That  a fierce  storm  o’ertook  us,  worn  with  travel. 

In  a deep  wood  remote  from  any  town. 

A cave  that  opened  to  the  road  presented 
A friendly  shelter,  and  we  entered  in. 

Idon.  And  I was  with  you  ? 


These  joyful  tidings  from  no  lips  but  mine. 

[Exeunt  Idonea  and  Pilgrims. 


Old  Pil. 


Scene,  the  Area  of  a half -ruined  Castle  — on  one  side 
the  entrance  to  a dungeon  — Oswald  and  M.vema- 
DUKE  pacing  backwards  and  forwards. 

Mar.  ’T  is  a wild  night. 

Osw.  I’d  give  my  cloak  and  bonnet 

For  sight  of  a warm  fire. 

Mar.  The  wind  blows  keen  ; 

I My  hands  are  numb. 

Osw.  Ha!  ha!  ’t is  nipping  cold. 

I [Blowing  his  fingers. 

I long  for  news  of  our  brave  comrades;  Lacy 
Would  drive  those  Scottish  rovers  to  their  dens 
If  once  they  blew  a horn  this  side  the  Tweed. 

! 31ar.  I think  I see  a second  range  of  tow'ers; 

This  castle  has  another  area  — come, 

Let  us  examine  it. 

I Osw.  ’T is  a bitter  night; 

I hope  Idonea  is  well  housed.  Tiiat  horseman. 

Who  at  full  speed  swept  by  us  where  the  wood 
; Roared  in  the  tempest,  was  within  an  ace 
Of  sending  to  his  grave  our  precious  charge: 

That  would  have  been  a vile  mischance, 
j It  w'ould. 

I Osw.  Justice  had  been  most  cruelly  defrauded, 
j Mar.  Most  cruelly. 

! Osw.  As  up  the  steep  we  clomb, 

I saw  a distant  fire  in  the  north-east; 

I took  it  for  the  blaze  of  Cheviot  Beacon  : 

With  proper  speed  our  quarters  may  be  gained 
To-morrow  evening. 


But  you  were  then  a tottering  little-one— 

We  sate  us  down.  The  sky  grew  dark  and  darker: 
I struck  my  flint,  and  built  up  a small  fire 
With  rotten  boughs  and  leaves,  such  as  the  winds 
Of  many  autumns  in  the  cave  had  piled. 


If  indeed ’t  was  you  — ; [LooAs  restlessly  towards  the  mouth  of  the  dan  ^eon. 


W'hen,  upon  the  plank, 

I had  led  him  ’cross  the  torrent,  his  voice  blessed  me: 
You  could  not  hear,  for  the  foam  beat  tiie  rocks 
With  deafening  noise,  — the  benediction  fell 
Back  on  himself;  but  changed  into  a curse. 


54 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Osw.  As  well  indeed  it  might. 

Mar.  And  this  you  deem 

The  fittest  place  ? 

Osw.  {aside.)  He  is  growing  pitiful. 

Mar.  (lisleiiing.)  What  an  odd  moaning  that  is ! — 

Osw.  Mighty  odd 

Tlie  w ind  should  pipe  a little,  while  we  stand 
Cooling  our  heels  in  tliis  way  ! — I ’ll  begin 
And  count  the  stars. 

Mar.  {still  listening.)  That  dog  of  his,  you  are  sure, 
Could  not  come  after  us  — he  must  have  perished; 

The  torrent  would  have  dashed  an  oak  to  splinters. 

You  said  you  did  not  like  his  looks  — that  he 
Would  trouble  us;  if  he  were  here  again, 

I swear  the  sight  of  him  would  quail  me  more 
Than  twenty  armies. 

Osw.  How ! 

Mar.  The  old  blind  man. 

When  you  had  told  him  the  mischance,  was  troubled 
Even  to  the  shedding  of  some  natural  tears 
Into  the  torrent  over  which  he  hung. 

Listening  in  vain. 

Osw.  He  has  a tender  heart! 

[Oswald  offers  to  go  down  into  the  dungeon. 

Mar.  How  now,  what  mean  youl 

Osw.  Truly,  I was  going 

To  waken  our  stray  Baron.  Were  there  not 
A farm  or  dwelling-house  within  five  leagues. 

We  should  deserve  to  wear  a cap  and  bells, 

I’hroe  good  round  years,  for  playing  the  fool  here 
In  such  a night  as  this. 

Mar.  Stop,  stop. 

Osw.  Perhaps, 

You’d  better  like  we  should  descend  together. 

And  lie  down  by  his  side  — what  say  you  to  itl 
Three  of  us  — we  should  keep  each  other  warm: 

1 ’ll  answer  for  it  that  our  four-legged  friend 
Shall  not  disturb  us  ; further  I’ll  not  engage; 

Come,  come,  for  manhood’s  sake  ! 

Mar.  These  drowsy  shiverings. 

This  mortal  stupor  which  is  creeping  over  me. 

What  do  they  mean  I were  this  my  single  body 
Opposed  to  armies,  not  a nerve  would  tremble: 

Why  do  I tremble  now  1 — Is  not  the  depth 

Of  this  man’s  crimes  beyond  the  reach  of  thought?  [ 

And  yet,  in  plumbing  the  abyss  for  judgment. 

Something  I strike  upon  which  turns  my  mind 
Back  on  herself,  I think,  again  — my  breast 
Concentrates  all  the  terrors  of  the  Universe  : 

1 look  at  him  and  tremble  like  a child. 

Osto.  Is  it  possible  1 

]\lar.  One  thing  you  noticed  not: 

Just  as  we  left  the  glen  a clap  of  thunder 
Burst  on  the  mountains  with  hell-rousing  force. 

4’his  is  a time,  said  he,  when  guilt  may  shudder; 

But  there ’s  a Providence  for  them  who  walk 
in  helplessness,  when  innocence  is  with  them.  t 

At  this  audacious  blasphemy,  I thought  j 

The  spirit  of  vengeance  seemed  to  ride  the  air.  j 


Osw.  Why  are  you  not  the  man  you  were  that 
moment  ? 

[He  draws  Marmaduke  to  the  dungeon. 
Mar.  You  say  he  was  asleep,  — look  at  this  arm. 
And  tell  me  if ’t  is  fit  for  such  a work. 

Oswald,  Osw’ald  ! [Leans  tipon  Osavald. 

Osw.  This  is  some  sudden  seizure ! 

31ar.  A most  strange  faintness,  — will  you  hunt  me 
out 

A draught  of  water? 

Osw.  Nay,  to  see  you  thus 

Moves  me  beyond  my  bearing.  — I will  try 
To  gain  the  torrent’s  brink.  [Exit  Oswald. 

Mar.  {after  a pause.)  It  seems  an  age 
Since  that  man  left  me. — No,  I am  not  lost. 

Her.  {at  the  mouth  of  the  dungeon.)  Give  me  your 
hand;  where  are  you.  Friends?  and  tell  me 
How  goes  the  night. 

Mar.  ’T  is  hard  to  measure  time. 

In  such  a weary  night,  and  such  a place. 

Her.  I do  not  hear  the  voice  of  my  friend  Oswald. 
3Iar.  A minute  past,  he  went  to  fetch  a draught 
Of  water  from  the  torrent.  ’T  is,  you  ’ll  say, 

A cheerless  beverage. 

Her.  How  good  it  was  in  you 

To  stay  behind  ! — Hearing  at  first  no  answer, 

I was  alarmed. 

Mar.  No  wonder;  this  is  a place 

That  well  may  put  some  fears  into  your  heart. 

Her.  Why  so?  a roofle.ss  rock  had  been  a comfort. 
Storm-beaten  and  bewildered  as  we  were ; 

And  in  a night  like  this,  to  lend  your  cloaks 
To  make  a bed  for  me ! — My  girl  will  weep 
W’hen  she  is  told  of  it. 

Mar.  This  daughter  of  yours 

Is  very  dear  to  you. 

Her.  Oil ! but  you  are  young ; 

Over  your  head  twice  twenty  years  must  roll. 

With  all  their  natural  weight  of  sorrow  and  pain, 

Ere  can  be  known  to  you  how  much  a father 
May  love  his  child. 

Alar.  Thank  you,  old  man,  for  this!  [Aside. 

Her.  Fallen  am  I,  and  worn  out,  a useless  man ; 
Kindly  have  you  protected  me  to-night, 

I And  no  return  have  I to  make  but  prayers; 

May  you  in  age  be  blessed  with  such  a daughter ! — 
When  from  the  Holy  Land  I had  returned 
Sightless  and  from  my  heritage  was  driven, 

A wretched  outcast — but  this  strain  of  thought 
Would  lead  me  to  talk  fondly. 

Mar.  Do  not  fear  ; 

Your  words  are  precious  to  my  ears;  go  on. 

Her.  You  will  forgive  me,  but  my  heart  runs  over. 
When  my  old  Leader  slipped  into  the  flood 
And  perished,  what  a piercing  outcry  you 
Sent  after  him.  I have  loved  you  ever  since. 

You  start — where  are  we? 

Mar.  O,  there  is  no  danger; 

The  cold  blast  struck  me. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


55 


Her.  ’T  was  a foolish  question. 

Mar.  But  when  you  were  an  outcast!  — Heaven  is 
just ; 

Your  piety  would  not  miss  its  due  reward; 

The  little  orphan  then  would  be  your  succour, 

And  do  good  service,  though  she  knew  it  not. 

Her.  I turned  me  from  the  dwellings  of  my  fathers. 
Where  none  but  those  who  trampled  on  my  rights 
Seemed  to  remember  me.  To  tlie  wide  world 
I bore  her,  in  my  arms;  her  looks  won  pity ; 

She  was  my  raven  in  the  wilderness. 

And  brought  me  food.  Have  I not  cause  to  love  her  1 
Mar.  Yes. 

Her.  More  than  ever  parent  loved  a child ! 

Mar.  Yes,  yes. 

Her.  I will  not  murmur,  merciful  God  ! 

I will  not  murmur;  blasted  as  I have  been. 

Thou  hast  left  me  ears  to  liear  my  daughter’s  voice. 
And  arms  to  fold  her  to  my  heart.  Submissively 
Thee  I adore,  and  find  my  rest  in  faith. 

Enter  Oswald. 

Osw.  Herbert! — confusion!  (aside.)  Here  it  is, 
my  friend,  ■ [Presetits  the  Horn. 

A charming  beverage  for  you  to  carouse. 

This  bitter  night. 

Her.  Ha  ! Oswald  ! ten  bright  crosses 

1 would  have  given,  not  many  minutes  gone. 

To  have  heard  your  voice. 

Osw.  Your  couch,  I fear,  good  Baron, 

Has  been  but  comfortless ; and  yet  that  place. 

When  the  tempestuous  wind  first  drove  us  hither, 

Felt  warm  as  a wren’s  nest.  You’d  better  turn 
And  under  covert  rest  till  break  of  day. 

Or  till  the  storm  abate. 

(To  Mar.maduke  aside.)  He  has  restored  you. 

No  doubt  you  have  been  nobly  entertained ! 

But  soft ! — how  came  he  forth  1 The  night-mare  con- 
science 

Has  driven  him  out  of  harbour! 

Mar.  I believe 

You  have  guessed  right. 

Her.  The  trees  renew  their  murmur : 

Come,  let  us  house  together. 

[Oswald  conducts  him  to  the  dungeon. 
Osw.  (returns.)  Had  I not 

Esteemed  you  worthy  to  conduct  the  affair 
To  its  most  fit  conclusion,  do  you  think 
I would  so  long  have  struggled  with  my  nature. 

And  smothered  all  that ’s  man  in  me ! — away  ! — 

[Looking  towards  the  dungeon. 
This  man’s  the  property  of  him  who  best 
Can  feel  his  crimes.  I have  resigned  a privilege; 

It  now  becomes  my  duty  to  resume  it. 

Mar.  Touch  not  a finger 

Osw.  What  then  must  be  done! 

Mar.  Which  way  soe’er  I turn,  I am  perplexed. 

Osw.  Now,  on  my  life,  I grieve  for  you.  The  misery 
Of  doubt  is  insupportable.  Pity,  the  facts 


Did  not  admit  of  stronger  evidence; 

Twelve  honest  men,  plain  men,  would  set  us  right ; 
Their  verdict  would  abolish  these  weak  scruples. 

Mar.  Weak  ! I atn  weak — there  does  my  torment  lie, 
Feeding  itself. 

Osw.  Verily,  when  he  said 

How  his  old  heart  would  leap  to  hear  her  steps. 

You  thought  his  voice  the  echo  of  Idonea’s. 

Mar.  And  never  heard  a sound  so  terrible. 

Osw.  Perchance  you  think  so  now! 

Mar.  I cannot  do  it; 

Twice  did  I spring  to  grasp  his  withered  throat. 

When  such  a sudden  weakness  fell  upon  me, 

I could  have  dropped  asleep  upon  his  breast. 

Osw.  Justice  — is  there  not  thunder  in  the  word! 
Shall  it  be  law  to  stab  the  petty  robber 
Who  aims  but  at  our  purse;  and  shall  this  Parricide  — 
Worse  is  he  far,  far  worse  (if  foul  dishonour 
Be  worse  than  death)  to  that  confiding  creature 
Whom  he  to  more  than  filial  love  and  duty 
Hath  falsely  trained  — shall  he  fulfil  his  purpose ! 

But  you  are  fallen. 

! Mar.  Fallen  should  I be  indeed  — 

Murder  — perhaps  asleep,  blind,  old,  alone. 

Betrayed,  in  darkness!  Here  to  strike  the  blow  — 

Away!  away! [Flings  away  his  sword. 

Osw.  Nay,  I have  done  with  you : 

We’ll  lead  him  to  the  convent.  He  shall  live. 

And  she  shall  love  him.  With  unquestioned  title 
He  shall  be  seated  in  his  barony. 

And  we  too  chant  the  praise  of  his  good  deeds. 

I now  perceive  we  do  mistake  our  masters. 

And  most  despise  the  men  who  best  can  teach  us; 
Henceforth  it  shall  be  said  that  bad  men  only 
Are  brave : Clifford  is  brave ; and  that  old  man 
Is  brave. 

[Taking  Marmaduke's  sword  and  giving  it  to  him. 
To  Clillbrd’s  arms  he  would  have  led 
His  victim  — haply  to  this  desolate  house. 

Mar.  (advancing  to  the  dungeon.)  It  must  be 
ended ! — 

Osw.  Softly  ; do  not  rouse  him ; 

He  will  deny  it  to  the  last.  He  lies 
Within  the  vault,  a spear’s  length  to  the  left. 

[Mar.maduke  descends  to  the  dungeon. 
(Alone.)  Tlie  villains  rose  in  mutiny  to  destroy  me; 

I could  have  quelled  the  cowards,  but  this  stripling 
Must  needs  step  in,  and  save  my  life.  'I’he  look 
With  which  he  gave  the  boon  — I see  it  now  ! 

The  same  that  tempted  me  to  loathe  tlie  gift, — 

For  this  old  venerable  grey-beard  — faith 

’T  is  his  own  fault  if  he  hath  got  a face 

W^hich  doth  play  tricks  with  them  that  look  on  it ; 

’T  was  this  that  put  it  in  my  thoughts  — that  counte- 
i nance  — 

His  staff  — his  figure  — murder ! — what,  of  whom '! 
We  kill  a worn-out  horse,  and  who  hut  women 
Sigh  at  the  deed  ! Hew  down  a withered  tree. 

And  none  look  grave  but  dotards.  He  may  live 


56 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  thank  me  for  tliis  service.  Rainbow  arches, 
Highways  of  dreaming  passion  have  too  long, 

Young  as  he  is,  diverted  wish  and  hope 

From  the  unpretending  ground  we  mortals  tread;  — 

Then  shatter  the  deliisioti,  break  it  up 

And  set  him  free.  Wliat  follows?  I have  learned 

That  things  will  work  to  ends  the  slaves  o’  the  world 

Do  never  dream  of.  I have  been  what  he  — 

This  boy  — when  he  comes  forth  with  bloody  hands  — 
Might  envy,  and  am  now,  — but  he  shall  know 
What  I am  now — [G'oes  a7id  listens  at  the  dungeon. 

Praying  or  parleying  ! — tut ! 

Is  he  not  eyeless?  He  has  been  half-dead 
These  fifteen  years 

Enter  female  Beggar  luith  two  or  three  of  her  com- 
panions. 

{Turning  abruptly.')  Ila  ! speak  — what  thing  art 
thou  ? 

{Recognises  her.)  Heavens ! my  good  friend  ! [To  her. 
Beg.  Forgive  me,  gracious  Sir  ! — 

Osw.  {to  her  companions.)  Begone,  ye  slaves,  or  I 
will  raise  a whirlwind 

And  send  ye  dancing  to  tl)e  clouds,  like  leaves. 

[They  retire  affrightetl. 
Beg.  Indeed  we  meant  no  harm  ; we  lodge  sometimes 
In  this  deserted  castle  — 1 repent  me. 

[Oswald  goes  to  the  dungeon  — listens  — 
returns  to  the  Beggar. 

Osw.  Woman,  thou  hast  a helpless  infant  — keep 
Thy  secret  for  its  sake,  or  verily 
That  wretched  life  of  thine  shall  be  the  forfeit. 

Beg.  I do  repent  me,  Sir;  I fear  the  curse 

Of  that  blind  man.  ’T  was  not  your  money,  sir 

Osw.  Begone ! 

Beg.  {going.)  There  is  some  wicked  deed  in  hand  : 

[.Aside. 

Would  I could  find  the  old  man  and  his  daughter. 

[Exit  Beggar. 

Marmaduke  re-enters  from  the  dungeon. 

Osw.  It  is  all  over  then;  your  foolish  fears 
Are  hushed  to  sleep,  by  your  own  act  and  deed, 

Made  quiet  as  he  is. 

Mar.  Why  came  you  down? 

And  when  I felt  your  hand  upon  my  arm 
And  spake  to  you,  why  did  you  give  no  answer? 

Feared  you  to  waken  him?  he  mast  have  been 
In  a deep  sleep.  I whispered  to  him  thrice. 

There  are  the  strangest  echoes  in  that  place  ! 

Osw.  Tut ! let  them  gabble  till  the  day  of  doom. 
Mar.  Scarcely,  by  groping,  had  1 reached  the  spot. 
When  round  my  W’rist  I felt  a cord  drawn  tight. 

As  if  the  blind  man's  dog  were  pulling  at  it. 

Osw.  But  after  that? 

Mar.  The  features  of  Idonea 

Lurked  in  his  face 

O.sw.  Psha!  Never  to  these  eyes 

Will  retribution  show  itself  again 


With  aspect  so  inviting.  Why  forbid  me 
, To  share  your  triumph? 
i Mar.  Yes,  her  very  look. 

Smiling  in  sleep 

Osw.  A pretty  feat  of  Fancy  ! 

Mar.  Though  but  a glimpse,  it  sent  me  to  my  prayers. 
Osto.  Is  he  alive? 

31ar.  What  mean  you  ? who  alive? 

O.sw.  Herbert ! since  you  will  have  it,  Baron  Herbert; 
He  who  will  gain  his  Seignory  when  Idonea 
Hath  become  ClilFord’s  harlot  — is  he  living? 

I 3Iur.  The  old  man  in  that  dungeon  is  alive. 

I Osw.  Henceforth,  then,  will  I never  in  camp  or  field 
Obey  you  more.  Your  weakness,  to  the  Band, 

Shall  be  proclaimed : brave  men,  tliey  all  shall  hear  it. 
You  a protector  of  humanity ! 

Avenger  you  of  outraged  innocence ! 

Mar.  ’T  was  dark — dark  as  the  grave  ; yet  did  I see. 
Saw  him  — his  face  turned  tow’ard  me;  and  1 tell  thee 
Idonca’s  filial  countenance  was  there 
To  bafile  me  — it  put  me  to  my  prayers. 

Upw'ards  I cast  my  eyes,  and,  through  a crevice, 

I Beheld  a star  twinkling  above  my  head. 

And,  by  the  living  God,  I could  not  do  it. 

[Sinks  exhausted. 
Oslo,  {to  himself.)  Now  may  I perish  if  this  turn 
do  more 

Than  make  me  change  my  course. 

(To  Marmaduke.)  Dear  Marmaduke, 

My  words  were  rashly  spoken ; I recal  them  : 

I feel  my  error;  shedding  blood 
Is  a most  serious  thing. 

31ar.  Not  I alone, 

Thou  too  art  deep  in  guilt. 

Osw.  We  have  indeed 

Been  most  presumptuous.  There  is  guilt  m this. 

Else  could  so  strong  a mind  have  ever  known 
These  trepidations?  Plain  it  is  that  Heaven 
Has  marked  out  this  foul  wretch  as  one  whose  crimes 
Must  never  come  before  a mortal  judgment-seat. 

Or  be  chastised  by  mortal  instruments. 

Mar.  A thought  that’s  worth  a thousand  worlds  ! 

[Goes  toward  the  dungeon. 
Osw.  I grieve 

That,  in  my  zeal,  I have  caused  you  so  much  pain. 
Mar.  Think  not  of  that ! ’t  is  over — we  are  safe. 
Osw.  {as  if  to  himself,  yet  speaking  aloud.)  'I'he 
truth  is  hideous,  but  how  stifle  it? 

[Turning  to  Marmaduke. 
Give  me  your  sword  — nay,  here  are  stones  and  frag- 
ments. 

The  least  of  which  would  beat  out  a man’s  brains; 

Or  you  might  drive  your  head  against  that  wall. 

No ! this  is  not  the  place  to  hear  the  tale : 

It  should  be  told  you  pinioned  in  your  bed. 

Or  on  some  vast  and  solitary  plain 
Blown  to  you  from  a trumpet. 

Mar.  Why  talk  thus? 

Whate’er  the  monster  brooding  in  your  breast 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


57 


I care  not:  fear  I have  none,  and  cannot  fear 

[7'Ae  sound  of  a horn  is  heard. 
That  horn  again  — ’T  is  some  one  of  our  troop ; 

What  do  they  herel  Listen  ! 

Osic.  What ! dogged  like  thieves ! 

Enter  Wallace  and  Lacy,  Sic. 

Lacy.  You  are  found  at  last,  thanks  to  the  vagrant 
troop 

For  not  misleading  us. 

Osw.  {looking  at  Wallace.)  That  subtle  grey- 
beard — 

I ’d  rather  see  my  father’s  ghost. 

Lacy,  {to  Marmaduke.)  My  Captain, 

We  come  by  order  of  the  band.  Belike 
You  have  not  heard  that  Henry  has  at  last 
Dissolved  the  Barons’  League,  and  sent  abroad 
His  Sherifts  with  fit  force  to  reinstate 
The  genuine  owners  of  such  lands  and  baronies 
As,  in  these  long  commotions  liave  been  seized. 

His  power  is  this  way  tending.  It  befits  us 
To  stand  upon  our  guard,  and  with  our  swords 
Defend  the  innocent. 

.Mar.  Lacy  ! we  look 

But  at  the  surfaces  of  things  ; we  hear 
Of  towns  in  flames,  fields  ravaged,  young  and  old 
Driven  out  in  troops  to  want  and  nakedness; 

Then  grasp  our  swords  and  rush  upon  a cure 
That  flatters  us,  because  it  asks  not  thought: 

The  deeper  malady  is  better  hid  ; 

The  world  is  poisoned  at  the  heart. 

Lacy.  What  mean  you '! 

Wal.  {whose  eye  has  been  fixed  suspiciously  upon 
Oswald.)  Ay,  what  is  it  you  mean? 

Mur.  Harkee,  my  friends ; — 

[Appearing  gay. 

Were  there  a man  who,  being  weak  and  helpless 
And  most  forlorn,  should  bribe  a mother,  pressed 
By  penury  to  yield  him  up  her  daughter, 

A little  infant,  and  instruct  the  babe. 

Prattling  upon  his  knee,  to  call  him  father 

Lacy.  Why,  if  his  heart  be  tender,  that  offence 
I could  forgive  him. 

Mar.  {going  on  ) And  .should  he  make  the  child 
An  instrument  of  falsehood,  should  he  teach  her 
To  stretch  her  arms,  and  dim  the  gladsome  light 
Of  infant  playfulness  with  piteous  looks 

Of  misery  that  was  not 

Lacy.  Troth,  ’t  is  hard  — 

But  in  a world  like  ours 

Mar.  {changing  his  tone.)  This  self-same  man  — 
Even  while  he  printed  kisses  on  the  cheek 
Of  this  poor  babe,  and  taught  its  innocent  tongue 
To  lisp  the  name  of  father  — could  he  look 
To  the  unnatural  harvest  of  that  time 
When  ho  should  ffivo  her  up,  a woman  grown. 

To  him  who  bid  the  highest  in  the  market 
Of  foul  pollution 


Lacy.  The  whole  visible  world 

Contains  not  such  a monster ! 

Mar.  For  this  purpose 

Should  he  resolve  to  taint  her  soul  by  means 
Which  bathe  the  limbs  in  sweat  to  think  of  them; 
Sliould  he,  by  tales  whicii  would  draw  tears  from  iron. 
Work  on  her  nature,  and  so  turn  compassion 
And  gratitude  to  ministers  of  vice. 

And  make  the  spotless  spirit  of  filial  love 
Prime  mover  in  a plot  to  damn  iiis  victim 
Both  soul  and  body 

Wal.  ’T  is  too  horrible ; 

Oswald,  what  say  you  to  it? 

Lacy.  Hew  him  down. 

And  fling  him  to  the  ravens. 

.Mar.  But  his  aspect 

It  is  so  meek,  his  countenance  so  venerable. 

Wal.  {with  an  appearance  of  mistrust.)  But  how, 
what  say  you,  Oswald? 

Lacy,  {at  the  same  moment.)  Stab  him,  were  it 
i Before  the  altar. 

3Iar.  What,  if  he  were  sick. 

Tottering  upon  the  very  verge  of  life. 

And  old,  and  blind 

Lacy.  Blind;  say  you ? 

Osw.  {coming  forward.)  Are  we  men. 

Or  own  we  baby  spirits?  Genuine  courage 
Is  not  an  accidental  (]uality, 

A thing  dependent  for  its  casual  birth 
On  opposition  and  impediment. 

Wi.sdom,  if  Justice  speak  the  word,  beats  down 
The  giant’s  strength ; and,  at  the  voice  of  Justice, 
Spares  not  the  worm.  The  giant  and  the  worm  — 

She  weighs  them  in  one  scale.  The  wiles  of  woman. 
And  cratl  of  age,  seducing  reason,  first 
Made  weakness  a protection,  and  obscured 
The  moral  shapes  of  things.  His  tender  cries 
And  helpless  innocence  — do  they  protect 
The  infant  lamb?  and  shall  the  infirmities. 

Which  have  enabled  this  enormous  culprit 
To  perpetrate  his  crimes,  serve  as  a sanctuary 
To  cover  him  from  punishment?  Shame!  — Justice, 
Admitting  no  resistance,  bonds  alike 
The  feeble  and  the  strong.  She  needs  not  here 
Her  bonds  and  chains,  which  make  the  mighty  feeble. 
— We  recognise  in  this  old  man  a victim 
Prepared  already  for  the  sacrifice. 

Lacy.  By  heaven,  his  W'ords  are  reason ! 

Osw.  Yes,  my  friends, 

His  countenance  is  meek  and  venerable; 

And,  by  the  Mass,  to  see  him  at  his  prayers ! — 

I am  of  flesh  and  blood,  and  may  I perish 
When  my  heart  does  not  ache  to  think  of  it  I — 

Poor  victim  ! not  a virtue  under  heaven 
But  what  was  made  an  engine  to  ensnare  thee; 

But  yet  I trust,  Idonea,  thou  art  safe. 

Lacy.  Idonea ! 

Wal.  How!  what?  your  Idonea? 

[To  Marmadckk. 


II 


C8 


WORDSWOETH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Mar.  Mine ; 

Blit  now  no  longer  mine.  You  know  Lord  Clifford  ; 

He  is  the  man  to  whom  the  maiden  — pure 
As  beautiful,  and  gentle  and  benign, 

And  in  her  ample  heart  loving  even  me  — 

Was  to  be  yielded  up. 

Lacy.  Now,  by  the  head 

Of  my  own  child,  this  man  must  die;  my  hand, 

A worthier  wanting,  shall  itself  entwine 
In  his  grey  hairs  ! — 

Mar.  {to  Lacy.)  I love  the  father  in  thee. 

You  know  me,  friends ; I have  a heart  to  feel. 

And  I have  felt,  more  than  perhaps  becomes  me 
Or  duty  sanctions. 

Lacy.  We  will  have  ample  justice. 

Who  are  we,  friends?  Do  we  not  live  on  ground 
Where  souls  are  self-defended,  free  to  grow 
Like  mountain  oaks  rocked  by  tlie  stormy  wind. 

Mark  the  Almighty  Wisdom,  which  decreed 
This  monstrous  crime  to  be  laid  open  — here 
Where  reason  has  an  eye  that  she  can  use. 

And  men  alone  are  umpires.  To  the  camp 
lie  shall  be  led,  and  there,  the  country  round 
All  gathered  to  the  spot,  in  open  day 
Shall  nature  be  avenged. 

O.sw.  ’T  is  nobly  thought ; 

His  death  will  be  a monument  for  ages. 

Mar.  (to  Lacy.)  I tliank  you  for  that  hint.  He  shall 
be  brought 

Before  tlie  camp,  and  would  tliat  best  and  wisest 
Of  every  country  might  be  present.  There, 

His  crime  shall  be  proclaimed ; and  for  the  rest 
It  shall  be  done  as  wisdom  shall  decide : 

Meanwhile,  do  you  two  hasten  back  and  see 
That  all  is  well  prepared. 

Wul.  We  will  obey  you. 

(A^ide.)  But  softly ! we  must  look  a little  nearer. 
Mar.  Tell  where  you  found  us.  At  some  future 
time 

I will  explain  the  cause.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  III. 

Scene,  the  door  of  the  Hostel,  a group  of  Pilgrims  as 
before;  Idonea  and  the  Host  among  them. 

Host.  Lady,  you’ll  find  your  father  at  the  convent 
As  I have  told  you : He  left  us  yesterday 
With  two  companions ; one  of  them,  as  seemed. 

His  most  familiar  friend.  (Going.)  There  was  a 
letter 

Of  which  I heard  them  speak,  but  that  I fancy 
Has  been  forgotten. 

Idon.  (to  Host.)  Farewell ! 

Host.  Gentle  pilgrims, 

St.  Cuthbert  speed  you  on  your  holy  errand. 

[Exeunt  Idonea  and  Pilgrims. 


Scene,  a desolate  Moor. 

Oswald  (alone.) 

Osw.  Carry  him  to  the  camp!  Yes,  to  the  camp. 

O,  Wisdom  ! a most  wise  resolve ! and  then. 

That  half  a word  should  blow  it  to  the  winds ! 

This  last  device  must  end  my  work.  — Methinks 
It  were  a pleasant  pastime  to  construct 
A scale  and  table  of  belief — as  thus  — 

Two  columns,  one  for  passion,  one  for  proof; 

Each  rises  as  the  other  falls : and  first. 

Passion  a unit  and  against  us  — proof — 

Nay,  we  must  travel  in  another  path. 

Or  we  ’re  stuck  fast  for  ever ; — passion  then. 

Shall  be  a unit  for  us;  proof — no,  passion! 

We’ll  not  insult  thy  majesty  by  time. 

Person,  and  place  — the  where,  the  when,  j,he  how, 
And  all  particulars  that  dull  brains  require 
To  constitute  the  spiritless  shape  of  Fact, 

They  bow  to,  calling  the  idol.  Demonstration. 

A whipping  to  the  moralists  who  preach 
That  misery  is  a sacred  thing : for  me, 

I know  no  cheaper  engine  to  degrade  a man. 

Nor  any  half  so  sure.  This  stripling’s  mind 
Is  shaken  till  the  dregs  float  on  the  surface ; 

And,  in  the  storm  and  anguish  of  the  heart. 

He  talks  of  a transition  in  his  soul 

And  dreams  that  he  is  happy.  We  dissect 

The  senseless  body,  and  why  not  the  mind  ? — 

These  are  strange  sights  — the  mind  of  man  upturned, 
Is  in  all  natures  a strange  spectacle ; 

In  some  a hideous  one  — hem  ! shall  I stop? 

No.  — Thoughts  and  feelings  will  sink  deep,  but  then 
They  have  no  substance.  Pass  but  a few  minutes. 

And  something  .shall  be  done  wliich  memory 
May  touch,  whene’er  her  vassals  are  at  work. 

Enter  Marmaduke,  from  behind. 

Osw.  (turning  to  meet  him.)  But  listen,  for 

my  peace 

Afar.  Why,  I believe  you. 

Osw.  But  hear  the  proofs 

Afar.  Ay,  prove  that  when  two  peas 

Lie  snugly  in  a pod,  the  pod  must  then 
Be  larger  than  the  peas  — prove  this  — ’twere  matter 
Worthy  the  hearing.  Fool  was  I to  dream 
It  ever  could  be  otherwise  ! 

Osw.  Last  night 

When  I returned  with  water  from  the  brook, 

I overheard  the  villains  — every  word 
Like  red-hot  iron  burnt  into  my  heart. 

Said  one,  “It  is  agreed  on.  The  blind  man 
Shall  feign  a sudden  illness,  and  the  girl. 

Who  on  her  journey  must  proceed  alone, 

Under  pretence  of  violence,  be  seized. 

She  is,”  continued  the  detested  slave, 

“ She  is  right  willing  — strange  if  she  were  not ! — 
They  say.  Lord  Clifford  is  a savage  man ; 

But,  faith,  to  see  him  in  his  silken  tunic, 

Fitting  his  low  voice  to  the  minstrel’s  harp. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


59 


There ’s  witchery  in ’t.  I never  knew  a maid 
That  could  withstand  it.  True,”  continued  he, 

“ When  we  arranged  the  affair,  she  wept  a little 
(Not  the  less  welcome  to  my  lord  for  that) 

And  said,  ‘ My  father  he  will  have  it  so.’  ” 

Mar.  I am  your  hearer. 

Osw.  This  I caught,  and  more 

That  may  not  be  retold  to  any  ear. 

The  obstinate  bolt  of  a small  iron  door 
Detained  them  near  the  gateway  of  the  castle. 

By  a dim  lantern’s  light  I saw  that  wreaths 
Of  flowers  were  in  their  hands,  as  if  designed 
For  festive  decoration  ; and  they  said. 

With  brutal  laughter  and  most  foul  allusion. 

That  they  should  share  the  banquet  with  their  lord 
And  his  new  favourite. 

Mar.  Misery  ! — 

Osw.  I knew 

How  you  would  be  disturbed  by  this  dire  news. 

And  therefore  chose  this  solitary  moor. 

Here  to  impart  the  tale,  of  which,  last  night, 

I strove  to  ease  my  mind,  when  our  two  comrades. 
Commissioned  by  the  band,  burst  in  upon  us. 

Mar.  Last  night,  when  moved  to  lift  the  avenging 
steel, 

I did  believe  all  things  were  shadows  — yea, 

Living  or  dead  all  things  were  bodiless. 

Or  but  the  mutual  mockeries  of  body. 

Till  that  same  star  summoned  me  back  again. 

Now  I could  laugh  till  my  ribs  ached.  O,  fool ! 

To  let  a creed,  built  in  the  heart  of  things. 

Dissolve  before  a twinkling  atom  ! — Oswald, 

I could  fetch  lessons  out  of  wiser  schools 
Than  you  have  entered,  were  it  worth  the  pains. 

Young  as  T am  I might  go  forth  a teaclier. 

And  you  should  see  how  deeply  I could  reason 
Of  love  in  all  its  shapes,  beginnings,  ends; 

Of  moral  qualities  in  their  diverse  aspects; 

Of  actions,  and  their  laws  and  tendencies. 

Osw.  You  take  it  as  it  merits 

Mar.  One  a king. 

General  or  cham,  sultan  or  emperor. 

Strews  twenty  acres  of  good  meadow-ground 
W’ith  carcases,  in  lineament  and  shape 
And  substance,  nothing  differing  from  his  own. 

But  that  they  cannot  stand  ,ip  of  themselves; 

Another  sits  i’th’  sun,  and  by  the  hour 

Floats  kingcups  in  the  brook — a hero  one 

We  call,  and  scorn  the  other  as  Time’s  spendthrift; 

But  have  they  not  a world  of  common  ground 
To  occupy — both  fools,  or  wise  alike. 

Each  in  his  way  1 

Osw.  Troth,  I begin  to  think  so. 

Mar.  Now  for  the  corner-stone  of  my  philosophy  : 

I would  not  give  a denier  for  the  man 

Who,  on  such  provocation  as  this  earth 

Yield.s,  could  not  chuck  his  babe  beneath  the  chin. 

And  send  it  with  a flllip  to  its  grave. 

Osw.  Nay,  you  leave  me  behind. 


Mar.  That  such  a one, 

So  pious  in  demeanour ! in  his  look 

So  saintly  and  so  pure ! Hark’ee,  my  friend, 

I’ll  plant  myself  before  Lord  Clifford’s  castle, 

A surly  mastiff  kennels  at  the  gate. 

And  he  shall  howl  and  I will  laugh,  a medley 
Most  tunable. 

Osw.  In  faith,  a pleasant  scheme; 

But  take  your  sword  along  with  you,  for  that 
Might  in  such  neighbourhood  find  seemly  use. — 

But  first,  how  wash  our  hands  of  this  old  man  1 
3Iar.  Oh  yes,  tliat  mole,  that  viper  in  the  path; 
Plague  on  my  memory,  him  I had  forgotten. 

Osw.  You  know  we  left  him  sitting — see  him  yonder. 
Mar.  Ha  ! ha  ! — 

Osw.  As  ’twill  be  but  a moment’s  work, 

I will  stroll  on;  you  follow  when  ’tis  done.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  changes  to  another  part  of  the  Moor  at  a short 
distance — Herbert  is  discovered  seated  on  a stone. 
Her.  A sound  of  laughter,  too! — ’tis  well — I feared. 
The  stranger  had  some  pitiable  sorrow 
Pressing  upon  his  solitary  heart. 

Hush  ! — ’tis  the  feeble  and  earth-loving  wind 
That  creeps  along  the  bells  of  the  crisp  heather. 

Alas ! ’t  is  cold  — I shiver  in  the  sunshine  — 

What  can  this  meani  There  is  a psalm  that  speaks 
Of  God’s  parental  mercies  — with  Idonea 
I used  to  sing  it. — Listen  — what  foot  is  there  1 

Enter  Marmaduke. 

3Iar.  {aside  — looking  at  Herbert.)  And  I have 
loved  this  man  ! and  she  hath  loved  him  ! 

And  I loved  her,  and  she  loves  the  Lord  Clifford  I 
And  there  it  ends;  — if  this  be  not  enough 
To  make  mankind  merry  for  evermore. 

Then  plain  it  is  as  day,  that  eyes  were  made 
For  a wise  purpose  — verily  to  weep  with  ! 

[Looking  round. 

A pretty  prospect  this,  a masterpiece 
Of  Nature,  finished  with  most  curious  skill ! 

(To  Herbert.)  Good  Baron,  have  you  ever  practised 
tillage  1 

Pray  tell  me  what  this  land  is  worth  by  the  acre  1 
Her.  How  glad  I am  to  hear  your  voice ! I know 
not 

Wherein  I have  offended  you  ; — last  night 
I found  in  you  the  kindest  of  protectors; 

This  morning,  when  I spoke  of  weariness. 

You  from  my  shoulder  took  my  scrip  and  threw  it 
About  your  own ; but  for  these  two  hours  past 
Once  only  have  you  spoken,  when  the  lark 
Whirred  from  among  the  fern  beneath  our  feet, 

And  I,  no  coward  in  my  better  days. 

Was  almost  terrified. 

Mar.  That ’s  excellent  I — 

I So,  you  bethought  you  of  the  many  ways 


GO 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  which  a man  may  come  to  his  end,  whose  crimes 
Have  roused  all  nature  up  ag-ainst  him  — pshaw  ! — 
Her.  For  mercy’s  sake  is  nobody  in  sight] 

No  traveller,  peasant,  herdsman  ] 

Mar.  Not  a soul : 

Here  is  a tree,  ragged,  and  bent,  and  bare. 

That  turns  its  goat’s-beard  flakes  of  pea-green  moss 
From  the  stern  breatliing  of  the  rough  sea-wind ; 

This  have  we,  but  no  other  company : 

Commend  me  to  the  place.  If  a man  should  die 
And  leave  his  body  here,  it  were  all  one 
As  he  were  twenty  fatlioms  underground. 

Her.  Where  is  our  common  friend  1 
31ur.  A ghost,  methinks  — 

The  spirit  of  a murdered  man,  for  instance  — 

Might  have  fine  room  to  ramble  about  here, 

A grand  domain  to  squeak  and  gibber  in. 

Her.  Lost  man  ! if  thou  hast  any  close-pent  guilt 
Pressing  upon  thy  heart,  and  this  tlie  hour 
Of  visitation 

Mar.  A bold  word  from  you  ! 

Her.  Restore  him.  Heaven  ! 

Mar.  The  desperate  wretch  ! — A flower. 

Fairest  of  all  flowers,  was  she  once,  but  now 
Tliey  have  snapped  her  from  the  stem — Poh  ! let  her  lie 
Bcsoiled  witli  mire,  and  let  the  houseless  snail 
Feed  on  her  leaves.  You  knew  her  well  — ay,  there. 
Old  man ! you  were  a very  lynx,  you  knew 

The  worm  was  in  her 

Her.  Mercy  ! Sir,  what  mean  you] 

Mar.  You  have  a daughter  ! 

Her.  O,  that  she  were  here ! — 

She  hath  an  eye  that  sinks  into  all  hearts. 

And  if  I have  in  aught  offended  you. 

Soon  would  her  gentle  voice  make  peace  between  us. 
Mar.  (aside.)  I do  believe  he  weeps — I could  weep 
too  — 

There  is  a vein  of  her  voice  that  runs  through  his: 
Even  such  a man  my  fancy  boded  forth 
From  the  first  moment  that  I loved  tlie  maid ; 

And  for  his  sake  I loved  her  more : these  tears  — 

I did  not  think  that  aught  was  left  in  me 
Of  what  I liave  been  — yes,  I thank  thee,  Heaven  ! 
One  happy  thought  has  passed  across  my  mind. 

— It  may  not  be  — I am  cut  off  from  man  ; 

No  more  shall  I be  man  — no  more  shall  I 
Have  human  feelings!  — (To  Herbert.)  — Now  for  a 
little  more 

About  your  daughter! 

Her.  Troops  of  armed  men. 

Met  in  the  roads,  would  bless  us ; little  children. 
Rushing  along  in  the  full  tide  of  play. 

Stood  silent  as  we  passed  them  ! I have  heard 
The  boisterous  carman,  in  tlie  miry  road. 

Check  his  loud  whip  and  hail  us  with  mild  voice. 

And  speak  with  milder  voice  to  his  poor  beasts. 

Mar.  And  whither  were  you  going] 

Learn,  young  man. 

To  fear  the  virtuous  and  reverence  misery, 


I Whether  too  much  for  patience,  or,  like  mine. 

Softened  till  it  becomes  a gift  of  mercy. 

Mar.  Now,  this  is  as  it  should  be! 
j Her.  I am  weak  ! — 

My  daughter  does  not  know  how  weak  I am ; 

And,  as  tliou  see’st,  under  the  arch  of  heaven 
Here  do  I stand,  alone,  to  helplessness. 

By  the  good  God,  our  common  Father,  doomed!  — 

But  I had  once  a spirit  and  an  arm 

Mar.  Now,  for  a word  about  your  Barony  : 

I fancy  when  you  left  the  Holy  Land, 

And  came  to — what’s  your  title — eh  ] your  claims 
Were  undisputed ! 

Her.  Like  a mendicant. 

Whom  no  one  comes  to  meet,  I stood  alone;  — 

I murmured — but,  remembering  Him  who  feeds 
The  pelican  and  ostrich  of  the  desert,  , 

From  my  own  threshold  I looked  up  to  Heaven 
And  did  not  want  glimmerings  of  quiet  hope. 

So,  from  the  court  I passed,  and  down  the  brook. 

Led  by  its  murmur,  to  the  ancient  oak 
I came;  and  when  I felt  its  cooling  shade, 

I sate  me  down,  and  cannot  but  believe  — 

While  in  my  lap  I held  my  little  babe 
And  clasped  her  to  my  heart,  my  heart  that  ached 
More  with  delight  than  grief — I heard  a voice 
Such  as  by  Cherith  on  Elijah  called ; 

It  said,  “I  will  be  with  thee.”  A little  boy, 

A shepherd-lad,  ere  yet  my  trance  was  gone. 

Hailed  us  as  if  he  had  been  sent  from  heaven. 

And  said  with  tears,  that  he  would  be  our  guide: 

I had  a better  guide  — that  innocent  babe  — 

Her,  who  hath  .saved  me,  to  this  hour,  from  harm. 

From  cold,  from  hunger,  penury,  and  death; 

To  whom  I owe  the  best  of  all  the  good 
I have,  or  wish  for,  upon  earth — and  more 
And  higher  far  than  lies  within  earth’s  bounds  : 
Therefore  I bless  her : when  I think  of  man, 

I bless  her  with  sad  spirit,  — when  of  God, 

1 bless  her  in  the  fulness  of  my  joy  ! 

Mar.  The  name  of  daughter  in  his  mouth,  he  prays ! 
With  nerves  so  steady,  that  the  very  flies 
Sit  unmolested  on  his  staff  — Innocent!  — 

If  he  were  innocent  — then  he  would  tremble 
And  be  disturbed,  as  I am.  (Turning  aside.)  I have 
read 

In  story,  what  men  now  alive  have  witnessed. 

How,  when  the  people’s  mind  was  wracked  with  doubt, 
Appeal  was  made  to  the  great  Judge:  the  accused 
With  naked  feet  walked  over  burning  ploughshares. 
Here  is  a man  by  nature’s  hand  prepared 
For  a like  trial,  but  more  merciful. 

Why  else  have  I been  led  to  this  bleak  waste] 

Bare  is  it,  without  house  or  track,  and  destitute 
Of  obvious  shelter,  as  a shipless  sea. 

Here  will  I leave  him  — here  — All-seeing  God! 

Such  as  he  is,  and  sore  perplexed  as  I am ; 

I will  commit  him  to  this  final  Ordeal!  — 

He  heard  a voice  — a shepherd-lad  came  to  him 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


61 


And  was  his  guide;  if  once,  why  not  again, 

And  in  tliis  desert]  If  never  — then  the  whole 
Of  what  he  says,  and  looks,  and  does,  and  is. 

Makes  up  one  damning  falsehood.  Leave  him  here 
To  cold  and  hunger ! — Pain  is  of  the  heart. 

And  what  are  a few  throes  of  bodily  suffering 
If  they  can  w’aken  one  pang  of  remorse  1 

[Goes  vp  to  Herbert. 
Old  man ! my  wrath  is  as  a flame  burnt  out, 

It  cannot  be  rekindled.  Thou  art  here 
Led  by  my  band  to  save  thee  from  perdition ; 

Thou  wilt  have  time  to  breathe  and  tbink 

Her.  O,  mercy ! 

Mar.  I know  the  need  that  all  men  have  of  mercy. 
And  therefore  leave  thee  to  a righteous  judgment. 

Her.  My  child,  my  blessed  child  ! 

Mar.  No  more  of  that ; 

Thou  wilt  have  many  guides  if  thou  art  innocent; 

Yea,  from  the  utmost  corners  of  the  earth. 

That  woman  will  come  o’er  this  waste  to  save  thee. 

[He  pauses  and  looks  at  Herbert’s  staffs. 
Ha ! what  is  herel  and  carved  by  her  own  hand  ! 

[Rear/s  upon  the  staff. 
“I  am  eyes  to  the  blind,  saith  the  Lord. 

He  that  puts  his  trust  in  me  shall  not  fliil !” 

Yes,  be  it  so; — ^ repent  and  be  forgiven  — 

God  and  that  staff  are  now  thy  only  guides. 

[He  leaves  Herbert  on  the  Moor. 


ScEXE,  an  eminence,  a Beacon  on  the  summit. 

Lacy,  Wallace,  Lennox,  &c.  &c. 

Several  of  the  Band,  (confusedly.)  But  patience! 
One  of  the  Band.  Curses  on  that  traitor, 

Oswald  I — 

Our  Captain  made  a prey  to  foul  device  ! — 

Len.  (to  Wal.)  His  tool,  the  wandering  beggar, 
made  last  night 

A plain  confession,  such  as  leaves  no  doubt. 

Knowing  what  otherwise  we  know  too  well. 

That  she  revealed  the  truth.  Stand  by  me  now; 

For  rather  would  I have  a nest  of  vipers 
Between  my  breast-plate  and  my  skin,  than  make 
Oswald  my  special  enemy.  If  you 
Deny  me  your  support. 

Lacy.  We  have  been  fooled  — 

But  for  the  motive? 

Wal.  Natures  such  as  his 

Spin  motives  out  of  their  own  bowels,  Lacy  ! 

1 learned  this  when  1 was  a Confessor. 

1 know  him  well ; there  needs  no  other  motive 
Than  that  most  strange  incontinence  in  crime 
Whicli  haunts  this  Oswald.  Power  is  life  to  him 
And  breath  and  being ; where  he  cannot  govern. 

He  will  destroy. 

Lacy.  To  have  been  trapped  like  moles!  — 

Ves,  you  are  right,  we  need  not  hunt  for  motives: 
There  isjio  crime  from  w'hich  this  man  would  shrink; 


He  recks  not  human  law ; and  I have  noticed 
That  often  when  the  name  of  God  is  uttered, 

A sudden  blankness  overspreads  his  face. 

Len.  Yet,  reasoner  as  he  is,  his  pride  has  built 
Some  uncouth  superstition  of  its  own. 

Wal.  I have  seen  traces  of  it. 

Len.  Once  he  headed 

A band  of  Pirates  in  the  Norway  seas ; 

And  when  the  King  of  Denmark  summoned  him 
To  the  oath  of  fealty,  I well  remember, 

’T  was  a strange  answer  that  he  made  ; he  .«aid, 

“I  hold  of  Spirits,  and  the  Sun  in  heaven.” 

Lacy.  He  is  no  madman. 

Wal.  A most  subtle  doctor 

Were  that  man,  w'ho  could  draw  the  line  that  parts 
Pride  and  her  daughter.  Cruelty,  from  Madness, 

That  should  be  scourged,  not  pitied.  Restless  minds. 
Such  minds  as  find  amid  their  fellow  men 
No  heart  that  loves  them,  none  that  they  can  love. 

Will  turn  perforce  and  seek  for  sympathy 
In  dim  relation  to  imagined  beings. 

I One  of  the  Band.  What  if  he  mean  to  offer  up  our 
Captain 

An  e.xpiation  and  a sacrifice 
To  those  infernal  fiends  ! 

Hal.  Now,  if  the  event 

Should  prove  as  Lennox  has  fbretold,  then  swear. 

My  friends,  his  heart  shall  have  as  many  wounds 
As  there  are  daggers  here. 

Lacy.  What  need  of  swearing! 

One  of  the  Band.  Let  us  away  ! 

Another.  Away ! 

A third.  Hark ! how  the  horns 
Of  those  Scotch  Rovers  echo  through  the  vale. 

Lacy.  Stay  you  behind  ; and  when  the  sun  is  down. 
Light  up  this  beacon. 

One  of  the  Band.  You  shall  be  obeyed. 

[They  go  out  together. 


Scene,  the  Wood  on  the  edge  of  the  Moor. 
Marmaduke  (alone.) 

Mar.  Deep,  deep  and  vast,  vast  beyond  human 
thought. 

Yet  calm.  — I could  believe,  that  there  was  here 
The  only  quiet  heart  on  earth.  In  terror. 

Remembered  terror,  there  is  peace  and  rest. 

Enter  Oswald. 

Osw.  Ha  ! my  dear  Captain. 

Mar.  A later  meeting,  Oswald, 

Would  have  been  better  timed. 

Osw.  Alone,  I see; 

You  have  done  your  duty.  I had  hopes,  which  now 
1 feel  that  you  will  justify. 

Mar.  I had  fears. 

Prom  which  I have  freed  myself — but  ’tis  my  wish 
To  be  alone,  and  therefore  we  must  part. 

f. 


62 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Osw.  Nay,  then — I am  mistaken.  There’s  a weak- 
ness 

About  you  still;  you  talk  of  solitude  — 

I am  your  friend. 

31ar.  What  need  of  this  assurance 

At  any  time!  and  why  given  now  1 

Osw.  Because 

You  are  now  in  truth  my  master ; you  have  taught  me 
What  there  is  not  another  living  man 
Had  strength  to  teach;  — and  therefore  gratitude 
Is  bold,  and  would  relieve  itself  by  praise. 

3Iar.  Wherefore  press  this  on  mel 
Osw.  Because  I feel 

That  you  have  shown,  and  by  a signal  instance. 

How  they  who  would  be  just  must  seek  the  rule 
By  diving  for  it  into  their  own  bosoms. 

To-day  you  have  thrown  off  a tyranny 
Tliat  lives  but  in  the  torpid  acquiescence 
Of  our  emasculated  souls,  the  tyranny 
Of  the  world’s  masters,  with  the  musty  rules 
By  which  they  uphold  their  craft  from  age  to  age : 

You  have  obeyed  the  only  law  that  sense 
Submits  to  recognise ; the  immediate  law. 

From  the  clear  light  of  circumstances,  flashed 
Upon  an  independent  intellect. 

Henceforth  new  prospects  open  on  your  path ; 

Your  faculties  should  grow  with  the  demand ; 

I still  will  be  your  friend,  will  cleave  to  you 
Through  good  and  evil,  obloquy  and  scorn, 

Oft  as  they  dare  to  follow  on  your  steps. 

Mar.  I would  be  left  alone. 

Osw.  {exultingly.)  I know  your  motives ! 

I am  not  of  the  world’s  presumptuous  judges. 

Who  damn  where  they  can  neither  see  nor  feel. 

With  a hard-hearted  ignorance;  your  struggles 
I witnessed,  and  now  hail  your  victory. 

3Iar.  Spare  me  awhile  that  greeting 
Osw.  L may  be, 

That  some  there  are,  squeamish  half-thinking  cowards. 
Who  will  turn  pale  upon  you,  call  you  murderer. 

And  you  will  walk  in  solitude  among  them. 

A mighty  evil  for  a strong-built  mind  ! — 

Join  twenty  tapers  of  unequal  height 
And  light  them  joined,  and  you  will  see  the  less 
How  ’rwill  burn  down  the  taller;  and  they  all 
Shall  prey  upon  the  tallest.  Solitude  ! — 

The  eagle  lives  in  solitude ! 

Mar.  Even  so. 

The  sparrow  so  on  the  house-top,  and  I, 

The  weakest  of  God’s  creatures,  stand  resolved 
To  abide  the  issue  of  my  act,  alone. 

Osw.  Now  would  youl  and  for  ever  1 — My  young 
friend. 

As  time  advances  either  we  become 
The  prey  or  masters  of  our  own  past  deeds. 

Fellowship  we  must  have,  willing  or  no; 

And  if  good  Angels  fail,  slack  in  their  duty. 
Substitutes,  turn  our  faces  where  we  may. 

Are  still  forthcoming ; some  which,  though  they  bear 


111  names,  can  render  no  ill  services. 

In  recompense  for  what  themselves  required. 

So  meet  extremes  in  this  mysterious  world. 

And  opposites  thus  melt  into  each  other. 

Mar.  Time,  since  man  first  drew  breath,  has  never 
I moved 

, With  such  a weight  upon  his  wings  as  now ; 

But  they  will  soon  be  lightened. 

Osw.  Ay,  look  up- 

Cast  round  your  mind’s  eye,  and  you  will  learn 
Fortitude  is  the  child  of  Enterprise  : 

Great  actions  move  our  admiration,  chiefly 
Because  they  carry  in  themselves  an  earnest 
That  we  can  suffer  greatly. 

Mar.  Very  true. 

Osw.  Action  is  transitory  — a step,  a blow. 

The  motion  of  a muscle  — this  way  or  that  — 

’T  is  done,  and  in  the  after-vacancy 
We  wonder  at  ourselves  like  men  betrayed  : 

Suffering’  is  permanent,  obscure  and  dark, 

And  shares  the  nature  of  infinity. 

Mar.  Truth  — and  I feel  it. 

What ! if  you  had  bid 
Eternal  farewell  to  unmingled  joy 
And  the  light  dancing  of  the  thoughtless  heart ; 

It  is  the  toy  of  fools,  and  little  fit 
For  such  a world  as  this.  The  wise  abjure 
All  thoughts  whose  idle  composition  lives 
In  the  entire  forgetfulness  of  pain. 

— I see  I have  disturbed  you. 

Mar.  Ey  no  means. 

Osw.  Compassion!  — pity!  — pride  can  do  without 
them ; 

And  what  if  you  should  never  know  them  more ! — 

He  is  a puny  soul  who,  feeling  pain. 

Finds  ease  because  another  feels  it  too. 

If  e’er  I open  out  this  heart  of  mine 
It  shall  be  for  a nobler  end  — to  teach 
And  not  to  purchase  puling  sympathy. 

— Nay,  you  are  pale. 

Mar.  It  may  be  so. 

Osw.  Remorse  — 

It  cannot  live  with  thought;  think  on,  think  on. 

And  it  will  die.  What ! in  this  universe. 

Where  the  least  things  control  the  greatest,  where 
The  faintest  breath  that  breathes  can  move  a world ; 
What ! feel  remorse,  where,  if  a cat  had  sneezed, 

A leaf  had  fallen,  the  thing  had  never  been 
Whose  very  shadow  gnaws  us  to  the  vitals. 

Mar.  Now,  whither  are  you  wandering  1 That  a man 
So  used  to  suit  his  language  to  the  time. 

Should  thus  so  widely  differ  from  himself— 

It  is  most  strange. 

Osjo.  Murder  — what’s  in  the  word ! — 

I have  no  cases  by  me  ready  made 
I To  fit  all  deeds.  Carry  him  to  the  camp  ! — 

I A shallow  project;  — you  of  late  have  seen 
More  deeply,  taught  us  that  the  institutes 
I Of  nature,  by  a cunning  usurpation 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


63 


Banished  from  human  intercour.se,  exist 

Only  in  our  relations  to  the  brutes 

That  make  the  fields  their  dwelling.  If  a snake 

Crawl  from  beneath  our  feet  we  do  not  ask 

A license  to  destroy  him  : our  good  governors 

Hedge  in  the  life  of  every  pest  and  plague 

That  bears  the  shape  of  man;  and  for  what  purpose, 

But  to  protect  themselves  from  extirpation  1 — 

3'his  flimsy  barrier  you  have  overleaped. 

Mar.  My  office  is  fulfilled  — the  man  is  now 
Delivered  to  the  Judge  of  all  things. 

Osw.  Dead ! 

Mar.  I have  borne  my  burthen  to  its  destined  end. 
Osw.  This  instant  we’ll  return  to  our  companions  — 
O,  how  I long  to  see  their  faces  again  ! 

Enter  Idonea,  with  Pilgrims  who  continue  their 
journey. 

Idon.  {after  some  time.)  What,  Marmaduke!  now 
thou  art  mine  for  ever. 

And  Oswald,  too!  (To  Marmaduke.)  On  will  we  to 
my  father 

With  the  glad  tidings  which  this  day  hath  brought; 
We’ll  go  together,  and  such  proof  received 
Of  his  own  rights  restored,  his  gratitude 
To  God  above  will  make  him  feel  for  ours. 

Osw.  I interrupt  you 

Idon.  Think  not  so. 

Mar.  Idonea, 

That  I should  ever  live  to  see  this  moment ! 

Idon.  Forgive  me. — Oswald  knows  it  all — he  knows 
Each  word  of  that  unhapjjy  letter  fell 
As  a blood  drop  from  my  heart. 

Osw.  ’T  was  even  so. 

Mar.  I have  much  to  say,  but  for  whose  ear?  — not 
thine. 

Idon.  Ill  can  I bear  that  look — Plead  for  me,  Oswald  ! 
You  are  my  father’s  friend. 

{To  Marmaduke.)  Alas,  you  know  not. 

And  never  can  you  know,  how  much  he  loved  me. 
Twice  had  he  been  to  me  a father,  twice 
Had  given  me  breath,  and  was  I not  to  be 
His  daughter,  once  his  daughter?  could  I withstand 
His  pleading  face,  and  feel  his  clasping  arms. 

And  hear  his  prayer  that  I would  not  forsake  him 

In  his  old  age [Hides  her  face. 

Mar.  Patience  — Heaven  grant  me  patience ! — 
She  weeps,  she  weeps  — my  brain  shall  burn  for 
hours 

Ere  J can  shed  a tear. 

Idon.  I was  a woman ; 

And,  balancing  the  hopes  that  are  the  dearest 
To  womankind  with  duty  to  my  father, 

I yielded  up  those  precious  hopes,  which  nought 
On  earth  could  else  have  wrested  from  me; — if  erring, 
O,  let  me  be  forgiven ! 

Mar.  I do  forgive  thee. 

Idon.  But  take  me  to  your  arms  — this  breast,  alas! 
It  throbs,  and  you  liave  a heart  that  does  not  feel  it. 


I Mar.  {exultingly.)  She  is  innocent. 

[7/e  embraces  her. 
Osw.  {aside.)  Were  I a moralist, 

I I should  make  wondrous  revolution  here  ; 

It  were  a quaint  experiment  to  show 

The  beauty  of  truth — [Addressing  them- 

I see  I interrupt  you  ; 

I shall  have  business  with  you,  Marmaduke; 

Follow  me  to  the  hostel.  [Exit  Oswald. 

Idon.  Marmaduke, 

This  is  a happy  day.  My  father  soon 
Shall  sun  himself  before  his  native  doors; 

The  lame,  the  hungry,  will  be  welcome  there. 

No  more  shall  he  complain  of  wasted  strength. 

Of  thoughts  that  fail,  and  a decaying  heart; 

His  good  works  will  be  balm  and  life  to  him. 

Mar.  This  is  most  strange ! — I know  not  what  it  was. 
But  there  was  something  w'hich  most  plainly  said. 

That  thou  wert  innocent. 

Idon.  How  innocent!  — 

O,  heavens!  you’ve  been  deceived. 

Mar.  Thou  art  a woman. 

To  bring  perdition  on  the  universe. 

Idon.  Already  I ’ve  been  punished  to  the  height 
Of  my  offence.  [Smiling  affectionately. 

I see  you  love  me  still. 

The  labours  of  my  hand  are  still  your  joy; 

Bethink  you  of  the  hour  when  on  your  shoulder 
I hung  this  belt. 

[Pointing  to  the  belt  on  which  was  suspended 
Herbert's  scrip. 

Mar.  Mercy  of  Heaven ! [S/nA.s. 

Idon.  What  ails  you  ! [Distractedly. 

Mar.  The  scrip  that  held  liis  food,  and  I forgot 
To  give  it  back  again  ! 

Idon.  What  mean  your  words? 

Mar.  I know  not  what  I said  — all  may  be  well. 
Idon.  That  smile  liath  life  in  it ! 

Alar.  This  road  is  perilous ; 

I will  attend  you  to  a hut  that  stands 
Near  the  wood’s  edge — rest  there  to-night,  I pray  you  : 
For  me,  I liave  business,  as  you  heard,  with  Oswald, 

1 But  will  return  to  you  by  break  of  day.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  IV. 

Scene,  A desolate  prospect  — a ridge  of  rocks  — a 
Chapel  on  the  summit  of  one — Afoon  behind  the 
rocks  — night  stormy  — irregular  sound  of  a bell  — 
Herbert  enters  exhausted. 

Her.  That  chapel-bell  in  mercy  seemed  to  guide  mo, 
But  now  it  mocks  my  steps : its  fitful  stroke 
Can  scarcely  be  the  work  of  human  hands. 

Hear  me,  ye  men,  upon  the  cliffs,  if  such 
There  be  who  pray  nightly  before  the  Altar. 

O,  that  I had  but  strength  to  reach  the  place ! 

My  child — my  child — dark — dark — I faint — this  wind— 
These  stifling  blasts  — God  help  me ! 


64 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Enter  Eldred. 

Eld.  Better  this  bare  rock, 

Though  it  were  tottering  over  a man’s  head, 

Than  a tiglit  case  of  dungeon  walls  for  shelter 
From  such  rough  dealing. 

[A  moaning  voice  is  heard. 
Ha  ! what  sound  is  thatl 
Trees  creaking  in  the  wind  (but  none  are  here) 

Send  forth  such  noises  — and  that  weary  bell ! 

Surely  some  evil  spirit  abroad  to-niglit 
Is  ringing  it  — ’t  would  stop  a saint  in  prayer. 

And  that  — what  is  itl  never  was  sound  so  like 
A human  groan.  Ila!  what  is  here]  Poor  man  — 
Murdered!  alas!  speak  — speak,  I am  your  friend: 

No  answer  — husli  — lost  wretch,  he  lifts  his  hand 
And  lays  it  to  his  heart  — (A'aec/s  to  him.)  I pray  you 
speak ! 

What  has  befallen  you] 

Her.  {feebly.)  A stranger  has  done  this, 

And  in  the  arms  of  a stranger  1 must  die. 

Eld.  Nay,  think  not  so:  come,  let  me  raise  you  up: 
[Aaises  him. 

This  is  a dismal  place  — well  — that  is  well  — 

I was  too  fearful  — take  me  for  your  guide 
And  your  support  — my  hut  is  not  far  off. 

{Draws  him  gently  off  the  stage. 


Scene,  a room  in  the  7/ostei— Marmaduke  and 
Oswald. 

Mar.  But  for  Idonea ! — I have  cause  to  think 
That  she  is  innocent. 

Osy,.  Leave  that  thought  awhile. 

As  one  of  those  beliefs  whicli  in  their  hearts 
Lovers  lock  up  as  pearls,  though  oft  no  better 
Than  feathers  clinging  to  tlieir  points  of  passion. 
This  day’s  event  has  laid  on  me  the  duty 
Of  opening  out  my  story  ; you  must  hear  it. 

And  without  further  preface.  — In  my  youth, 

Except  for  that  abatement  wliich  is  paid 
By  envy  as  a tribute  to  desert, 

I was  the  pleasure  of  all  hearts,  the  darling 
Of  every  tongue  — as  you  are  now.  You’ve  heard 
That  I embarked  for  Syria.  On  our  voyage 
Was  hatched  among  the  crew  a foul  conspiracy 
Against  my  honour,  in  the  which  our  captain 
VVas,  I believed,  prime  agent.  The  wind  fell; 

We  lay  becalmed  week  after  week,  until 
The  water  of  the  vessel  was  exhausted  ; 

I felt  a double  fever  in  my  veins. 

Yet  rage  suppressed  itself;  — to  a deep  stillness 
Did  my  pride  tame  my  pride; — for  many  days. 

On  a dead  sea  under  a burning  sky, 

I brooded  o’er  my  injuries,  deserted 

By  man  and  nature;  — if  a breeze  had  blown. 

It  might  have  found  its  way  into  my  heart. 

And  I had  been  — no  matter  — do  you  mark  me] 


Mar.  Quick  — to  the  point  — if  any  untold  crime 
Doth  haunt  your  memory. 

Osw.  Patience,  hear  me  further!  — 

One  day  in  silence  did  we  drift  at  noon 
By  a bare  rock,  narrow,  and  white,  and  bare; 

No  food  was  there,  no  drink,  no  grass,  no  shade, 

No  tree,  nor  jutting  eminence,  nor  form 
Inanimate  large  as  the  body  of  man. 

Nor  any  living  thing  whose  lot  of  life 
Miglit  stretch  beyond  the  measure  of  one  moon. 

To  dig  for  water  on  the  spot,  the  captain 
Landed  with  a small  troop,  myself  being  one: 

There  I reproached  him  with  his  treachery. 

Imperious  at  all  limes,  his  temper  rose; 

lie  struck  me;  and  that  instant  had  I killed  him. 

And  put  an  end  to  his  insolence,  but  my  comrades 
Rushed  in  between  us;  then  did  I insist  ' 

(.All  hated  him,  and  I was  stung  to  madness) 

That  we  should  leave  him  there,  alive  ! — we  did  so. 
Mar.  And  he  was  famished  ] 

Osw.  Naked  was  the  spot; 

Methinks  I see  it  now  — how  in  the  sun 
Its  stony  surface  glittered  like  a shield  ; 

And  in  that  miserable  place  we  left  him. 

Alone  but  for  a swarm  of  minute  creatures 
Not  one  of  which  could  help  him  while  alive. 

Or  mourn  him  dead. 

Mar.  A man  by  men  cast  off. 

Left  without  burial ! nay,  not  dead  nor  dying. 

But  standing,  walking,  stretching  forth  his  arms. 

In  all  things  like  ourselves,  but  in  the  agony 
With  which  he  called  for  mercy;  and  — even  so  — 

He  was  forsaken] 

Ostc.  There  is  a power  in  sounds : 

The  cries  he  uttered  might  have  stopped  the  boat 

That  bore  us  through  the  water 

][jfir.  You  returned 

Upon  that  dismal  hearing  — did  you  not] 

Osw.  Some  scoffed  at  him  with  hellish  mockery. 

And  laughed  so  loud  it  seemed  that  the  smooth  sea 
Did  from  some  distant  region  echo  us. 

Mar.  We  all  are  of  one  blood,  our  veins  are  filled 
At  the  same  poisonous  fountain  ! 

0.1W.  ’T  was  an  island 

Only  by  sufferance  of  the  winds  and  waves. 

Which  with  their  foam  could  cover  it  at  will. 

I know  not  how  he  perished;  but  the  calm. 

The  same  dead  calm  continued  many  days. 

Mar.  But  his  own  crime  had  brought  on  him  this 
doom. 

His  wickedness  prepared  it;  these  expedients 
Are  terrible,  yet  ours  is  not  the  fault. 

Osw.  The  man  was  famished,  and  was  innocent ! 
Mar.  Impossible! 

Osw.  The  man  had  never  wronged  me. 

Mar.  Banish  the  tliought,  crush  it,  and  be  at  peace. 
His  guilt  was  marked  — these  things  could  never  be 
Were  there  not  eyes  that  see,  and  for  good  ends, 
Where  ours  are  ba filed. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


65 


Osw.  I had  been  deceived. 

Mar.  And  from  that  hour  the  miserable  man 
No  more  was  heard  ofl 

Osw.  I had  been  betrayed. 

Mar.  And  he  found  no  deliverance! 

Osw.  The  crew 

Gave  me  a hearty  welcome ; they  had  laid 
The  plot  to  rid  themselves,  at  any  cost, 

Of  a tyrannic  master  whom  they  loathed. 

So  we  pursued  our  voyage : when  we  landed. 

The  tale  was  spread  abroad  ; my  power  at  once 
Shrunk  from  me ; plans  and  schemes,  and  lofty  hopes — 
All  vanished.  I gave  way  — do  you  attend! 

31ar.  The  crew  deceived  you ! 

Osw.  Nay,  command  yourself. 

Mar.  It  is  a dismal  night  — how  the  wind  howls! 

Osw.  I hid  my  head  within  a convent,  there 
Lay  passive  as  a dormouse  in  mid  winter. 

That  was  no  life  for  me  — I was  o’erthrown. 

But  not  destroyed. 

Mar.  The  proofs  — you  ought  to  have  seen 

The  guilt  — have  touched  it  — felt  it  at  your  heart  — 
As  I have  done. 

Osw.  A fresh  tide  of  crusaders 

Drove  by  the  place  of  my  retreat : three  nights 
Did  constant  meditation  dry  my  blood; 

Three  sleepless  nights  I passed  in  sounding  on. 
Through  words  and  tilings,  a dim  and  perilous  way; 
And  wheresoe’er  I turned  me,  I beheld 
A slavery  compared  to  which  the  dungeon 
And  clanking  chains  are  perfect  liberty. 

You  understand  me  — I was  comforted; 

I saw  that  every  possible  shape  of  action 
Might  lead  to  good  — I saw  it  and  burst  forth 
Thirsting  for  some  of  those  exploits  that  fill 
The  earth  for  sure  redemption  of  lost  peace. 

[Marking  Marmadxjke’s  countenance. 
Nay,  you  have  had  the  worst.  Ferocity 
Subsided  in  a moment,  like  a wind 
That  drops  down  dead  out  of  a sky  it  vexed. 

And  yet  I had  within  me  evermore 
A salient  spring  of  energy ; I mounted 
From  action  up  to  action  with  a mind 
That  never  rested  — without  meat  or  drink 
Have  I lived  many  days  — my  sleep  was  bound 
To  purposes  of  reason  — not  a dream 
But  had  a continuity  and  substance 
That  waking  life  had  never  power  to  give. 

Mar.  O wretched  human-kind ! — Until  the  mystery 
Of  all  this  world  is  solved,  well  may  we  envy 
The  worm,  that,  underneath  a stone  whose  weight 
Would  crush  the  lion’s  paw  with  mortal  anguish. 

Doth  lodge,  and  feed,  and  coil,  and  sleep,  in  safety. 

Fell  not  the  wrath  of  Heaven  upon  those  traitors] 

Osw.  Give  not  to  them  a thought.  From  Palestine 
We  marched  to  Syria:  oft  I left  the  camp. 

When  all  that  multitude  of  hearts  was  still. 

And  followed  on,  through  woods  of  gloomy  cedar, 

Into  deep  chasms  troubled  by  roaring  streams ; 

I 


Or  from  the  top  of  Lebanon  surveyed 

The  moonlight  desert,  and  the  moonlight  sea: 

In  these,  my  lonely  wanderings,  I perceived 
What  mighty  objects  do  impress  their  forms 
To  elevate  our  intellectual  being ; 

And  felt,  if  aught  on  earth  deserves  a curse, 

’Tis  that  worst  principle  of  ill  which  dooms 
A thing  so  great  to  perish  self-consumed. 

— So  much  for  my  remorse ! 

Mar.  Unhappy  man ! 

Osw.  When  from  these  forms  I turned  to  contem- 
plate 

The  world’s  opinions  and  her  usages, 

I seemed  a being  who  had  passed  alone 
Into  a region  of  futurity. 

Whose  natural  element  was  freedom 

Mar.  Stop  — 

I may  not,  cannot,  follow  thee. 

Osw.  You  must. 

I have  been  nourished  by  the  sickly  food 
' Of  popular  applause.  I now  perceived 
That  we  are  praised,  only  as  men  in  us 
Do  recognise  some  image  of  themselves, 

An  abject  counterpart  of  what  they  are, 

Or  the  empty  thing  tliat  they  would  wish  to  be. 

I felt  that  merit  has  no  surer  test 

Than  obloquy ; that,  if  we  wish  to  serve 

The  world  in  substance,  not  deceive  by  show. 

We  must  become  obnoxious  to  its  hate. 

Or  fear  disguised  in  simulated  scorn. 

Mar.  I pity,  can  forgive,  you ; but  those  wretches— 
That  monstrous  perfidy ! 

Osw.  Keep  down  your  wrath. 

False  Shame  discarded,  spurious  Fame  despised. 

Twin  sisters  both  of  Ignorance,  I found 
Life  stretched  before  me  smooth  as  some  broad  way 
Cleared  for  a monarch’s  progress.  Priests  might  spin 
Their  veil,  but  not  for  me  — ’t  was  in  fit  place 
Among  its  kindred  cobwebs.  I had  been. 

And  in  that  dream  had  left  my  native  land. 

One  of  Love’s  simple  bondsmen  — the  soft  chain 
Was  oft’  for  ever ; and  the  men,  from  whom 
This  liberation  came,  you  would  destroy : 

Join  me  in  thanks  for  their  blind  services. 

Mar.  ’T  is  a strange  aching  that,  when  we  would 
curse 

And  cannot,  — You  have  betrayed  me  — I have  done  — 
I am  content  — I know  that  lie  is  guiltless  — 

That  both  are  guiltless,  without  spot  or  stain, 

I Mutually  consecrated.  Poor  old  man  ! 

[ And  I had  heart  for  this,  because  thou  lovedst 
Her  who  from  very  infancy  had  been 
Light  to  thy  path,  warmth  to  thy  blood  ! — Together 

[Turning  to  Oswald. 
We  propped  his  steps,  he  leaned  upon  us  both. 

Osw.  Ay,  we  are  coupled  by  a chain  of  adamant; 
j Let  us  be  fellow-labourers,  then,  to  enlarge 
I Man’s  intellectual  empire.  We  subsist 
I In  slavery ; all  is  slavery  ; we  receive 
6» 


66 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Laws,  but  we  ask  not  whence  those  laws  have  come ; 
We  need  an  inward  sting  to  goad  us  on. 

Mar.  Have  you  betrayed  me  1 Speak  to  that. 

Osw.  The  mask, 

Which  for  a season  I have  stooped  to  wear, 

Must  be  cast  off.  — Know  then  that  I was  urged, 

(For  other  impulse  let  it  pass)  was  driven 
To  seek  for  sympathy,  because  I saw 
In  you  a mirror  of  my  youthful  self; 

I would  have  made  us  equal  once  again. 

But  that  was  a vain  hope.  You  have  struck  home, 
With  a few  drops  of  blood  cut  short  the  business; 
Therein  for  ever  you  must  yield  to  me. 

But  what  is  done  will  save  you  from  the  blank 
Of  living  without  knowledge  that  you  live  : 

Now  you  are  suffering  — for  the  future  day, 

’Tis  his  who  will  command  it  — Think  of  my  story  — 
Herbert  is  innocent. 

Mar.  (^in  a faint  voice,  and  douhlinghj.)  You  do 
but  echo 

My  own  wild  words? 

Osw.  Young  man,  the  seed  must  lie 

Hid  in  the  earth,  or  there  can  be  no  harvest ; 

’T  is  nature’s  law.  What  I have  done  in  darkness 
I will  avow  before  the  face  of  day. 

Herbert  is  innocent. 

Mar.  What  fiend  could  prompt 

This  action  ? Innocent ! — O,  breaking  heart ! — 

Alive  or  dead.  I’ll  find  him.  [Exit. 

Osw.  Alive  — perdition!  [Exit. 


Scene,  the  inside  of  a poor  Cottage. 

Eleanor  and  Idonea  seated. 

Idon.  The  storm  beats  hard— Mercy  for  poor  or  rich. 
Whose  heads  are  shelterless  in  such  a night ! 

A Voice  without.  Holla!  to  bed,  good  folks,  within! 
Elea.  O save  us ! 

Idon.  What  can  this  mean? 

Elea.  Alas,  for  my  poor  husband  ! — 

We  ’ll  have  a counting  of  our  flocks  to-morrow ; 

The  wolf  keeps  festival  these  stormy  nights : 

Be  calm,  sweet  lady,  they  are  wassailers 

[ The  voices  die  away  in  the  distance. 
Returning  from  their  feast  — my  heart  beats  so  — 

A noise  at  midnight  does  so  frighten  me. 

Idon.  Hush!  [Listening. 

Elea.  They  are  gone.  On  such  a night,  my 

husband. 

Dragged  from  his  bed,  was  cast  into  a dungeon, 

Where,  hid  from  me,  he  counted  many  years, 

A criminal  in  no  one’s  eyes  but  theirs — 

Not  even  in  theirs  — whose  brutal  violence 
So  dealt  with  him. 

Idon.  I have  a noble  friend 

First  among  youths  of  knightly  breeding,  one 
Who  lives  but  to  protect  the  weak  or  injured. 

There  again ! [Listening. 


Elea.  ’T  is  my  husband’s  foot.  Good  Eldred 

Has  a kind  heart;  but  his  imprisonment 
Has  made  him  fearful,  and  he’ll  never  be 
The  man  he  was. 

Idon.  I will  retire ; — good  night ! 

[S/te  goes  within. 

Enter  Eldred,  (hides  a bundle.') 

Eld.  Not  yet  in  bed,  Eleanor!  — there  are  stains  in 
that  frock  which  must  be  washed  out. 

Elea.  What  has  befallen  you  ? 

Eld.  I am  belated,  and  you  must  know  the  cause  — 
(speaking  low)  that  is  the  blood  of  an  unhappy  man. 
Elea.  Oh ! we  are  undone  for  ever. 

Eld.  Heaven  forbid  that  I should  lift  my  hand  against 
any  man.  Eleanor,  I have  shed  tears  to-night,  and  it 
comforts  me  to  think  of  it.  , 

Elea.  Where,  where  is  he? 

Eld.  I have  done  him  no  harm,  but it  will  be 

forgiven  me ; it  would  not  have  been  so  once. 

Elea.  You  have  not  buried  any  thing?  You  are  no 
richer  than  when  you  left  me  ? 

Eld.  Be  at  peace ; I am  innocent. 

Elea.  Then  God  be  thanked  — 

[A  short  pause;  she  falls  upon  his  neck. 
Eld.  To-night  I met  with  an  old  man  lying  stretched 
upon  the  ground — a sad  spectacle : I raised  him  up  with 
a hope  that  we  might  shelter  and  restore  him. 

Elea,  (as  if  ready  to  run.)  Where  is  he?  You  were 
not  able  to  bring  him  all  the  way  with  you  ; let  us  re- 
turn, I can  help  you.  [Eldred  shakes  his  head. 

Eld.  He  did  not  seem  to  wish  for  life:  as  I was 
struggling  on,  by  the  light  of  the  moon  I saw  the  stains 
of  blood  upon  my  clothes  — he  waved  his  hand  as  if  it 
were  all  useless:  and  I let  him  sink  again  to  the  ground 
Elea.  O,  that  I had  been  by  your  side ! 

Eld.  I tell  you  his  hands  and  his  body  were  cold  — 
how  could  I disturb  his  last  moments?  he  strove  to  turn 
from  me  as  if  he  wished  to  settle  jnto  sleep. 

Elea.  But,  for  the  stains  of  blood - 
Eld.  He  must  have  fallen,  I fancy,  for  his  head  was 
cut;  but  I think  his  malady  was  cold  and  hunger. 

Elea.  O,  Eldred,  I shall  never  be  able  to  look  up  at 
this  roof  in  storm  or  fair  but  I shall  tremble. 

Eld.  Is  it  not  enough  that  my  ill  stars  have  kept  me 
abroad  to-night  till  this  hour?  I come  home,  and  this  is 
my  comfort ! 

Elea.  But  did  he  say  nothing  which  might  have  set 
you  at  ease  ? 

Eld.  I thought  he  grasped  my  hand  while  he  was 
muttering  something  about  his  child  — his  daughter  — 
(starting  as  if  he  heard  a noise.)  What  is  that  ? 
Elea.  Eldred,  you  are  a father. 

Eld.  God  knows  what  was  in  my  heart,  and  will  not 
curse  my  son  for  my  sake. 

Elea.  But  you  prayed  by  him  ? you  waited  the  hour 
of  his  release  ? 

Eld.  The  night  was  wasting  fast ; I have  no  friend ; 
I am  spited  by  the  world— his  wound  terrified  me— if  I 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


67 


had  brought  him  along  with  me,  and  he  had  died  in  my 

arms! 1 am  sure  I heard  something  breathing  — 

and  this  chair ! 

Elea.  O,  Eldred,  you  will  die  alone.  You  will  have 
nobody  to  close  your  eyes — no  hand  to  grasp  your  dying 
hand  — I shall  be  in  my  grave.  A curse  will  attend 
us  all. 

Eld.  Have  you  forgot  your  own  troubles  when  I was 
in  the  dungeon  1 

Elea.  And  you  left  him  alive  1 

Eld.  Alive  ! — the  damps  of  death  were  upon  him  — 
he  could  not  have  survived  an  hour. 

Elea.  In  the  cold,  cold  night. 

Eld.  {in  a savage  tone.)  Ay,  and  his  head  was  bare ; 
I suppose  you  would  have  had  me  lend  my  bonnet  to 
cover  it.  — You  will  never  rest  till  I am  brought  to  a 
felon’s  end. 

Elea.  Is  there  nothing  to  be  done?  cannot  we  go  to 
the  Convent? 

Eld.  Ay,  and  say  at  once  that  I murdered  him  ? 

Elea.  Eldred,  I know  that  ours  is  the  only  house  upon 
the  waste ; let  us  take  heart ; this  man  may  be  rich ; 
and  could  he  be  saved  by  our  means,  his  gratitude  may 
reward  us. 

Eld.  ’T  is  all  in  vain. 

Elea.  But  let  us  make  the  attempt.  This  old  man 
may  have  a wife,  and  he  may  have  children — let  us  re- 
turn to  the  spot;  we  may  restore  him,  and  his  eyes  may 
yet  open  upon  those  that  love  him. 

Eld.  He  will  never  open  them  more ; even  when  he 
spoke  to  me,  he  kept  them  firmly  sealed  as  if  he  had 
been  blind. 

Idnn.  {rushing  out.)  It  is,  it  is  rny  father  — 

Eld.  VVe  are  betrayed,  {looking  at  Idonea.) 

Elea.  His  daughter ! — God  have  mercy  I {turning  to 
Ido.vea.) 

Jdon.  {sinking  down.)  Oh  ! lift  me  up  and  carry  me 
to  the  place. 

You  arc  safe;  the  whole  world  shall  not  harm  you. 

Elea.  This  lady  is  his  daughter. 

Eld.  {moved.)  I ’ll  lead  you  to  the  spot. 

Idon.  {springing  up.)  Alive!  — you  heard  him 
breathe?  quick,  quick — [Exeunt. 


ACT  V. 

Scene,  A wood  on  the  edge  of  the  Waste. 
Enter  Oswald  and  a Forester. 

For.  He  leaned  upon  the  bridge  that  spans  the  glen. 
And  down  into  the  bottom  cast  his  eye. 

That  fastened  there,  as  it  would  check  the  current. 
Osw.  He  listened  too;  did  you  not  say  he  listened? 
For.  As  if  there  came  such  moaning  from  the  flood 
As  is  heard  often  after  stormy  nights. 

Osw.  But  did  he  utter  nothing? 

For.  See  him  there ! 


Marmaduke  appearing. 

Mar.  Buzz,  buzz,  ye  black  and  winged  freebooters: 
That  is  no  substance  which  ye  settle  on  ! 

For.  His  senses  play  him  false;  and  see,  his  arms 
Outspread,  as  if  to  save  hitnself  from  falling  ! — 

Some  terrible  phantom  1 believe  is  now 
Passing  before  him,  such  as  God  will  not 
Permit  to  visit  any  but  a man 
VVho  has  been  guilty  of  some  horrid  crime. 

[Marmaduke  disappears. 

Osw.  The  game  is  up ! — 

For.  If  it  be  needful.  Sir, 

I will  assist  you  to  lay  hands  upon  him. 

Osw.  No,  no,  my  friend,  you  may  pursue  your  busi- 
ness— 

1 ’T  is  a poor  wretch  of  an  unsettled  mind, 
i Who  has  a trick  of  straying  from  his  keepers ; 

We  must  be  gentle:  leave  him  to  my  care. 

[Exit  Forester. 

If  his  own  eyes  play  false  with  him,  these  freaks 
Of  fancy  shall  be  quickly  tamed  by  mine; 

The  goal  is  reached.  My  master  shall  become 
A shadow  of  myself — made  by  myself. 


Scene,  the  edge  of  the  Moor. 

I Marmaduke  and  Eldred  enter  from  opposite  sides. 
Mar.  {raising  his  eyes  and  perceiving  Eldred.)  In 
any  corner  of  this  savage  waste. 

Have  you,  good  peasant,  seen  a blind  old  man  ? 

Eld.  I heard 

Mar.  You  heard  him,  where?  when  heard 

him  ? 

Eld.  As  you  know. 

The  first  hours  of  last  night  were  rough  with  storm: 

I had  been  out  in  search  of  a stray  heifer ; 

I Returning  late,  I heard  a moaning  sound  ; 

Then,  thinking  that  my  fancy  had  deceived  me, 
j I hurried  on,  when  straight  a second  moan, 

A human  voice  distinct,  struck  on  my  ear. 

So  guided,  distant  a few  steps,  I found 
An  aged  man,  and  such  as  you  describe. 

Mar.  You  heard!  — he  called  you  to  him?  Of  all 
men 

j The  best  and  kindest ! — but  where  is  he  ? guide  me, 
That  I may  see  him. 

Eld.  On  a ridge  of  rocks 

A lonesome  chapel  stands,  deserted  now: 

I The  bell  is  left,  which  no  one  dares  remove; 

And,  when  the  stormy  wind  blows  o'er  the  peak. 

It  rings,  as  if  a human  hand  were  there 

To  pull  the  cord.  I guess  he  must  have  heard  it; 

And  it  had  led  him  towards  the  precipice. 

To  climb  up  to  the  spot  whence  the  sound  came; 

But  he  had  failed  through  weakness.  From  his  hand 
His  staff  had  dropped,  and  close  upon  the  brink 
Of  a small  pool  of  water  he  was  laid, 


68 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


As  if  he  had  stooped  to  drink,  and  so  remained 
Without  the  strength  to  rise. 

Mar.  Well,  well,  he  lives, 

And  all  is  safe:  what  said  he] 

Eld.  But  few  words: 

He  only  spake  to  me  of  a dear  daughter. 

Who,  so  he  feared,  would  never  see  him  more; 

And  of  a stranger  to  him,  one  by  whom 
He  had  been  sore  misused ; but  he  forgave 
The  wrong  and  the  wrong-doer.  You  are  troubled  — 
Perhaps  you  are  his  son  1 

Mar,  Tlie  All-seeing  knows, 

I did  not  think  he  had  a living  child. — 

But  whither  did  you  carry  him] 

Eld.  He  was  torn, 

Ilis  head  was  bruised,  and  there  was  blood  about 
him 

Mar.  That  was  no  work  of  mine. 

Eld.  Nor  was  it  mine. 

Mar.  But  had  he  strength  to  walk  1 I could  have 
borne  him 
A thousand  miles. 

Eld.  I am  in  poverty. 

And  know  how  busy  are  the  tongues  of  men ; 

IMy  heart  was  willing.  Sir,  but  I am  one 

Whose  good  deeds  will  not  stand  by  their  own  light; 

And,  though  it  smote  me  more  than  words  can  tell, 

I left  him. 

Mar.  I believe  that  there  are  phantoms. 

That  in  the  shape  of  man  do  cross  our  path 

On  evil  instigation,  to  make  sport 

Of  our  distress  — and  thou  art  one  of  them! 

But  things  substantial  have  so  pressed  on  me 

Eld.  My  wife  and  children  came  into  my  mind. 

Mar.  O,  monster ! monster ! there  are  three  of  us. 
And  we  shall  howl  together. 

After  a pause,  and  in  a feeble  voice. 

I am  deserted 

At  my  worst  need,  my  crimes  have  in  a net 
{Poinlinsr  to  Eldued.)  Entangled  this  poor  man. — 
Where  was  it  1 where  ? \Bragging  him  along. 

Eld.  ’T  is  needless;  spare  your  violence.  His 
daughter 

Mar.  Ay,  in  the  word  a thousand  scorpions  lodge : 
This  old  man  had  a daughter. 

Eld.  To  the  spot 

I hurried  back  with  her. — O save  me,  Sir, 

From  such  a journey  ! there  was  a black  tree, 

A single  tree ; she  thought  it  was  her  father. — 

O,  Sir,  I would  not  see  that  hour  again 

For  twenty  lives.  The  daylight  dawned,  and  now  — 

Nay;  hear  my  tale,  ’tis  fit  that  you  should  hear  it — 

As  we  approached,  a solitary  crow 

Rose  from  the  spot ; — the  daughter  clapped  her  hands. 

And  then  I heard  a shriek  so  terrible 

[Marmaduke  shrinks  back. 
The  startled  bird  quivered  upon  the  wing. 

Mar.  Dead,  dead  ! — 

Eld.  (after  a pause.)  A dismal  matter.  Sir,  for  me, ! 


And  seems  the  like  for  you : if ’t  is  your  wish, 

I ’ll  lead  you  to  his  daughter ; but ’t  were  best 
That  she  should  be  prepared  ; I ’ll  go  before. 

3/«r,  There  will  be  need  of  preparation. 

[Eldred  goes  off. 

Elea,  (enters.)  Master! 

Your  limbs  sink  under  you,  shall  I support  you  1 

Mar.  (taking  her  arm.)  Woman,  I’ve  lent  my  body 
to  the  service 

Which  now  thou  takest  upon  thee.  God  forbid 
That  thou  shouldst  ever  meet  a like  occasion 
With  such  a purpose  in  thine  heart  as  mine  was. 

Elea.  O,  why  have  I to  do  with  things  like  these? 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  changes  to  the  door  oy  Eldred’s  cottage  — 
Idonea  seated  — enter  Eldred. 

Eld.  Your  father,  lady,  from  a wilful  hand 
Has  met  unkindness;  so  indeed  he  told  me. 

And  you  remember  such  was  my  report : 

From  what  has  just  befallen  me  I have  cause 
To  fear  the  very  worst. 

Idon.  My  father  is  dead  ; 

Why  dost  thou  come  to  me  witli  words  like  these  ? 

Eld.  A wicked  man  should  answer  for  his  crimes. 
Idim.  Thou  seest  me  what  I am. 

Eld.  It  was  most  heinous. 

And  doth  call  out  for  vengeance. 

Idon.  Do  not  add, 

I prithee,  to  the  harm  thou’st  done  already. 

Eld.  Hereafter  you  will  thank  me  for  this  service. 
Hard  by,  a man  I met,  who,  from  plain  proofs 
Of  interfering  Heaven,  I have  no  doubt. 

Laid  hands  upon  your  father.  Fit  it  were 
You  should  prepare  to  meet  him. 

Idon.  I have  nothing 

To  do  with  others;  help  me  to  my  father  — 

[She  turns  and  .sees  Marmaduke  leaning  on 
Eleanor  — throws  herself  upon  his  neck, 
and  after  .some  lime, 

In  joy  I met  thee,  but  a few  hours  past; 

And  thus  we  meet  again ; one  human  stay 
Is  left  me  still  in  thee.  Nay,  shake  not  so. 

Mar.  In  such  a wilderness — to  see  no  thing. 

No,  not  the  pitying  moon  ! 

Idon.  And  perish  so. 

Mar.  Without  a dog  to  moan  for  him. 

Idon.  Think  not  of  it. 

But  enter  there  and  see  him  how  he  sleeps. 

Tranquil  as  he  had  died  in  his  own  bed. 

Mar.  Tranquil  — why  not? 

Idon.  O,  peace ! 

Mar.  He  is  at  peace; 

His  body  is  at  rest ; there  was  a plot, 

A hideous  plot,  against  the  soul  of  man : 

It  took  effect  — and  yet  I baffled  it. 

In  .some  degree. 

Idon.  Between  us  stood,  I thought. 


POEMS  WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


69 


A cup  of  consolation,  filled  from  Heaven 

For  both  our  needs ; must  I,  and  in  thy  presence, 

Alone  partake  of  it?  — Beloved  Marmaduke! 

Mar.  Give  me  a reason  why  the  wisest  thing 
That  the  earth  owns  shall  never  choose  to  die, 

But  some  one  must  be  near  to  count  his  groans. 

The  wounded  deer  retires  to  solitude. 

And  dies  in  solitude  : all  things  but  man. 

All  die  in  solitude.  \^Moving  towards  the  collage  door. 
Mysterious  God, 

If  she  had  never  lived  I had  not  done  it?  — 

Idon.  Alas,  the  thought  of  such  a cruel  death 
Has  overwhelmed  him. — I must  follow. 

Eld.  Lady ! 

You  will  do  well;  {she  goes)  unjust  suspicion  may 
Cleave  to  this  stranger : if,  upon  his  entering. 

The  dead  man  heave  a groan,  or  from  his  side 
Uplift  his  hand  — that  would  be  evidence. 

Elea.  Shame ! Eldred,  shame ! 

Mar.  {holh  reluming.)  The  dead  have  but 

one  face,  {lo  himself.) 

And  such  a man  — so  meek  and  unoffending  — 
Helpless  and  harmless  as  a babe : a man. 

By  obvious  signal  to  the  world’s  protection. 

Solemnly  dedicated  — to  decoy  him  ! — 

Idon.  O,  had  you  seen  him  living ! — 

Mar.  I (so  filled 

With  horror  is  this  world)  am  unto  thee 
The  thing  most  precious,  that  it  now  contains : 
Therefore  through  me  alone  must  be  revealed 
By  whom  thy  parent  was  destroyed,  Idonea ! 

I have  the  proofs ! — 

Idon.  O,  miserable  father! 

Thou  didst  command  me  to  bless  all  mankind  ; 

Nor  to  this  moment  have  I ever  wished 
Evil  to  any  living  thing ; but  hear  me. 

Hear  me,  ye  Heavens! — {kneeling.) — may  vengeance 
haunt  the  fiend 

For  this  most  cruel  murder:  let  him  live 
And  move  in  terror  of  the  elements; 

The  thunder  send  him  on  his  knees  to  prayer 
In  the  open  streets,  and  let  him  think  he  sees. 

If  e’er  he  entereth  the  house  of  God, 

The  roof,  self-moved,  unsettling  o’er  his  head  ; 

And  let  him,  when  he  would  lie  down  at  night. 

Point  to  his  wife  the  blood-drops  on  his  pillow ! 

Mar.  My  voice  was  silent,  but  my  heart  hath  joined 
thee. 

Idon.  {leaning  on  Marmaduke.)  Left  to  the  mercy 
of  that  savage  man ! 

How  could  he  call  upon  his  child  ! — O friend  ! 

[Turns  to  Marmaduke. 
My  faithful,  true,  and  only  comforter. 

Mar.  Ay,  come  to  me  and  weep.  {He  kisses  her.) 
{To  Eldred.)  Yes,  varlet,  look. 

The  devils  at  such  sights  do  clap  their  hands. 

[Eldred  relircs  alarmed. 
Idon.  Thy  vest  is  torn,  thy  cheek  is  deadly  pale; 
Hast  thou  pursued  the  monster  ? | 


I Mar.  I have  found  him. — 

Oh  ! would  that  thou  hadst  perished  in  the  flames ! 

Idon.  Here  art  thou,  then  can  I be  desolate?  — 

3Iar.  There  was  a time,  when  this  protecting  hand 
Availed  against  the  mighty;  never  more 
Shall  blessings  wait  upon  a deed  of  mine. 

Idon.  Wild  words  for  me  to  hear,  for  me,  an  orphan. 
Committed  to  thy  guardianship  by  Heaven  ; 

And,  if  thou  hast  forgiven  me,  let  me  hope. 

In  this  deep  sorrow,  trust,  that  lam  thine 
For  closer  care ; — here,  is  no  malady. 

[Taking  his  arm. 

Mar.  There,  is  a malady  — 

{Striking  his  heart  and  forehead.)  And  here,  and  here, 
A mortal  malady.  — I am  accurst: 

All  nature  curses  me,  and  in  my  heart 

Thy  curse  is  fixed  ; the  truth  must  be  laid  bare. 

It  must  be  told,  and  borne.  1 am  the  man, 

(Abused,  betrayed,  but  how  it  matters  not) 
Presumptuous  above  all  that  ever  breathed, 

Who,  casting  as  I thought  a guilty  person 
Upon  Heaven’s  righteous  judgment,  did  become 
An  instrument  of  fiends.  Through  me,  througli  me 
Thy  father  perished. 

Idon.  Perished  — by  what  mischance? 

Mar.  Beloved  ! — if  I dared,  so  would  I call  thee  — 
Conflict  must  cease,  and,  in  thy  frozen  heart. 

The  extremes  of  suffering  meet  in  absolute  peace. 

[He  gives  her  a letter. 

Idon.  {reads.)  ‘Be  not  surprised  if  you  hear  that 
some  signal  judgment  has  befallen  the  man  who  calls 
himself  your  father;  he  is  now  with  me,  as  his  signa- 
ture will  show : abstain  from  conjecture  till  you  see  me. 

‘Herbert. 

‘ Marmaduke.’ 

The  writing  Oswald’s ; the  signature  my  father’s ; 
{Looks  steadily  at  the  paper.)  And  here  is  yours,  — or 
do  my  eyes  deceive  me  ? 

You  have  then  seen  my  father? 

Mar.  He  has  leaned 

Upon  this  arm. 

Idon.  You  led  him  towards  the  convent? 

Mar.  That  convent  was  Stone-Arthur  Castle.  Thither 
We  were  his  guides.  I on  that  night  resolved 
That  he  should  wait  thy  coming  till  the  day 
Of  resurrection. 

Idon.  Miserable  woman. 

Too  quickly  moved,  too  easily  giving  way, 

I put  denial  on  thy  suit,  and  hence. 

With  the  disastrous  issue  of  last  night. 

Thy  perturbation,  and  these  frantic  words. 

Be  calm,  I pray  thee  ! 

Mar.  Oswald 

Idon.  Name  him  not. 

Enter  female  Beggar. 

Beg.  And  he  is  dead ! — that  moor  — how  shall  1 
cross  it? 

I By  night,  by  day,  never  shall  I be  able 


70 


WOEDSAVORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  travel  half  a mile  alone.  — Good  lady  ! 

Forgive  me  ! — Saints  forgive  mo.  Had  I thought 
It  would  have  come  to  this ! — 

j^on.  What  brings  you  hither  1 speak  ! 

Beg.  (j)ointing  to  Marmaduke).  This  innocent  gen- 
tleman. Sweet  heavens!  I told  him 
Such  tales  of  your  dead  father  I — God  is  my  judge, 

I thought  there  was  no  harm ; but  that  bad  man, 
lie  bribed  me  with  his  gold,  and  looked  so  fierce. 

Mercy  ! I said  1 know  not  what  — O,  pity  me  — 

I said,  sweet  lady,  you  were  not  his  daughter— 

Pity  me,  I am  haunted;  — thrice  this  day 
My  conscience  made  me  wish  to  be  struck  blind  ; 

And  then  I would  have  prayed,  and  had  no  voice. 

Idon.  {to  M.vrmaduke.)  Was  it  my  father?  — no, 
no,  no,  for  he 

Was  meek,  and  patient,  feeble,  old  and  blind. 

Helpless,  and  loved  me  dearer  than  his  life. 

But  hear  me.  For  one  question,  I have  a heart 

That  will  sustain  me.  Did  you  murder  him? 

Mar.  No,  not  by  stroke  of  arm.  But  learn  the 
process ; 

Proof  after  proof  was  pressed  upon  me ; guilt 
Made  evident,  as  seemed,  by  blacker  guilt. 

Whose  impious  folds  enwrapped  even  thee ; and  truth 
And  innocence,  embodied  in  his  looks. 

His  words  and  tones  and  gestures,  did  but  serve 
With  me  to  aggravate  his  crimes,  and  heaped 
Ruin  upon  the  cause  for  which  they  pleaded. 

Then  pity  crossed  the  path  of  my  resolve: 

Confounded,  I looked  up  to  Heaven,  and  cast, 

Idonea ! thy  blind  father,  on  the  ordeal 

Of  the  bleak  waste  — left  him  — and  so  he  died ! — 

[Idonea  sinks  senseless;  Beggar,  Eleanor,  &c., 
crowd  round,  and  hear  her  off. 

Why  may  we  speak  these  things,  and  do  no  more ; 
Why  should  a thrust  of  the  arm  have  such  a power. 
And  words  that  tell  these  things  be  heard  in  vain? 

She  is  not  dead.  Why  ! — if  1 loved  this  woman, 

1 would  take  care  she  never  woke  again 
But  she  WILL  wake,  and  she  will  weep  for  me, 

And  say,  no  blame  was  mine  — and  so,  poor  fool. 

Will  waste  her  curses  on  another  name. 

[He  walks  about  distractedly. 

Enter  Oswald. 


Your  pupil  is,  yon  see,  an  apt  proficient,  {ironically.) 
Start  not ! — Here  is  another  face  hard  by ; 

Come,  let  us  take  a peep  at  both  together. 

And,  with  a voice  at  which  the  dead  will  quake, 

Resound  the  praise  of  your  morality  — 

Of  this  too  much. 

[Drawing  Oswald  towards  the  cottage  — stops 
short  at  the  door. 

Men  are  there,  millions,  Oswald, 

Who  with  bare  hands  would  have  plucked  out  thy  heart 
And  flung  it  to  the  dogs : but  I am  raised 
Above,  or  sunk  below,  all  further  sense 
Of  provocation.  Leave  me,  with  the  weight 
Of  that  old  man’s  forgiveness  on  thy  heart. 

Pressing  as  heavily  as  it  doth  on  mine. 

Coward  I have  been;  know,  there  lies  not  now 
Within  the  compass  of  a mortal  thought  . 

A deed  that  I would  shrink  from ; — but  to  endure, 

That  is  my  destiny.  May  it  be  thine : 

Thy  office,  thy  ambition,  be  henceforth 
To  feed  remorse,  to  welcome  every  sting 
Of  penitential  anguish,  yea  with  tears. 

When  seas  and  continents  shall  lie  between  us  — 

The  wider  space  the  better  — we  may  find 
In  such  a course  fit  links  of  sympathy. 

An  incommunicable  rivalship 

Maintained,  for  peaceful  ends  beyond  our  view. 

[Confused  voices  — several  of  the  band  enter  — 
rush  upon  Oswald  and  seize  him. 

One  of  them.  I would  have  dogged  him  to  the  jaws 
of  hell!  — 

Osw.  Ha ! is  it  so ! — That  vagrant  hag ! — this  comes 
Of  having  left  a thing  like  her  alive ! [Aside. 

Several  voices.  Despatch  him  ! 

If  I pass  beneath  a rock 
And  shout,  and,  with  the  echo  of  my  voice. 

Bring  down  a heap  of  rubbish,  and  it  crush  me, 

I die  without  dishonour.  Famished,  starved, 

A fool  and  coward  blended  to  my  wish! 

[Smiles  scornfully  and  exultingly  at  Marmaduke. 
Wal.  ’T  is  done  ! {stabs  him.) 

Another  of  the  band.  The  ruthless  traitor  ! 

Alar.  . A rash  deed! 

With  that  reproof  I do  resign  a station 
Of  which  I have  been  proud. 

I Wil.  {approaching  Marmaduke.)  O,  my  poor 


Oswald,  {to  himself.)  Strong  to  o’erturn,  strong 
also  to  build  up.  [To  Marmaduke. 

The  starts  and  sallies  of  our  last  encounter  i 

Were  natural  enough ; but  that,  I trust,  1 

Is  all  gone  by.  You  have  cast  off  the  chains 
That  fettered  your  nobility  of  mind  — 

Delivered  heart  and  head! 

Let  us  to  Palestine ; 
This  is  a paltry  field  for  enterprise. 

Mar.  Ay,  what  shall  we  encounter  next?  This 
issue  — 

’T  was  nothing  more  than  darkness  deepening  darkness, 
And  weakness  crovvned  with  the  impotence  of  death ! 


master ! 

Mar.  Discerning  monitor,  my  faithful  Wilfred, 

Why  art  thou  here?  [Tttrning  to  Wallace. 

Wallace,  upon  these  Borders, 
Many  there  be  whose  eyes  will  not  want  cause 
To  weep  that  I am  gone.  Brothers  in  arms ! 

Raise  on  that  dreary  waste  a monument 
That  may  record  my  story : nor  let  words  — 

Few  must  they  be,  and  delicate  in  their  touch 
As  light  itself— be  there  withheld  from  her 
Who,  through  most  wicked  arts,  was  made  an  orphan 
By  one  who° would  have  died  a thousand  times, 

To  shield  her  from  a moment’s  harm.  To  you. 


POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


71 


Wallace  and  Wilfred,  I commend  the  lady, 

By  lowly  nature  reared,  as  if  to  make  her 
(n  all  things  worthier  of  that  noble  birth. 

Whose  long-suspended  rights  are  now  on  the  evo 
Of  restoration : with  your  tenderest  care 
Watch  over  her,  I pray  — sustain  her 

Several  of  the  band  (eagerly.)  Captain ! 

Mar.  No  more  of  that ; in  silence  hear  my  doom : 
A hermitage  has  furnished  fit  relief 
To  some  offenders ; other  penitents, 

Less  patient  in  their  wretchedness,  have  fallen, 


Like  the  old  Roman,  on  their  own  sword’s  point. 
They  had  their  choice : a wanderer  must  I go, 
The  spectre  of  that  innocent  man,  my  guide. 

No  human  ear  shall  ever  hear  me  speak ; 

No  human  dwelling  ever  give  me  food. 

Or  sleep,  or  rest:  but,  over  waste  and  wild. 

In  search  of  nothing  that  this  earth  can  give. 
But  e.xpiation,  will  I wander  on  — 

A man  by  pain  and  thought  compelled  to  live, 
Yet  loathing  life  — till  anger  is  appeased 
In  Heaven,  and  mercy  gives  me  leave  to  die. 


NOTES 

TO 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


Note  1,  p.  2.5. 

Of  the  Poems  in  this  class,  “The  Evening  Walk” 
and  “ Descriptive  Sketches”  were  first  published  in 
1793.  They  are  reprinted  with  some  unimportant  alte- 
rations that  were  chiefly  made  very  soon  after  their 
publication.  It  would  have  been  easy  to  amend  them, 
in  many  passages,  both  as  to  sentiment  and  expression, 
and  I have  not  been  altogether  able  to  resist  the  temp- 
tation : but  attempts  of  this  kind  are  made  at  the  risk 
of  injuring  those  characteristic  features  which,  after  all, 
will  be  regarded  as  the  principal  recommendation  of 
juvenile  poems. 

Note  2,  p.  39. 

‘And,  hovering,  round  it  often  did  a raven  fy.' 

From  a short  MS.  poem  read  to  me  when  an  under- 
graduate, by  my  schoolfellow  and  friend,  Charles  Farish, 
long  since  deceased.  The  verses  were  by  a brother  of 
his,  a man  of  promising  genius,  who  died  young. 

Note  3,  p.  45. 

'The  Borderers' 

This  Dramatic  Piece,  as  noticed  in  its  title-page,  was 
composed  in  1795-6.  It  lay  nearly  from  that  time  till 


within  the  last  two  or  three  months  unregarded  among 
my  papers,  without  being  mentioned  even  to  my  most 
intimate  friends.  Having,  however,  impressions  upon 
my  mind  which  made  me  unwilling  to  destroy  the  MS., 
I determined  to  undertake  the  responsibility  of  publish- 
ing ft  during  my  own  life,  rather  than  impose  uixm  my 
successors  the  task  of  deciding  its  fate.  Accordingly 
it  has  been  revised  with  some  care;  but,  as  it  was  at 
first  written,  and  is  now  published,  without  any  view  to 
its  exhibition  upon  the  stage,  not  the  slightest  alteration 
has  been  made  in  the  conduct  of  the  story,  or  the  com- 
position of  the  characters;  above  all,  in  respect  to  the 
two  leading  persons  of  the  drama,  I felt  no  inducement 
to  make  any  change.  The  study  of  human  nature  sug- 
gests this  awful  truth,  that,  as  in  the  trials  to  which  life 
subjects  us,  sin  and  crime  are  apt  to  start  from  their 
very  opposite  qualities,  so  are  there  no  limits  to  the 
hardening  of  the  heart,  and  the  perversion  of  the  under- 
standing to  which  they  may  carry  their  slaves.  During 
my  long  residence  in  France,  while  the  revolution  was 
rapidly  advancing  to  its  extreme  of  wickedness,  I had 
frequent  opportunities  of  being  an  eye-witness  of  this 
process,  and  it  was  while  that  knowledge  was  fresh 
upon  my  memory,  that  the  Tragedy  of  “ The  Borderers” 
, was  composed.  — 1842. 


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■(  V . -J^ - -,j|,-|-r  I m iiTHi  - -' 


POEMS 


REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD 


My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold 
A Rainbow  in  the  sky : 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began ; 

So  is  it  now  I am  a Man ; 

So  be  it  when  I shall  grow  old, 

Or  let  me  die ! 

The  Child  is  Father  of  the  Man ; 

And  I could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety.* 


Pull  the  Primrose,  Sister  Anne ! 

Pull  as  many  as  you  can. 

— Here  are  Daisies,  take  your  fill ; 
Pansies,  and  the  Cuckoo-flower : 

Of  the  lofty  Daffodil 

Make  your  bed,  and  make  your  bower: 

Fill  your  lap,  and  fill  your  bosom ; 

Only  spare  the  Strawberry-blossom  ! 

Primroses,  the  spring  may  love  them  — 
Summer  knows  but  little  of  them : 
Violets,  a barren  kind. 

Withered  on  the  ground  must  lie ; 
Daisies  leave  no  fruit  behind 
When  the  pretty  flowerets  die ; 

Pluck  them,  and  another  year 
As  many  will  be  blowing  here. 


TO  A BUTTERFLY. 

Stay  near  me — do  not  take  thy  flight ! 

A little  longer  stay  in  sight ! 

Much  converse  do  T find  in  Thee, 

Historian  of  my  Infancy  ! 

Float  near  me : do  not  yet  depart ! 

Dead  times  revive  in  thee : 

Thou  bringest,  gay  Creature  as  thou  art: 

A solemn  image  to  my  heart. 

My  Father’s  Family ! 

Oh  ! pleasant,  pleasant  were  the  days. 

The  time,  when,  in  our  childish  plays. 

My  Sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  chased  the  Butterfly  ! 

A very  hunter  did  I rush 

Upon  the  prey : — with  leaps  and  springs 

I followed  on  from  brake  to  bush ; 

But  she,  God  love  her ! feared  to  brush 
The  dust  from  off  its  wings. 

FORESIGHT, 

OR  THE  CHARGE  OF  A CHILD  TO  HIS  YOUNGER 
COMPANION. 

That  is  work  of  waste  and  ruin — 

Do  as  Charles  and  I are  doing ! 
Strawberry-blossoms,  one  and  all. 

We  must  spare  them  — here  are  many: 

Look  at  it  — the  Flower  is  small. 

Small  and  low,  though  fair  as  any : 

Do  not  touch  it ! summers  two 
I am  older,  Anne,  than  you. 

*See  Note. 

K 


God  has  given  a kindlier  power 
To  tlie  favoured  Strawberry-flower. 
When  the  months  of  Spring  are  fled 
Hither  let  us  bend  our  walk ; 

Lurking  berries,  ripe  and  red. 

Then  will  hang  on  every  stalk. 

Each  within  its  leafy  bower ; 

And  for  that  promise  spare  the  Flower ! 


CHARACTERISTICS 
OF  A CHILD  THREE  YEARS  OLD 

Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild ; 

And  Innocence  hath  privilege  in  her 
To  dignify  arch  looks  and  laughing  eyes ; 

And  feats  of  cunning ; and  the  pretty  round 
Of  trespasses,  affected  to  provoke 
Mock-chastisement  and  partnership  in  play. 

And,  as  a fagot  sparkles  on  the  hearth. 

Not  less  if  unattended  and  alone 

Than  when  both  young  and  old  sit  gathered  round 

And  take  delight  in  its  activity. 

Even  so  this  happy  creature  of  herself 
Is  all-sufficient;  solitude  to  her 
Is  blithe  society,  who  fills  the  air 
With  gladness  and  involuntary  songs. 

Light  are  her  sallies  as  the  tripping  Fawn’s 

7 


74 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Forth-startled  from  tlie  fern  where  she  lay  couched ; 

Unthought  of,  unexpected,  as  the  stir 

Of  the  soft  breeze  ruffling  the  meadow  flowers ; 

Or  from  before  it  chasing  wantonly 
The  many-coloured  images  impressed 
Upon  the  bosom  of  a placid  lake. 


ADDRESS  TO  A CHILD, 

DURING  A BOISTEROUS  WINTER  EVENING. 

By  my  Sister. 

What  way  does  the  Wind  cornel  Wliat  v/aydoeshegol 
He  rides  over  the  water,  and  over  the  snow. 

Through  wood,  and  through  vale ; and  o’er  rocky 
height. 

Which  the  goat  cannot  climb,  takes  his  sounding  flight ; 
He  tosses  about  in  every  bare  tree. 

As,  if  you  look  up,  you  plainly  may  see ; 

But  how  he  will  come,  and  whither  he  goes, 

There ’s  never  a Scholar  in  England  knows. 

He  will  suddenly  stop  in  a cunning  nook. 

And  rings  a sharp  ’larum  ; — but,  if  you  should  look. 
There ’s  nothing  to  see  but  a cushion  of  snow 
Round  as  a pillow,  and  whiter  than  milk. 

And  softer  than  if  it  were  cover’d  with  silk. 
Sometimes  he  ’ll  hide  in  the  cave  of  a rock. 

Then  whistle  as  shrill  as  the  buzzard  cock; 

— Yet  seek  him, — and  what  shall  you  find  in  the  place! 
Nothing  but  silence  and  empty  space  ; 

Save,  in  a corner,  a heap  of  dry  leaves. 

That  he’s  left,  for  a bed,  to  beggars  or  thieves ! 

As  soon  as  ’tis  daylight,  to-morrow  with  me. 

You  shall  go  the  orchard,  and  then  you  will  see 
That  he  has  been  there,  and  made  a great  rout. 

And  cracked  the  branches,  and  strewn  them  about : 
Heaven  grant  that  he  spare  but  that  one  upright  twig 
That  looked  up  at  the  sky  so  proud  and  big 
All  last  summer,  as  well  you  know, 

Studded  with  apples,  a beautiful  show ! 

Hark ! over  the  roof  he  makes  a pause, 

.And  growls  as  if  he  would  fix  his  claws 
Right  in  the  slates,  and  with  a huge  rattle 
Drive  them  down,  like  men  in  a battle: 

— But  let  him  range  round  ; he  does  us  no  harm. 

We  build  up  the  fire,  we  ’re  snug  and  warm ; 
Untouched  by  his  breath  see  the  candle  shines  bright, 
.And  burns  with  a clear  and  steady  light; 

Books  have  we  to  read, — but  that  half-stifled  knell, 
Alas'  ’tis  the  sound  of  the  eight  o’clock  bell. 

— Come  now  we’ll  to  bed  ! and  when  we  are  there 
He  may  work  his  own  will,  and  what  shall  we  care! 


He  may  knock  at  the  door,  — we’ll  not  let  him  in ; 
May  drive  at  the  windows,  — we’ll  laugh  at  liisdin 
Let  him  seek  his  own  home  wherever  it  be ; 
Here’s  a cozie  warm  house  for  Edward  and  me. 


THE  MOTHER’S  RETURN. 

By  the  same. 

A MONTH,  sweet  Little-ones,  is  passed 
Since  your  dear  Mother  went  away, — 
And  she  to-morrow  will  return ; 
To-morrow  is  the  happy  day. 

C)  blessed  tidings ! thought  of  joy  ! 

The  eldest  heard  with  steady  glee ; ' 
Silent  he  stood ; then  laughed  amain,  — 
And  shouted,  “ Mother,  come  to  me !” 

Louder  and  louder  did  he  shout. 

With  witless  hope  to  bring  her  near; 

“ Nay,  patience ! patience,  little  boy  ! 
Your  tender  mother  cannot  hear.” 

I told  of  hills,  and  far-off  towns. 

And  long,  long  vales  to  travel  through; 
He  listens,  puzzled,  sore  perplexed. 

But  he  submits;  what  can  he  do! 

No  strife  disturbs  his  Sister’s  breast ; 

She  wars  not  with  the  mystery 
Of  time  and  distance,  night  and  day, 
The  bonds  of  our  humanity. 

Her  Joy  is  like  an  instinct,  joy 
Of  kitten,  bird,  or  summer  fly ; 

She  dances,  runs,  without  an  aim. 

She  chatters  in  her  ecstasy. 

Her  'brother  now  takes  up  the  note. 

And  echoes  back  his  Sister’s  glee; 

They  hug  the  Infant  in  my  arms, 

As  if  to  force  his  sympathy. 

Then,  settling  into  fond  discourse, 

We  rested  in  the  garden  bower; 

While  sweetly  shone  the  evening  sun 
In  his  departing  hour. 

We  told  o’er  all  that  we  had  done, — 

Our  rambles  by  the  swift  brook’s  side 
Far  as  the  willow-skirted  pool. 

Where  two  fair  swans  together  glide. 

We  talked  of  change,  of  winter  gone. 

Of  green  leaves  on  the  hawthorn  spray, 
Of  birds  that  build  the.'T  nests  and  sing. 
And  “ all  since  Mother  went  away  !” 


POEMS  KEFEPtRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


75 


To  her  these  tales  they  will  repeat, 
To  her  our  new-born  tribes  will  show, 
The  gosling’s  green,  the  ass’s  colt. 
The  lambs  that  in  the  meadow  go. 

j Tiiere,  twisted  between  nave  and  spoke, 
1 It  hung,  nor  could  at  once  be  freed ; 

But  our  joint  pains  unloosed  the  cloak, 

1 A miserable  rag  indeed  1 

— But  see,  the  evening  star  comes  forth ! 
To  bed  the  children  must  depart ; 

A moment’s  heaviness  they  feel, 

A sadness  at  the  heart; 

i “And  whither  are  you  going,  child. 
To-night  along  these  lonesome  ways?” 
“To  Durham,”  answered  she,  half  wild  — 
“Then  come  with  me  into  the  chaise.” 

’T  is  gone  — and  in  a merry  fit 
They  run  up  stairs  in  gamesome  race ; 
I,  too,  infected  by  their  mood, 

I could  have  joined  the  wanton  chase. 

Insensible  to  all  relief 
Sat  the  poor  girl,  and  forth  did  send 
Sob  after  sob,  as  if  her  grief 
Could  never,  never  have  an  end. 

Five  minutes  past  — and,  0 the  change! 
Asleep  upon  their  beds  they  lie; 

Their  busy  limbs  in  perfect  rest, 

And  closed  the  sparkling  eye. 

“ My  child,  in  Duriiam  do  you  dwell  ?” 
She  checked  herself  in  her  distress, 
And  said,  “ My  name  is  Alice  Fell; 

I ’m  fatherless  and  motherless. 

ALICE  FELL; 

And  I to  Durham,  Sir,  belong.” 

Again,  as  if  the  thought  would  choke 
Her  very  heart,  her  grief  grew  strong; 
And  all  was  for  her  tattered  cloak  ! 

OR,  POVERTY. 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career. 

For  threatening  clouds  the  moon  had  drowned; 
When,  as  we  hurried  on,  my  ear 
Was  smitten  with  a startling  sound. 

The  chaise  drove  on  ; our  journey’s  end 
Was  nigh;  and,  sitting  by  my  side, 

As  if  she  had  lost  her  only  friend. 

She  wept,  nor  would  be  pacified. 

As  if  the  wind  blew  many  ways, 

I heard  the  sound,  — and  more  and  more; 
It  seemed  to  follow  with  the  chaise. 

And  still  I heard  it  as  before. 

Up  to  the  tavern  door  we  post; 
Of  Alice  and  her  grief  I told ; 
And  I gave  money  to  the  host. 
To  buy  a new  cloak  for  the  old. 

At  length  I to  the  boy  called  out; 

He  stopped  his  horse  at  the  word. 

But  neither  cry,  nor  voice,  nor  shout. 
Nor  aught  else  like  it,  could  be  heard. 

“ And  let  it  be  of  duffil  grey. 

As  warm  a cloak  as  man  can  sell !” 
Proud  creature  was  she  the  next  day. 
The  little  orphan,  Alice  Fell ! 

The  boy  then  smacked  his  whip,  and  fast 
The  horses  scampered  through  the  rain; 
But,  hearing  soon  upon  the  blast 
The  cry,  I bade  him  halt  again. 

LUCY  GRAY; 

OR,  SOLITUDE. 

Forthwith  alighting  on  the  ground, 

“ Whence  comes,”  said  I,  “tliis  piteous  moanl” 
And  there  a little  girl  I found. 

Sitting  behind  the  chaise,  alone. 

Oft  I had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray ; 
And,  when  I cros.sed  tlie  wild, 

I chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

“ My  cloak !”  no  other  word  she  spake. 
But  loud  and  bitterly  she  wept. 

As  if  her  innocent  heart  would  break; 
And  down  from  off  her  seat  she  leapt. 

No  mate,  no  comrade,  Lucy  knew; 
She  dwelt  on  a wide  moor, 

— The  sweete.st  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a human  door! 

“ What  ails  you,  child  V’ — she  sobbed  “ Look  here  I” 

I saw  it  in  the  wheel  entangled, 

A weather-beaten  rag  as  e’er 

From  any  garden  scare-crow  dangled.  j 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  uiKin  the  green ; 

But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

76 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ To-night  will  be  a stormy  night — 

You  to  the  Town  must  go ; 

And  take  a lantern,  Child,  to  liglit 
Your  mother  through  the  snow.” 

“ That,  Father ! will  I gladly  do ; 

’T  is  scarcely  afternoon — 

The  Minster-clock  has  just  struck  two. 
And  yonder  is  the  Moon.” 

At  this  the  Father  raised  hi.s  hook. 

And  snapped  a fagot-band  ; 

He  plied  his  work ; — and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe : 

With  many  a wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time : 

She  wandered  up  and  down  ; 

And  many  a hill  did  Lucy  climb; 

But  never  reached  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 

But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a guide. 

At  day-break  on  a hill  they  stood 
That  overlooked  the  Moor ; 

And  thence  they  saw  the  Bridge  of  wood, 
A furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept — and  turning  homeward,  cried, 
“ In  Heaven  we  all  shall  meet 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy’s  feet. 

Half  breathless  from  the  steep  hill’s  edge 
They  tracked  the  foot-marks  small ; 

And  through  the  broken  hawthorn-hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone-wall ; 

And  then  an  open  field  they  crossed : 

The  marks  were  still  the  same ; 

They  tracked  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 

And  to  the  bridge  they  came. 

They  followed  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  foot-marks  one  by  one. 

Into  the  middle  of  the  plank ; 

And  further  there  were  none! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a living  Child  ; 

That  you  may  see  sweet  Luey  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  Wild, 


O’er  rough  and  smooth  she  crips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind ; 

And  sings  a solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 


WE  ARE  SEVEN. 

A SIMPLE  Child, 

That  lightly  draws  its  breath. 

And  feels  its  life  in  every  limb. 

What  should  it  know  of  death  1 

I met  a little  cottage  Girl ; 

She  was  eight  years  old,  she  said ; 

Her  hair  was  thick  with  many  a curl 
That  clustered  round  her  head. 

She  had  a rustic,  woodland  air, 

And  she  was  wildly  clad : 

Her  eyes  were  fair,  and  very  fair ; 

— Her  beauty  made  me  glad. 

“ Sisters  and  brothers,  little  Maid, 

How  many  may  you  be  1” 

“ How  many ! Seven  in  all,”  she  said. 

And  wondering  looked  at  me. 

“ And  where  are  they  ? I pray  you  tell.” 

She  answered,  “ Seven  are  we  ; 

And  two  of  us  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 

My  sister  and  my  brother ; 

And,  in  the  church-yard  cottage,  I 
Dwell  near  them  with  my  mother.” 

“ You  say  that  two  at  Conway  dwell. 

And  two  are  gone  to  sea. 

Yet  ye  are  seven  ! — I pray  you  tell. 

Sweet  Maid,  how  this  may  be.” 

Then  did  the  little  Maid  reply 
“ Seven  boys  and  girls  are  we ; 

Two  of  us  in  the  church-yard  lie. 

Beneath  the  church-yard  tree.” 

“You  run  about,  my  little  Maid, 

Your  limbs  they  are  alive; 

If  two  are  in  the  church-yard  laid. 

Then  ye  are  only  five.” 

“ Their  graves  are  green,  they  may  be  seen," 
The  little  Maid  replied, 

“ Twelve  steps  or  more  from  my  mother’s  door, 
And  they  are  side  by  side. 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


77 


My  stockings  there  I often  knit, 

My  kerchiet  there  I hem ; 

And  there  upon  the  ground  I sit — 

I sit  and  sing  to  them. 

And  often  after  sunset,  Sir, 

When  it  is  liglit  and  fair, 

I take  my  little  porringer. 

And  eat  my  supper  there. 

The  first  that  died  was  little  Jane ; 

In  bed  she  moaning  lay. 

Till  God  released  her  of  her  pain ; 

And  then  she  went  away. 

So  in  the  church-yard  she  was  laid; 

And,  when  the  grass  was  dry. 

Together  round  her  grave  we  played. 

My  brother  John  and  I. 

And  when  the  ground  was  white  with  snow. 
And  I could  run  and  slide. 

My  brother  John  was  forced  to  go. 

And  he  lies  by  her  side.” 

“ How  many  are  you,  then,”  said  I, 

“ If  they  two  are  in  Heaven  1” 

The  little  Maiden  did  reply, 

“ O Master ! we  are  seven.” 

“ But  they  are  dead,  those  two  are  dead  ! 
Their  spirits  are  in  Heaven !” 

’T  was  throwing  words  away  : for  still 
The  little  Maid  would  have  her  will. 

And  said,  “Nay,  we  are  seven! 


ANECDOTE  FOR  FATHERS, 

SHOWING  now  THE  PRACTICE  OF  LYLNG  MAY 
BE  TAUGHT 

I HAVE  a boy  of  five  years  old ; 

His  face  is  fair  and  fresh  to  see ; 

His  limbs  are  cast  in  beauty’s  mould. 

And  dearly  he  loves  me. 

One  morn  we  strolled  on  our  dry  walk. 

Our  quiet  home  all  full  in  view. 

And  held  such  intermitted  talk 
As  w’e  are  wont  to  do. 

My  thoughts  on  former  pleasures  ran ; 

I thought  of  Kilve’s  delightful  shore. 

Our  pleasant  home  when  Spring  began, 

A long,  long  year  before. 

A day  it  was  when  I could  bear 
Some  fond  regrets  to  entertain  ; 

With  so  much  happiness  to  snare, 

I could  not  feel  a pain. 


The  green  earth  echoed  to  the  feet 
Of  lambs  that  bounded  through  the  glade. 
From  shade  to  sunshine,  and  as  fleet 
From  sunshine  back  to  shade. 

Birds  warbled  round  me  — every  trace 
Of  inward  sadness  had  its  charm ; 

“ Kilve,”  said  I,  “ was  a favoured  place. 

And  so  is  Liswyn  farm.” 

My  boy  was  by  my  side,  so  slim 
And  graceful  in  his  rustic  dress! 

And,  as  we  talked,  I questioned  him. 

In  very  idleness. 

“ Now  tell  me,  had  you  rather  be,” 

I said,  and  took  him  by  the  arm, 

“ On  Kilve’s  smooth  shore,  by  the  green  sea. 
Or  here  at  Liswyn  farm  1” 

In  careless  mood  he  looked  at  me, 

Wliile  still  I held  him  by  the  arm. 

And  said,  “ At  Kilve  I ’d  rather  be 
Than  here  at  Liswyn  farm.” 

“Now,  little  Edward,  say  why  so; 

My  little  Edward,  tell  me  why.” — 

“ I cannot  tell,  I do  not  know.”  — 

“ Why,  this  is  strange,”  said  I ; 

“ For,  here  are  woods,  and  green-hills  warm : 
There  surely  must  some  reason  be 
Why  you  would  change  sweet  Liswyn  farm 
For  Kilve  by  the  green  sea.” 

At  this,  my  Boy  hung  down  his  head, 

He  blushed  with  shame,  nor  made  reply ; 

And  five  times  to  the  Child  I said, 

“ Why,  Edward,  tell  me  why  !” 

His  head  he  raised — there  was  in  siglit. 

It  caught  his  eye,  he  saw  it  plain — 

Upon  the  house-top,  glittering  bright, 

A broad  and  gilded  Vane. 

Then  did  the  Boy  his  tongue  unlock; 

And  tlius  to  me  he  made  reply : 

“ At  Kilve  there  was  no  weather-cock. 

And  that’s  the  reason  why.” 

O dearest,  dearest  Boy ! my  lieart 
For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn. 

Could  I but  teach  the  liundredlh  part 
Of  w'hat  from  thee  I learn. 


RURAL  ARCHITECTURE. 

There’s  George  Fisher,  Charles  Fleming,  and  Regi 
nald  Shore, 

Three  rosy-cheeked  School-boys,  the  highest  not  more 

7 * 


78 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Than  the  height  of  a Counsellor’s  bag ; 

To  the  top  of  Great  How*  did  it  please  them  to  climb: 
And  there  they  built  up,  without  mortar  or  lime, 

A Man  on  the  peak  of  the  crag. 

They  built  him  of  stones  gathered  up  as  they  lay: 
Tliey  built  him  and  christened  him  all  in  one  day, 

An  Urchin  both  vigorous  and  hale; 

And  so  without  scruple  they  called  him  Ralph  Jones. 
Now  Ralph  is  renowned  for  the  length  of  his  bones; 
The  Magog  of  Legberthwaite  dale. 

Just  half  a week  after,  the  wind  sallied  forth. 

And,  in  anger  or  merriment,  out  of  the  North, 

Coming  on  with  a terrible  pother, 

From  the  peak  of  the  crag  blew  the  Giant  away. 

And  what  did  these  School-boys'! — The  very  next  day 
They  went  and  they  built  up  another. 

—Some  little  I’ve  seen  of  blind  boisterous  works 
By  Christian  Disturbers  more  savage  than  Turks, 
Spirits  busy  to  do  and  undo : 

At  remembrance  whereof  my  blood  .sometimes  will  flag ; 
Then,  light-hearted  Boys,  to  the  top  of  the  crag ; 

And  I’ll  build  up  a Giant  with  you. 


THE  PET-LAMB. 

A PASTORAL. 

The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink ; 

I heard  a voice ; it  said,  “ Drink,  pretty  Creature, 
drink  !” 

And,  looking  o’er  the  hedge,  before  me  I espied 
A snow-white  mountain  Lamb  with  a Maiden  at  its  side. 

No  other  sheep  w’ere  near,  the  Lamb  was  all  alone, 
And  by  a slender  cord  was  tethered  to  a stone; 

With  one  knee  on  the  grass  did  tlie  little  Maiden  kneel. 
While  to  that  Mountain  Lamb  she  gave  its  eveningmeal. 

The  Lamb,  while  from  her  hand  he  thus  his  supper 
took. 

Seemed  to  feast  with  head  and  ears ; and  his  tail  with 
pleasure  shook. 

“ Drink,  pretty  Creature,  drink,”  she  said  in  such  a tone 
That  I almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own. 

’Twas  little  Barbara  Levvthwaite,  a Child  of  beauty 
rare  ! 

I watched  them  with  delight,  they  w’ere  a lovely  pair. 
Now  with  her  empty  Can  the  Maiden  turned  away  : 
But  ere  ten  yards  were  gone  her  footsteps  did  she  stay. 


* Great  How  is  a single  and  ronspicnoiis  hill,  which  rises 
towards  the  foot  of  Tliirlmere,  on  the  western  side  of  the  beau- 
tiful dale  of  Legberthwaite,  along  the  high  road  between  Kes- 
p ick  and  Ambleside. 


Right  towards  the  Lamb  she  looked;  and  from  a shady 
place 

I unobserved  could  see  the  workings  of  her  face: 

If  Nature  to  her  tongue  could  measured  numbers  bring. 
Thus,  thought  I,  to  her  Lamb  that  little  Maid  might 
sing: 

“ What  ails  thee.  Young  One ! what ! Why  pull  so  at 
thy  cord  1 

Is  it  not  well  with  thee!  well  both  for  bed  and  board  ! 
Thy  plot  of  grass  is  soft,  and  green  as  grass  can  be ; 
Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest ; what  is’t  that  aileth  thee ! 

“ What  is  it  thou  wouldst  seek ! What  is  wanting  to 
thy  heart ! 

Thy  limbs  are  they  not  strong!  And  beautiful  thou  art: 
This  grass  is  tender  grass ; these  flowers  they  have  no 
peers ; ’ 

And  that  green  corn  all  day  is  rustling  in  thy  ears ! 

“ If  the  Sun  be  shining  hot,  do  but  stretch  thy  w'oollen 
chain. 

This  beech  is  standing  by,  its  covert  thou  canst  gain ; 
For  rain  and  mountain  storms  ! the  like  thou  needest 
not  fear — 

The  rain  and  storm  are  things  that  scarcely  can  come 
here. 

“ Rest,  little  Young  One,  rest ; thou  hast  forgot  the  d^y 
When  my  Father  found  thee  first  in  places  far  away ; 
Many  flocks  were  on  the  hills,  but  thou  wert  owned  b" 
none. 

And  thy  mother  from  thy  side  for  evermore  was  gone. 

“ He  took  thee  in  his  arms,  and  in  pity  brought  thee 
home : ' 

A blessed  day  for  thee ! then  whither  wouldst  thc«j 
roam! 

A faithful  Nurse  thou  hast;  the  dam  that  did  thee  yean 
Upon  the  mountain  tops  no  kinder  could  have  been. 

“ Thou  knowest  that  twice  a day  I brought  thee  in  this 
Can 

Fresh  water  from  the  brook,  as  clear  as  ever  ran  ; 

And  twice  in  the  day,  when  the  ground  is  wet  with 
dew, 

I bring  thee  draughts  of  milk,  warm  milk  it  is  and  new 

“ Thy  limbs  will  shortly  be  twice  as  stout  as  they  are 
now. 

Then  I ’ll  3'oke  thee  to  my  cart  like  a pony  in  the 
plough  ; 

My  Playmate  thou  shalt  be ; and  when  the  wind  is  cold 
Our  hearth  shall  be  thy  bed,  our  house  shall  be  thy  fold. 

“ It  will  not,  will  not  rest ! — Poor  Creature,  can  it  be 
That  ’tis  thy  mother’s  heart  which  is  working  so  in 
thee! 

Things  that  I know'  not  of  belike  to  thee  are  dear, 

And  dreams  of  things  which  thou  canst  neither  see  nor 
hear 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


79 


“ Alas,  the  mountain  tops  that  look  so  green  and  fair  ! 
I’ve  heard  of  fearful  winds  and  darkness  that  come 
there ; 

The  little  brooks  that  seem  all  pastime  and  all  play, 
When  they  are  angry,  roar  like  Lions  for  their  prey. 

“ Here  thou  needest  not  dread  the  raven  in  the  sky ; 
Night  and  day  tliou  art  safe, — our  cottage  is  hard  by. 
Why  bleat  so  after  me  1 Why  pull  so  at  thy  chain  1 
Sleep — and  at  break  of  day  I will  come  to  thee  again  !” 

— As  homeward  through  the  lane  I went  with  lazy  feet. 
This  song  to  myself  did  I oftentimes  repeat; 

And  it  seemed,  as  I retraced  tlie  ballad  line  by  line. 
That  but  half  of  it  was  hers,  and  one  half  of  it  was 
mine. 

Again,  and  once  again,  did  I repeat  the  song; 

“ Nay,”  said  I,  “ more  than  half  to  the  Damsel  must 
belong, 

For  she  looked  with  such  a look,  and  she  spake  with 
such  a tone. 

That  I almost  received  her  heart  into  my  own.” 


THE  IDLE  SHEPHERD-BOYS; 

OR,  DUNGEON-GIIYLL  FORCE.* 

PA.STORAL. 

The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy  ; 

Among  the  hills  the  echoes  play 
A never,  never  ending  song. 

To  welcome  in  the  May. 

The  Magpie  chatters  with  delight ; 

The  mountain  Raven’s  youngling  brood 
Have  left  the  Mother  and  the  Nest ; 

And  they  go  rambling  east  and  west 
In  search  of  their  own  food ; 

Or  through  the  glittering  Vapours  dart 
In  very  wantonness  of  heart. 

Beneath  a rock,  upon  the  grass. 

Two  Boys  are  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

Boys  that  have  had  no  work  to  do. 

Or  work  that  now  is  done. 

On  pipes  of  sycamore  they  play 
The  fragments  of  a Christmas  Hymn ; 

Or  with  that  plant  which  in  our  dale 
We  call  Stag-horn,  or  Fox’s  Tall, 

Their  rusty  Hats  they  trim ; 

And  thus,  as  happy  as  the  Day, 

Those  Shepherds  wear  the  time  away. 

' Ghyll,  in  the  dialect  of  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland,  is 
a short,  and,  for  the  most  part,  a steep  narrow  valley,  with  a 
stream  running  through  it.  Force  is  the  word  universally  em- 
oloyed  in  these  dialects  for  Waterfall 


Along  the  river’s  stony  marge 
The  Sand-lark  chants  a joyous  song ; 

The  Thrush  is  busy  in  the  wood. 

And  carols  loud  and  strong. 

A tliousand  Lambs  are  on  the  rocks. 

All  newly  born  ! botli  earth  and  sky 
Keep  jubilee,  and  more  than  all. 

Those  Boys  with  their  green  Coronal ; 

They  never  hear  the  cry. 

That  plaintive  cry  1 which  up  the  hill 
Comes  from  the  depth  of  Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said  Walter,  leaping  from  the  ground 
“Down  to  the  stump  of  yon  old  yew 
We’ll  for  our  Whistles  run  a race.” 

Away  the  Shepherds  flew  : 

They  leapt  — they  ran  — and  when  they  came 
Right  opposite  to  Dungeon-Ghyll, 

Seeing  that  he  should  lose  the  prize, 

“ Stop !”  to  his  comrade  Walter  cries  — 

He  stopped  with  no  good  will : 

Said  Walter  then,  “ Your  task  is  here, 

’Twill  baffle  you  for  half  a year. 

“Cross,  if  you  dare,  where  I shall  cross  — 
Come  on,  and  in  my  footsteps  tread 
The  other  took  him  at  his  word, 

And  followed  as  he  led. 

It  was  a spot  which  you  may  see 
If  ever  you  to  Langdale  go ; 

Into  a chasm  a mighty  Block 

Hath  fallen,  and  made  a Bridge  of  rock : 

The  gulf  is  deep  below; 

And  in  a basin  black  and  small 
Receives  a lofty  Waterfall. 

With  staff  in  hand  across  the  cleft 
The  Challenger  pursued  his  march ; 

And  now,  all  eyes  and  feet,  hath  gained 
The  middle  of  the  arch. 

When  list ! he  hears  a piteous  moan  — 

Again! — his  heart  within  him  dies  — 

His  pulse  is  stopped,  his  breath  is  lost. 

He  totters,  pallid  as  a ghost. 

And,  looking  down,  espies 
A Lamb,  that  in  the  pool  is  pent 
Within  that  black  and  frightful  Rent 

The  I.amb  had  slipped  into  the  stream. 

And  safe  without  a bruise  or  wound 
The  Cataract  had  borne  him  down 
Into  the  gulf  profound. 

His  Dam  had  seen  him  when  he  fell,  | 

She  saw  him  down  the  torrent  borne ; 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


8P 


And,  while  with  all  a mother’s  love 
She  from  the  lofty  rocks  above 
Sent  fortli  a cry  forlorn, 

The  Lamb,  still  svvimminjr  round  and  round. 
Made  answer  to  that  plaintive  sound. 

Wlien  he  had  learnt  what  thing  it  was. 

That  sent  this  rueful  cry ; I ween 
The  Boy  recovered  heart,  and  told 
The  sight  which  he  had  seen. 

Both  gladly  now  deferred  tlieir  task ; 

Nor  was  there  wanting  other  aid  — 

A Poet,  one  who  loves  the  brooks 
Far  better  than  the  sages’  books. 

By  chance  had  hither  strayed ; 

And  there  the  helpless  Lamb  ho  found 
By  those  huge  rocks  encompassed  round. 

He  drew  it  gently  from  the  pool, 

And  brouglit  it  forth  into  the  light : 

The  Shepherds  met  him  with  his  charge. 

An  une.\-pected  sight ! 

Into  tlieir  arms  the  Lamb  they  took. 

Said  they,  “ He’s  neither  maimed  nor  scarred.” 
Then  up  the  steep  ascent  they  hied. 

And  placed  him  at  his  Mother’s  side ; 

And  gently  did  the  Bard 
Those  idle  Shepherd-boys  upbraid. 

And  bade  them  better  mind  their  trade. 


To  II.  C. 

SIX  YEARS  OLD. 

O THOU ! whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought ; 

Who  of  thy  words  dost  make  a mock  apparel. 

And  fittest  to  unutterable  thought 
The  breeze-like  motion  and  the  self-born  carol ; 
Thou  faery  Voyager  ! that  dost  float 
In  such  clear  water,  that  thy  Boat 
May  rather  seem 

To  brood  on  air  than  on  an  earthly  stream ; 
Suspended  in  a stream  as  clear  as  sky. 

Where  earth  and  heaven  do  make  one  imagery ; 

0 blessed  Vision  ! happy  Child  ! 

That  art  so  exquisitely  wild, 

1 think  of  thee  with  many  fears 

For  what  may  be  thy  lot  in  future  years. 

I thought  of  times  when  Pain  might  be  thy  guest. 
Lord  of  thy  house  and  hospitality  ; 

And  Grief,  uneasy  Lover  ! never  rest 
But  when  she  sate  w'ithin  the  touch  of  thee. 

O too  industrious  folly  ! 

O vain  and  causeless  melancholy  ! 

Nature  will  either  end  thee  quite ; 


Or,  lengthening  out  thy  season  of  delight, 

Preserve  for  thee,  by  individual  right, 

A young  Lamb’s  heart  among  the  full-grown  flocks. 
What  hast  Thou  to  do  with  sorrow. 

Or  the  injuries  of  to-morrow  1 

Thou  art  a Dew-drop,  which  the  morn  brings  forth, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  unkindly  shocks; 

Or  to  be  trailed  along  the  soiling  earth; 

A gem  that  glitters  while  it  lives. 

And  no  forewarning  gives ; 

But,  at  the  touch  of  wrong,  without  a strife 
Slips  in  a moment  out  of  life. 


INFLUENCE  OF  NATURAL  OBJECTS 

IN  CALLING  FORTH  AND  STRENGTHENING  THE  IMAGINA- 
TION IN  BOYHOOD  AND  EARLY  YOUTH. 

From  an  uupublisLed  Poem. 

(This  extract  is  reprinted  from  “The  Friend.”) 
Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  Universe 
Thou  Soul,  that  art  the  Eternity  of  thought  > 

And  givest  to  forms  and  images  a breath 
And  everlasting  motion ! not  in  vain. 

By  day  or  star-light,  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 

Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  Man, — 

But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things, 

With  life  and  nature;  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

And  sanctifying  by  such  discipline 
Both  pain  and  fear, — until  we  recognise 
A grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.  In  November  days, 

When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valleys  made 
A lonely  scene  more  lonesome ; among  woods 
At  noon ; and  ’mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights. 
When,  by  the  margin  of  the  trembling  Lake, 

Beneath  the  gloomy  hills,  I homeward  went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine : 

’T  was  mine  among  the  fields  both  day  and  night. 

And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and,  visible  for  many  a mile. 

The  cottage  windows  tlirough  tlie  twilight  blazed, 

I heeded  not  the  summons ; — happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us ; for  me 
It  was  a time  of  rapture  ! — Clear  and  loud 
The  village  clock  tolled  six  — I wheeled  about. 

Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 

That  cares  not  for  his  home.  — All  shod  with  steel. 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice,  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  Chase 

And  woodland  pleasures,  — the  resounding  horn. 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


81 


The  Pack  loud-bellowing',  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew, 

And  not  a voice  was  idle ; with  the  din 
Meanwhile  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron ; while  the  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy,  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars, 
EastwaS,  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I retired 
Into  a silent  bay,  — or  sportively 
Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 
To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a Star, 

Image,  that,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 
Upon  the  glassy  plain : and  oftentimes. 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind, 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels. 

Stopped  short;  yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train. 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a summer  sea.* 


THE  LONGEST  DAY. 

ADDRESSED  TO  . 

Let  us  quit  the  leafy  Arbour, 

And  the  torrent  murmuring  by : 

Sol  has  dropped  into  his  harbour. 
Weary  of  the  open  sky. 

Evening  now  unbinds  the  fetters 
Fashioned  by  the  glowing  light; 

All  that  breathe  are  thankful  debtors 
To  the  harbinger  of  night. 

Vet  by  some  grave  thoughts  attended 
Eve  renews  her  calm  career ; 

For  the  day  that  now  is  ended. 

Is  the  Longest  of  the  Year. 

Laura!  sport,  as  now  thou  sportest. 

On  this  platform,  light  and  free  ; 

Take  thy  bliss,  while  longest,  shortest. 
Are  indifferent  to  thee ! 

Who  would  check  the  happy  feeling 
That  inspires  the  linnet’s  songl 
Who  would  stop  the  swallow,  wheeling 
On  her  pinions  swift  and  strong  I 


Yet  at  this  impressive  season. 

Words  which  tenderness  can  speak 
From  the  truths  of  homely  reason. 

Might  exalt  the  loveliest  eheek  ; 

And,  while  shades  to  shades  suceeeding, 
Steal  the  landscape  from  the  sight, 

I would  urge  this  moral  pleading. 

Last  forerunner  of  “ Good  night !” 

Summer  ebbs ; — each  day  that  follows 
Is  a reflux  from  on  high. 

Tending  to  the  darksome  hollows 
Where  the  frosts  of  winter  lie. 

He  who  governs  the  creation. 

In  His  providence,  assigned 
Such  a gradual  declination 
To  the  life  of  human  kind. 

Y’et  we  mark  it  not ; — fruits  redden. 

Fresh  flow'ers  blow,  as  flowers  have  blown, 
And  the  heart  is  loth  to  deaden 
Hopes  that  she  so  long  hath  known. 

Be  thou  wiser,  youthful  Maiden  ! 

And,  when  thy  decline  shall  come. 

Let  not  flowers,  or  boughs  fruit-laden, 

Hide  the  knowledge  of  thy  doom. 

Now,  even  now,  ere  wrapped  in  slumber. 

Fix  thine  eyes  upon  the  sea 

That  absorbs  time,  space,  and  number; 

Look  towards  Eternity. 

Follow  thou  the  flowing  River 
On  w’hose  breast  are  thither  borne 
All  Deceived,  and  each  Deceiver, 

Through  the  gates  of  Night  and  Morn ; 

Through  the  year’s  successive  portals ; 
Through  the  bounds  w’hich  many  a star 
Marks,  not  mindless  of  frail  mortals. 

When  his  light  returns  from  far. 

Thus  when  Thou  w'ith  Time  hast  travelled 
Toward  the  mighty  gulf  of  things. 

And  the  mazy  Stream  unravelled 
With  thy  best  imaginings; 

Think,  if  thou  on  beauty  leanest. 

Think  how  pitiful  that  stay. 

Did  not  virtue  give  the  meanest  ‘ 
Charms  superior  to  decay. 

Duty,  like  a strict  preceptor. 

Sometimes  frowns,  or  seems  to  frown ; 
Choose  her  thistle  for  thy  sceptre. 

While  thy  brow  youth’s  roses  crown. 


L 


See  nole. 


82 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Grasp  it,  — if  thou  shrink  and  tremble, 
Fairest  damsel  of  the  green, 

Thou  wilt  lack  the  only  symbol 
That  proclaims  a genuine  Queen; 

And  ensures  those  palms  of  honour 
Whicli  selected  spirits  wear, 

Bending  low  before  the  donor. 

Lord  of  Heaven’s  unchanging  yearl 


THE  SPARROW’S  NEST. 

Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade. 

Those  bright  blue  eggs  together  laid  ! 

On  me  the  chance-discovered  sight 
Gleamed  like  a vision  of  delight. 

I started  — seeming  to  espy 
The  home  and  sheltered  bed. 

The  Sparrow’s  dwelling,  which,  hard  by 
My  father’s  house,  in  wet  or  dry. 

My  sister  Emmeline  and  I 
Together  visited. 

She  looked  at  it  and  seemed  to  fear  it; 
Dreading,  tho’  wishing,  to  be  near  it: 
Such  heart  was  in  her,  being  then 
A little  prattler  among  men. 

Tlie  blessing  of  my  later  years 
Was  with  me  when  a boy: 

She  gave  me  eyes,  she  gave  me  ears ; 
And  liumble  cares,  and  delicate  fears; 

A heart,  the  fountain  of  sweet  tears ; 

And  love,  and  thought,  and  joy. 


THE  NORMAN  BOY.* 

High  on  a broad  unfertile  tract  of  forest-skirted  down. 

Nor  kept  by  nature  for  lierself,  nor  made  by  man  his  own, 

From  home  and  company  remote  and  every  playful  joy. 

Served,  tending  a few  sheep  and  goats,  a ragged  Norman 
boy. 

Him  never  saw  I,  nor  the  spot,  but  from  an  English 
dame. 

Stranger  to  me  and  yet  my  friend,  a simple  notice  came. 

With  suit  that  I would  speak  in  verse  of  that  sequestered 
child 

Whom,  one  bleak  winter’s  day,  she  met  upon  the  dreary 
wild. 

His  flock,  aTong  the  woodland’s  edge  with  relics  sprinkled 
o’er 

Of  last  night’s  snow,  beneath  a sky  threatening  the  fall 
of  more. 


Where  tufts  of  herbage  tempted  each,  were  busy  at 
their  feed. 

And  the  poor  boy  was  busier  still,  with  work  of  anxious 
heed. 

There  was  he,  where  of  branches  rent  and  withered 
and  decayed. 

For  covert  from  the  keen  north  wind,  his  hands  a hut 
had  made, 

A tiny  tenement,  forsooth,  and  frail,  as  needs  must  be 

A thing  of  such  materials  framed,  by  a builder  such 
as  he. 

The  hut  stood  finished  by  his  pains,  nor  seemingly 
lacked  aught 

That  skill  or  means  of  his  could  add,  but  the  architect 
had  wrought 

Some  limber  twigs  into  a cross,  well-shhped  with 
fingers  nice. 

To  be  engrafted  on  the  top  of  his  small  edifice. 

The  cross  he  now  was  fastening  there,  as  the  surest 
power  and  best 

For  supplying  all  deficiencies,  all  wants  of  the  rude  nest 

In  which,  from  burning  heat,  or  tempest  driving  far  and 
wide. 

The  innocent  boy,  else  shelterless,  his  lonely  head  must . 
hide. 

That  cross  belike  he  also  raised  as  a standard  for  the 
true 

And  faithful  service  of  his  heart  in  the  worst  that  might 
ensue 

Of  hardship  and  distressful  fear,  amid  the  houseless  waste 

Where  he,  in  his  poor  self  so  weak,  by  Providence  was 
placed. 

Here,  lady  ! might  I cease;  but  nay,  let  us  before 

we  part 

With  this  dear  holy  shepherd-boy  breathe  a prayer  of 
earnest  heart. 

That  unto  him,  where’er  shall  lie  his  life’s  appointed  way, 

The  cross,  fixed  in  his  soul,  may  prove  an  all-sufficing 
stay. 

THE  POET’S  DREAM, 

SEQUEL  TO  THE  NORMAN  BOY. 

Just  as  those  final  words  were  penned,  the  sun  broke 
out  in  power. 

And  gladdened  all  things;  but,  as  chanced,  within  that 
very  hour. 

Air  blackened,  thunder  growled,  fire  flashed  from  clouds 
that  hid  the  sky. 

And,  for  the  subject  of  my  verse,  I heaved  a pensive  sigh. 

Nor  could  my  heart  by  second  thoughts  from  heaviness 
be  cleared. 

For  bodied  forth  before  my  eyes  the  cross-crowned  hut 
appeared ; 


See  Note  3. 


POEMS  EEFERKTNG  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


83 


And,  while  around  it  storm  as  fierce  seemed  troubling 
earth  and  air, 

I saw,  within,  the  Norman  boy  kneeling  alone  in  prayer. 

The  child,  as  if  the  thunder’s  voice  spake  with  articu- 
late call. 

Bowed  meekly  in  submissive  fear,  before  the  Lord  of  All ; 

His  lips  were  moving;  and  his  eyes,  upraised  to  sue  for 
grace. 

With  soft  illumination  cheered  the  dimness  of  that  place. 

How  beautiful  is  holiness!  — what  wonder  if  the  sight. 

Almost  as  vivid  as  a dream,  produced  a dream  at  night] 

It  came  with  sleep  and  showed  the  boy,  no  cherub,  not 
transformed. 

But  the  poor  ragged  thing  whose  ways  my  human  heart 
had  warmed. 

Me  had  the  dream  equipped  with  wings,  so  I took  him 
in  my  arms. 

And  lifted  from  the  grassy  floor,  stilling  his  faint  alarms. 

And  bore  him  high  through  yielding  air  my  debt  of  love 
to  pay. 

By  giving  him  for  both  our  sakes,  an  hour  of  holiday. 

I whispered,  Yet  a little  while,  dear  child ! thou  art 
my  own. 

To  show  thee  some  delightful  thing,  in  country  or  in 
town. 

What  shall  it  be?  a mirthful  throng?  or  that  holy  place 
and  calm 

St.  Denis,  filled  with  royal  tomb.s,  or  the  Church  of 
Notre  Dame  ? 

“ St.  Ouen’s  golden  Shrine  ? Or  choose  what  else  would 
please  thee  most 

Of  any  wonder  Normandy,  or  all  proud  France,  can 
boast !” 

“ My  mother,”  said  the  boy,  “ was  born  near  to  a blessed 
tree, 

The  Chapel  Oak  of  Allonville;  good  Angel,  show  it  me !” 

On  wings,  from  broad  and  steadfast  poise  let  loose  by 
this  reply. 

For  Allonville,  o’er  down  and  dale,  away  then  did 
we  fly ; 

O’er  town  and  tower  we  flew,  and  fields  in  May’s  fresh 
verdure  drest; 

The  wings  they  did  not  flag;  the  child,  though  grave, 
was  not  deprest. 

But  who  shall  show,  to  waking  sense,  the  gleam  of  light 
that  broke 

Forth  from  his  eyes,  when  first  the  boy  looked  down  on 
that  huge  oak. 

For  length  of  days  so  much  revered,  so  famous  where 
it  stands  | 

For  twofold  hallowing  — Nature’s  care,  and  work  of 
human  hands?  j 


Strong  as  an  eagle  with  my  charge  I glided  round  and 
round 

The  wide-spread  bough.?,  for  view  of  door,  window,  and 
stair  that  wound 

Gracefully  up  the  gnarled  trunk ; nor  left  we  imsiirveycd 

The  pointed  steeple  peering  forth  from  the  centre  of  the 
shade. 

i 

I lighted — opened  w’ith  soft  touch  the  chapel’s  iron  door, 

Past  softly  leading  in  the  boy;  and,  while  from  roof  to 
floor 

From  floor  to  roof  all  round  his  eyes  the  child  with 
wonder  cast, 

Pleasure  on  pleasure  crowded  in,  each  livelier  than 
the  last. 

For,  deftly  framed  within  the  trunk,  the  sanctuary 
showed. 

By  light  of  lamp  and  precious  stones,  that  glimmered 
here,  there  glowed. 

Shrine,  altar,  image,  offerings  hung  in  sign  of  gratitude : 

Sight  that  inspired  accordant  thoughts;  and  speech  I 
thus  renewed ; 

“ Hither  the  afflicted  come,  as  thou  hast  heard  thy 
mother  say. 

And,  kneeling,  supplication  make  to  our  Lady  de  la 
Paix ; 

What  mournful  sighs  have  here  been  heard,  and,  when 
the  voice  was  stopt 

By  sudden  pangs;  what  bitter  tears  have  on  this  pave- 
ment dropt ! 

“ Poor  shepherd  of  the  naked  down,  a favoured  lot  is 
thine. 

Far  happier  lot,  dear  boy,  than  brings  full  many  to  this 
shrine ; 

From  body  pains  and  pains  of  soul  thou  needest  no 
release. 

Thy  hours  as  they  flow  on  are  spent,  if  not  in  joy,  in 
peace. 

“Then  offer  up  thy  heart  to  God  in  thankfulness  and 
praise. 

Give  to  Him  prayers,  and  many  thoughts,  in  thy  most 
busy  days ; 

And  in  His  sight  the  fragile  cross,  on  tliy  small  hut. 
will  be 

Holy  as  that  which  long  hath  crowned  the  chapel  of 
this  tree ; 

“Holy  as  that  far  seen  which  crowns  the  sumptuous 
Church  in  Rome 

Where  thousands  meet  to  worship  God  under  a mighty 
dome ; 

He  sees  tlie  bending  multitude,  he  hears  the  choral  - 
rites. 

Yet  not  the  less,  in  children’s  hymns  and  lonely  prayer, 
delights. 


84 


WORDSWOKTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ God  for  his  service  needeth  not  proud  work  of  human 
skill ; 

They  please  him  best  who  labour  most  to  do  in  peace 
liis  will : 

So  let  us  strive  to  live,  and  to  our  spirits  will  be  given 
Such  wings  as,  when  our  Saviour  calls,  shall  bear  us  up 
to  lieaven.” 

The  boy  no  answer  made  by  words,  but,  so  earnest  was 
his  look. 

Sleep  fled,  and  with  it  fled  the  dream  — recorded  in  this 
book, 

Lest  all  that  passed  should  melt  away  in  silence  from 
my  mind. 

As  visions  still  more  bright  have  done,  and  left  no  trace 
behind. 

But  oh ! that  country-man  of  thine,  whose  eye,  loved 
child,  can  see 

A pledge  of  endless  bliss  in  acts  of  early  piety. 

In  verse,  which  to  thy  ear  might  come,  would  treat  this 
simple  theme. 

Nor  leave  untold  our  happy  flight  in  that  adventurous 
dream. 

Alas  the  dream,  to  thee,  poor  boy  ! to  thee  from  whom 
it  flowed. 

Was  nothing,  scarcely  can  be  aught,  yet ’t  was  bounte- 
ously bestowed. 

If  I may  dare  to  cherish  hope  that  gentle  eyes  will  read 
Not  loth,  and  listening  little-ones,  heart-touched  their 
fancies  feed. 

THE  WESTMORELAND  GIRL.* 

TO  MY  GEANDCHILDREN. 

PART  I. 

Seek  who  will  delight  in  fable, 

I shall  tell  you  truth.  A lamb 
Leapt  from  this  steep  bank  to  follow 
’Cross  tlie  brook  its  thoughtless  dam. 

Far  and  wide  on  hill  and  valley 
Rain  had  fallen,  unceasing  rain. 

And  the  bleating  mother’s  young  one 
Struggled  with  the  flood  in  vain : 

But,  as  chanced,  a cottage  maiden 
(Ten  years  scarcely  had  she  told) 

Seeing  plunged  into  the  torrent. 

Clasped  the  lamb  and  kept  her  hold. 

[*  In  a letter  to  the  editor,  31st  July  1845,  Mr.  Words- 
worth thus  speaks  of  this  poem : “ The  little  poem  which 
I ventured  to  send  you  lately,  I thought,  might  interest  you 
on  account  of  the  fact  as  exhibiting  what  sort  of  characters 
our  mountains  breed.  It  is  truth  to  the  letter.”  H.  R.] 


Whirled  adown  the  rocky  cliannel. 
Sinking,  rising,  on  they  go. 

Peace  and  rest,  as  seems,  before  them 
Only  in  the  lake  below. 

Oh ! it  was  a frightful  current 
Whose  fierce  wrath  the  girl  had  braved ; 
Clap  your  hands  with  joy  my  hearers. 
Shout  in  triumph,  both  are  saved  ; 

Saved  by  courage  that  with  danger 
Grew,  by  strength  the  gift  of  love. 

And  belike  a guardian  angel 
Came  with  sticcour  from  above. 


PART  II.  ' 

Now,  to  a maturer  audience. 

Let  me  speak  of  this  brave  child 
Left  among  her  native  mountains 
With  wild  nature  to  run  wild. 

So,  unwatched  by  love  maternal. 

Mother’s  care  no  more  her  guide. 

Fared  this  little  bright-eyed  Orphan 
Even  while  at  her  fatlier’s  side. 

Spare  your  blame,  — remembrance  makes  him 
I,oth  to  rule  by  strict  command  ; 

Still  upon  his  cheek  are  living 
Touches  of  her  infant  hand. 

Dear  caresses  given  in  pity. 

Sympathy  that  soothed  his  grief. 

As  the  dying  mother  witnessed 
To  her  thankful  mind’s  relief. 

Time  passed  on ; the  child  was  happy. 

Like  a spirit  of  air  she  moved. 

Wayward,  yet  by  all  who  knew  her 
For  her  tender  heart  beloved. 

Scarcely  less  than  sacred  passions. 

Bred  in  house,  in  grove,  and  field. 

Link  her  with  the  inferior  creatures. 

Urge  her  powers  their  rights  to  shield. 

Anglers,  bent  on  reckless  pastime. 

Learn  how  she  can  feel  alike 

Both  for  tiny  harmless  minnow 

And  the  fierce  and  sharp-toothed  pike. 

Merciful  protectress,  kindling 
Into  anger  or  disdain; 

Many  a captive  hath  she  rescued. 

Others  saved  from  lingering  pain. 

Listen  yet  awhile ; — with  patience 
Hear  the  homely  truths  I tell. 

She  in  Grasmere’s  old  church-steeple 
Tolled  this  day  the  passing-bell. 


POEMS  EEFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


85 


Yes,  the  wild  girl  of  the  mountains 
To  their  echoes  gave  the  sound, 
Notice  punctual  as  tlie  minute, 
Warning  solemn  and  profound. 

She,  fulfilling  her  sire’s  office. 

Rang  alone  the  far-heard  knell. 
Tribute,  by  her  hand,  in  sorrow. 

Paid  to  one  who  loved  her  well. 

When  his  spirit  was  departed 
On  that  service  she  went  forth  ; 

Nor  will  fail  the  like  to  render 
When  his  corse  is  laid  in  earth. 

What  then  wants  the  child  to  temper. 
In  her  breast,  unruly  fire. 

To  control  the  froward  impulse 
And  restrain  the  vague  desire  1 


] Easily  a pious  training 

j And  a stedfast  outward  power 

I Would  supplant  the  weeds  and  cherish, 
j In  their  stead,  each  opening  flower. 

j Thus  the  fearless  lamb-del iv’rer, 

Woman-grown,  meek-hearted,  sage. 

May  become  a blest  e.\-ample 
For  her  sex,  of  every  age. 

Watchful  as  a wheeling  eagle. 

Constant  as  a soaring  lark. 

Should  the  country  need  a heroine. 

She  might  prove  our  Maid  of  Arc. 

i Leave  that  thought ; and  here  be  ulterca 
I Prayer  tliat  grace  divine  may  raise 
I Her  humane  courageous  spirit, 

I Up  to  heaven,  thro’  peaceful  ways. 


N O T E S 

TO 

POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  CHILDHOOD. 


Note  1,  p.  73. 

[These  lines  are  quoted  by  Coleridge  in  ‘The 
Friend,’  to  illustrate  a principle  expressed  in  a passage 
of  that  work,  which  may  be  here  inserted  as  a recipro- 
cal illustration.  “Men  laugh  at  the  falsehoods  imposed 
on  them  during  their  childhood,  because  they  are  not 
good  and  wise  enough  to  contemplate  the  past  in  the 
present,  and  so  to  produce  by  a virtuous  and  thoughtful 
sensibility  that  continuity  in  their  self-consciousness, 
which  nature  has  made  the  law  of  their  animal  life.  ! 
Ingratitude,  sensuality,  and  hardness  of  heart,  all  flow  ^ 
from  this  source.  Men  are  ungrateful  to  others  only  I 
when  they  have  ceased  to  look  back  on  their  former 
selves  with  joy  and  tenderness.  They  exist  in  frag- 
ments. Annihilated  as  to  tiie  past,  they  are  dead  to 
the  future,  or  seek  for  the  proofs  of  it  everywhere, 
only  not  (where  alone  it  can  be  found)  in  themselves. 
A contemporary  poet  has  expressed  and  illustrated  this 
sentiment  with  equal  fineness  of  thought  and  tender- 
ness of  feeling : 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold 
A rainbow  in  the  sky ! 

So  was  it  when  my  life  began; 

So  is  it  now  I am  a man: 

So  let  it  be  when  I grow  old. 

Or  let  me  die. 


The  child  is  father  of  the  man, 

And  I woidd  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

V\'oRDSWORTH. 

“I  am  informed,  that  these  very  lines  have  been  cited 
jas  a specimen  of  despicable  puerility.  So  much  the 
worse  for  the  citer:  not  willingly  in  his  presence 
would  I behold  the  sun  setting  behind  our  mountains, 
or  listen  to  a tale  of  distress  or  virtue;  I should  be 
ashamed  of  the  quiet  tear  on  my  own  cheek.  But  let 
the  dead  bury  the  dead  ! The  poet  sang  for  tlie  living 

I was  always  pleased  with  the  motto  placed 

under  the  figure  of  tlie  rosemary  in  old  herbals : 

‘Sus  apage  ! Haud  tibi  spiro.’ ” 

‘ The  Friend;  Vol.  I.  p.  58.  — II.  R.J 

Note  2,  p.  81. 

[The  impression  made  by  the  poem  referred  to  upon 
the  mind  of  Coleridge  is  in  some  measure  shown  by 
the  fact  that  this  extract  and  another  on  tlie  French 
Revolution  were  first  published  in  ‘ 'I'he  Friend.’  A 
record  of  his  feelings  — of  tlie  manner  in  which  his 
spirit  was  moved  by  the  perusal  — may  be  found  in  his 
Poetical  Works;  and  it  forms  so  precious  a comment 
— the  best  of  all  kinds — poet  responding  to  poet — that 
I have  appended  it  in  this  note.  It  is  due  to  a poem  so 
8 


86 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


worthy  of  its  lofty  theme,  and  of  him  who  wrote  and 
him  who  is  addressed.  In  thus  appending  it,  I cannot 
but  hope  that  I am  rendering  a grateful  service  to  every 
reflecting  reader  of  this  volume  — a service  too,  which 
a restraining  modesty  might  prevent  Mr.  Wordsworth 
from  rendering  in  his  own  edition. — II.  R. 

The  poem  by  Coleridge,  referred  to  in  the  above  note, 
is  transferred  in  this  edition  to  w’hat  has  become  a more 
appropriate  place,  and  will  be  found  as  an  introduction 
to  ‘The  Prelude.’  — II.  R.] 

Note  3,  p.  82. 

‘77ie  Norman  Boy.'' 

“Among  ancient  trees  there  are  few,  I believe,  at 
least  in  France,  so  worthy  of  attention  as  an  oak  which 
may  be  seen  in  the  ‘ Pays  de  Caux,’  about  a league 
from  Yvetot,  close  to  the  church,  and  in  the  burial- 
ground  of  Allonville. 

The  height  of  this  tree  does  not  answer  to  its  girth  ; 
the  trunk,  from  the  roots  to  the  summit,  forms  a com- 
plete cone ; and  the  inside  of  this  cone  is  hollow 
throughout  the  whole  of  its  height. 

Such  is  the  Oak  of  Allonville,  in  its  state  of  nature. 


The  hand  of  man,  however,  has  endeavoured  to  impress 
upon  it  a cliaracter  still  more  interesting,  by  adding  a 
religious  feeling  to  the  respect  which  its  age  naturally 
inspires. 

The  lower  part  of  its  hollow  trunk  has  been  trans- 
formed into  a chapel  of  six  or  seven  feet  in  diameter, 
carefully  wainscoted  and  paved,  and  an  open  iron  gate 
guards  the  humble  sanctuary. 

Leading  to  it  there  is  a staircase,  which  twists  round 
the  body  of  the  tree.  At  certain  seasons  of  the  year 
divine  service  is  performed  in  this  chapel. 

The  summit  has  been  broken  off  many  years,  but 
there  is  a surface  at  the  top  of  the  trunk,  of  the  diameter 
of  a very  large  tree,  and  from  it  rises  a__  pointed  roof, 
covered  with  slates,  in  the  form  of  a steeple,  which  is 
surmounted  with  an  iron  cross,  that  rises  in  a picturesque 
manner  from  the  middle  of  the  leaves,  like  an  ancient 
hermitage  above  the  surrounding  wood. 

Over  the  entrance  to  the  chapel  an  inscription  ap- 
pears, which  informs  us  it  was  erected  by  the  Abbe  du 
Detroit,  Curate  of  Allonville,  in  the  year  1696 ; and  over 
a door  is  another,  dedicating  it  ‘To  Our  Lady  of 
Peace.’  ” 

Yide  14  No.  Saturday  Magazine. 


POEMS 


FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


THE  BROTHERS.* 

'These  Tourists,  Heaven  preserve  us!  needs  must 
live 

A profitable  life:  some  glance  along, 

Rapid  and  gay,  as  if  the  earth  were  air. 

And  they  were  butterflies  to  wheel  about 
Long  as  the  summer  lasted ; some,  as  wise. 

Perched  on  the  forehead  of  a jutting  crag. 

Pencil  in  hand  and  book  upon  the  knee. 

Will  look  and  scribble,  scribble  on  and  look. 

Until  a man  might  travel  twelve  stout  miles. 

Or  reap  an  acre  of  his  neighbour’s  corn. 

But,  for  that  moping  Son  of  Idleness, 

Why  can  he  tarry  yonder  ? — In  our  church-yard 
Is  neither  epitaph  nor  jnonument. 

Tombstone  nor  name  — only  the  turf  we  tread 
And  a few  natural  graves.”  To  Jane,  his  wife. 

Thus  spake  the  homely  Priest  of  Ennerdale. 

It  was  a July  evening;  and  lie  sate 
Upon  the  long  stone-seat  beneath  the  eaves 
Of  his  old  cottage,  — as  it  chanced,  that  day. 
Employed  in  winter’s  work.  Upon  the  stone 
His  Wife  sate  near  him,  teasing  matted  wool. 

While,  from  the  twin  cards  toothed  with  glittering 
wire. 

He  fed  the  spindle  of  his  youngest  Child, 

Who  turned  her  large  round  wheel  in  the  open  air 
With  back  and  forward  steps.  Towards  the  field 
In  which  the  Parish  Chapel  stood  alone, 

Girt  round  with  a bare  ring  of  mossy  wall. 

While  half  an  hour  went  by,  the  Priest  had  sent 
Many  a long  look  of  wonder ; and  at  last. 

Risen  from  his  seat,  beside  the  snow-white  ridge 
Of  carded  wool  which  the  old  man  had  piled 
He  laid  his  implements  with  gentle  care. 

Each  in  the  other  locked ; and,  down  the  path 
That  from  his  cottage  to  the  church-yard  led. 

He  took  his  way,  impatient  to  accost 

The  Stranger,  whom  he  saw  still  lingering  there. 

’T  was  one  well  known  to  him  in  former  days, 

A Shepherd-lad  ; — who  ere  his  sixteenth  year 
Had  left  that  calling,  templed  to  entrust 

* This  Poem  was  intended  to  eonclnde  a series  of  psi-slorats, 
iho  scene  of  which  was  laid  among  the  mountains  of  Ciimber- 
lond  and  Westmoreland.  1 mention  this  to  apologise  for  the  ab 
rupmctss  with  which  the  poem  begins 


His  expectations  to  the  fickle  winds 
And  perilous  waters,  — with  the  mariners 
A fellow-mariner,  — and  so  had  fared 
Through  twenty  seasons ; but  he  had  been  reared 
Among  the  mountains,  and  he  in  his  heart 
Was  half  a Shepherd  on  the  stormy  seas. 

Oft  in  the  piping  shrouds  had  Leonard  heard 
The  tones  of  waterfalls,  and  inland  sounds 
Of  caves  and  trees:  — and,  when  the  regular  wind 
Between  the  tropics  filled  the  steady  sail. 

And  blew  with  the  same  breath  through  days  and 
weeks. 

Lengthening  invisibly  its  weary  line 
Along  the  cloudless  Main,  he,  in  those  hours 
Of  tiresome  indolence,  would  often  hang 
Over  the  vessel’s  side,  and  gaze  and  gaze; 

And,  while  the  broad  green  wave  and  sparkling  foam 
Flashed  round  him  images  and  hues  that  WTought 
In  union  with  the  employment  of  his  heart. 

He,  thus  by  feverish  passion  overcome. 

Even  with  the  organs  of  his  bodily  eye. 

Below  him,  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 

Saw  mountains, — saw  the  forms  of  sheep  that  grazed 
On  verdant  hills  — with  dwellings  among  trees, 

And  shepherds  clad  in  the  same  country  gray 
Which  he  himself  had  worn.f 

And  now,  at  last. 

From  perils  manifold,  with  some  small  wealth 
Acquired  by  traffic  ’mid  the  Indian  Isles, 

To  his  paternal  home  he  is  returned. 

With  a determined  purpose  to  resume 
The  life  he  had  lived  there;  both  for  the  sake 
Of  many  darling  pleasures,  and  the  love 
Which  to  an  only  brother  he  has  borne 
In  all  his  hardships,  since  that  happy  time 
When,  whether  it  blew  foul  or  fair,  they  two 
Were  brother  Shepherds  on  their  native  hills. 

— They  were  the  last  of  all  their  race : and  now. 
When  Ijconard  had  approached  his  home,  his  heart 
Failed  in  him  ; and,  not  venturing  to  enquire 
Tidings  of  one  whom  he  so  dearly  loved. 

Towards  the  church-yard  he  had  turned  aside ; 

That,  as  he  knew  in  what  particular  spot 
llis  family  were  laid,  he  thence  might  learn 

+ This  description  of  tho  Culonliire  is  sketched  from  an  im- 
perfect recollectiiin  of  an  admirable  one  in  prose,  by  Mr.  Od- 
1 bort,  author  of  Thu  Ilurricano 


88 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  Vv’ORKS. 


If  still  his  Brother  lived,  or  to  the  file 
Another  grave  was  added.  — He  had  found 
Another  grave,  — near  which  a full  half-hour 
He  had  remained ; but,  as  he  gazed,  there  grew 
Such  a confusion  in  his  memory. 

That  he  began  to  doubt ; and  hope  was  his 
That  he  had  seen  this  heap  of  turf  before. 

That  it  was  not  another  grave ; but  one 
He  had  forgotten.  He  had  lost  his  path. 

As  up  the  vale,  that  afternoon,  he  walked 
Through  fields  which  once  had  been  well  known  to  him : 
And  oh  what  joy  the  recollection  now 
Sent  to  his  heart ! He  lifted  up  Iiis  eyes. 

And,  looking  round,  imagined  that  he  saw 
Strange  alteration  wrought  on  every  side 
Among  the  woods  and  fields,  and  that  the  rocks 
And  everlasting  hills  themselves  were  changed. 

By  this  the  Priest,  who  down  the  field  had  come. 
Unseen  by  Leonard,  at  the  church-yard  gate 
Stopped  short, — and  thence,  at  leisure,  limb  by  limb 
Perused  him  with  a gay  complacency. 

Ay,  thought  the  Vicar,  smiling  to  himself, 

’T  is  one  of  those  who  needs  must  leave  the  path 
Of  tlie  world’s  business  to  go  wild  alone : 

His  arms  have  a perpetual  holiday; 

The  happy  man  will  creep  about  the  fields. 

Following  his  fancies  by  the  hour,  to  bring 
Tears  down  his  cheek,  or  solitary  smiles 
Into  his  face,  until  the  setting  sun 
Write  Fool  upon  his  forehead.  Planted  thus 
Beneath  a shed  that  over-arched  the  gate 
Of  this  rude  church-yard,  till  the  stars  appeared 
The  good  Man  might  have  communed  witli  himself, 
But  that  the  Stranger,  who  had  left  the  grave, 
Approached  ; he  recognised  the  Priest  at  once. 

And,  after  greetings  interchanged,  and  given 
By  Leonard  to  the  Vicar  as  to  one 
Unknown  to  him,  this  dialogue  ensued. 

LEO.\AR0. 

You  live.  Sir,  in  these  dales,  a quiet  life: 

Your  years  make  up  one  peaceful  family ; 

And  who  would  grieve  and  fret,  if,  welcome  come 
And  welcome  gone,  they  are  so  like  each  other. 

They  cannot  be  remembered  ? Scarce  a funeral 
Comes  to  this  church-yard  once  in  eighteen  months; 
And  yet,  some  changes  must  take  place  among  you : 
And  you,  who  dwell  here,  even  among  these  rocks. 
Can  trace  the  finger  of  mortality. 

And  see,  that  with  our  threescore  years  and  ten 

We  are  not  ah  that  perish. 1 remember, 

(For  many  years  ago  I passed  this  road) 

There  was  a foot-w'ay  all  along  the  fields 
By  the  brook-side  — ’t  is  g'one  — and  that  dark  cleft  ! 
To  me  it  does  not  seem  to  wear  the  face 
Whicli  then  it  had. 


PRIEST. 

Nay,  Sir,  for  aught  I know. 
That  chasm  is  much  the  same  — 

LEO.NARD. 

But,  surely,  yonder  — 

PRIEST. 

Ay,  there,  indeed,  your  memory  is  a friend 
That  does  not  play  you  false.  — On  that  tall  pike 
(It  is  the  loneliest  place  of  all  these  hills) 

There  were  two  Springs  which  bubbled  side  by  side. 
As  if  they  had  been  made  that  they  might  be 
Companions  for  each  other : the  huge  crag 
W^as  rent  with  lightning  — one  hath  disappeared; 

The  other,  left  behind,  is  flowing  still.* 

For  accidents  aiid  changes  such  as  these. 

We  w’ant  not  store  of  them  ; — a water-spou,t 
Will  bring  down  half  a mountain  ; what  a feast 
For  folks  that  w’ander  up  and  down  like  you. 

To  see  an  acre’s  breadth  of  that  wide  clifl' 

One  roaring  cataract!  — a sharp  May-stor.m 
Will  come  with  loads  of  January  snow. 

And  in  one  night  send  twenty-score  of  sheep 
To  feeil  the  ravens;  or  a Shepherd  dies 
By  some  untoward  death  among  the  rocks : 

The  ice  breaks  up  and  sweeps  away  a bridge  — 

A wood  is  felled  : — and  then  for  our  own  homes  ! 

A Child  is  born  or  christened,  a Field  ploughed,. 

A Daughter  sent  to  service,  a Web  spun. 

The  old  House-clock  is  decked  with  a new  face; 

And  hence,  so  far  fiom  wanting  facts  or  dates 
To  chronicle  the  time,  we  all  have  here 
A pair  of  diaries,  — one  serving.  Sir, 

For  the  whole  dale,  and  one  for  each  fire-side  - 
Yours  was  a stranger’s  judgment : for  Historians’, 
Commend  me  to  these  valleys! 

LEONARD. 

Yet  your  Church-yard 

Secm.«,  if  such  freedom  may  be  used  with  you, 

To  say  that  you  are  heedless  of  the  past: 

An  orphan  could  not  find  his  mother’s  grave : 

Here ’s  neither  head  nor  foot-stone,  plate  of  brass. 
Cross-bones  nor  skull,  — type  of  our  earthly  state 
Nor  emblem  of  our  hopes : the  dead  man’s  home 
Is  but  a fellow  to  that  pasture  field. 

PRIE.ST. 

Why,  there.  Sir,  is  a thought  that’s  new  to  me! 

The  Stone-cutters,  ’t  is  true,  might  beg  their  bread 
If  every  English  Church-yard  were  like  ours; 

Yet  your  conclusion  wanders  from  the  truth: 

We  have  no  need  of  names  and  epitaphs; 

We  talk  about  the  dead  by  our  fire-sides. 

And  then,  for  our  immortal  part ! we  want 
No  symbols.  Sir,  to  tell  us  that  plain  tale: 

Tlie  tliought  of  death  sits  easy  on  the  man 
Who  has  been  born  and  dies  among  the  mountains. 

* Tli'is  actually  tuoK  place  upon  Kidstoy.  Pike  at  the  head  of 
Uaweswater 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


89 


LEONAKD. 

Your  Dalesmen,  then,  do  in  each  other’s  thoughts 
Possess  a kind  of  second  life  : no  doubt 
You,  Sir,  could  help  me  to  the  history 
Of  half  these  Graves. 

PRIEST. 

For  eight-score  winters  past, 
WitJi  what  I’ve  witnessed,  and  with  what  I’ve  heard. 
Perhaps  I might ; and,  on  a winter-evening. 

If  you  were  seated  at  my  chimney’s  nook. 

By  turning  o’er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 

We  two  could  travel.  Sir,  through  a strange  round; 
Yet  all  in  the  broad  highway  of  the  world. 

Now  there’s  a grave  — your  foot  is  half  upon  it, — 

It  looks  just  like  the  rest;  and  yet  that  Man 
Died  broken-hearted. 

LEONARD. 

’Tis  a common  case. 

We  ’ll  take  another : who  is  he  that  lies 
Beneath  yon  ridge,  tlie  last  of  those  three  graves  1 
It  touches  on  that  piece  of  native  rock 
Left  in  the  church-yard  wall. 

PRIEST. 

That ’s  Walter  Ewbank. 
lie  had  as  white  a head  and  fresh  a cheek 
As  ever  were  produced  by  youth  and  age 
Engendering  in  the  blood  of  hale  fourscore. 

Through  five  long  generations  had  the  heart 
Of  Walter’s  forefathers  o’erflowed  the  bounds 
Of  their  inheritance,  that  single  cottage  — 

You  see  it  yonder  ! — and  tliose  few  green  fields. 

They  toiled  and  wrought,  and  still,  from  Sire  to  Son, 
Each  struggled,  and  each  yielded  as  before 
A little  — yet  a little  — and  old  Walter, 

They  left  to  him  the  family  heart,  and  land 
With  other  burthens  than  the  crop  it  bore. 

Year  after  year  the  old  man  still  kept  up 
A cheerful  mind,  — and  buffeted  with  bond. 

Interest,  and  mortgages ; at  last  he  sank. 

And  went  into  his  grave  before  his  time. 

Poor  Walter!  whether  it  was  care  that  spurred  him 
God  only  knows,  but  to  the  very  last 
He  had  the  lightest  foot  in  Ennerdale  : 

His  pace  was  never  that  of  an  old  man: 

I almost  see  him  tripping  down  the  path 
With  his  two  Grandsons  after  him:  — but  Y’ou, 

Unless  our  Landlord  bo  your  host  to-night. 

Have  far  to  travel,  — and  on  these  rough  paths 
Even  in  the  longest  day  of  midsummer  — 

LEONARD. 

But  those  two  Orphans! 

PRIEST. 

Orphans  ! — Such  they  were 
Yet  not  while  Walter  lived : —.for,  though  their  pa- 
rents 

Lay  buried  side  by  side  as  now  they  lie, 

M 


The  old  man  was  a father  to  the  boys. 

Two  fathers  in  one  fiither:  and  if  tears. 

Shed  when  he  talked  of  them  where  they  were  not. 
And  haunting  from  the  infirmity  of  love. 

Are  aught  of  what  makes  up  a mother’s  heart. 

This  old  Man,  in  the  day  of  his  old  age. 

Was  half  a mother  to  them.  — If  you  weep.  Sir, 

To  hear  a Stranger  talking  about  Strangers, 

Heaven  bless  you  when  you  are  among  your  kindred ! 
Ay  — you  may  turn  that  way  — it  is  a grave 
Which  will  bear  looking  at. 

LEONARD. 

These  Boys  — I hope 
They  loved  this  good  old  Man ! — 

PRIEST. 

They  did  — and  truly: 
But  that  was  what  w^e  almost  overlooked. 

They  were  such  darlings  of  each  other.  For, 

Though  from  their  cradles  they  had  lived  with  Walter, 
The  only  Kinsman  near  them,  and  though  he 
Inclined  to  them  by  reason  of  his  age. 

With  a more  fond,  familiar  tenderness, 

They,  notwithstanding,  had  much  love  to  spare. 

And  it  all  went  into  each  other’s  hearts. 

Leonard,  the  elder  by  just  eighteen  months. 

Was  two  years  taller:  ’t  was  a joy  to  see, 

To  hear,  to  meet  them  ! — From  their  house  the  Schoo. 
Is  distant  three  short  miles  — and  in  the  time 
Of  storm  and  thaw,  when  every  water-course 
And  un’oridged  stream,  such  as  you  may  have  noticed 
Crossing  our  roads  at  every  hundred  steps. 

Was  swoln  into  a noisy  rivulet, 

Would  Leonard  then,  when  elder  boys  perhaps 
Remained  at  liome,  go  staggering  through  the  fords. 
Bearing  his  Brother  on  his  back,  I have  seen  him, 

On  W'indy  days,  in  one  of  those  stray  brooks. 

Ay,  more  than  once  I have  seen  him,  mid-leg  deep. 
Their  two  books  lying  both  on  a dry  stone. 

Upon  the  hither  side  : and  once  I said. 

As  I remember,  looking  round  these  rocks 
And  hills  on  which  we  all  of  us  were  born. 

That  God  who  made  the  great  book  of  the  world 
Would  bless  such  piety  — 

LEONARD. 

It  may  be  then  — 

PRIE.ST. 

Never  did  worthier  lads  break  English  bread  ; 

The  finest  Sunday  that  the  Autumn  saw 
With  all  its  mealy  clusters  of  ripe  nuts. 

Could  never  keep  these  boys  away  from  church. 

Or  tempt  them  to  an  hour  of  sabbath  breach. 

Leonard  and  James!  I warrant,  every  corner 
Among  these  rocks,  and  every  hollow  place 
Where  Ibot  could  come,  to  one  or  both  of  them 
Was  known  as  well  as  to  the  flowers  that  grow  there. 
Like  Roe-bucks  they  went  bounding  o’er  the  hills  ; 
They  played  like  two  young  Ravens  on  the  crags : 


90 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then  tliey  could  write,  ay  and  speak  too,  as  well 
As  many  of  their  betters  — and  for  Leonard  ! 

The  very  night  before  he  went  away. 

In  my  own  house  I put  into  his  hand 
A Bible,  and  I ’d  wager  house  and  field 
That,  if  he  is  alive,  he  has  it  yet. 

LEONARD. 

It  seems,  these  Brothers  have  not  lived  to  be 
A comfort  to  each  other  — 

PRIEST. 

That  they  might 

Live  to  such  end,  is  what  both  old  and  young 
In  this  our  valley  all  of  us  have  wished. 

And  what,  for  my  part,  I have  often  prayed : 

But  Leonard  — 

EONARD. 

Then  James  still  is  left  among  you? 

PRIEST. 

’T  is  of  the  elder  Brother  I am  speaking; 

They  had  an  Uncle ; — he  was  at  that  time 
A thriving  man,  and  trafficked  on  the  seas: 

And,  but  for  that  same  Uncle,  to  this  hour 
Leonard  had  never  handled  rope  or  shroud  ; 

For  the  Boy  loved  the  life  which  we  lead  here ; 

And  though  of  unripe  years,  a stripling  only, 

Ilis  soul  was  knit  to  this  his  native  soil. 

But,  as  I said,  old  Walter  was  too  weak 
To  strive  with  such  a torrent ; when  he  died. 

The  Estate  and  House  were  sold ; and  all  their  Sheep, 
A pretty  flock,  and  which,  for  aught  I know. 

Had  clothed  the  Ewbanks  for  a thousand  years;  — 
Well  — all  was  gone,  and  they  were  destitute. 

And  Leonard,  chiefly  for  his  Brother’s  sake. 

Resolved  to  try  his  fortune  on  the  seas. 

Twelve  years  are  past  since  we  had  tidings  from  him. 
If  there  was  one  among  us  who  had  heard 
That  Leonard  Ewbank  was  come  home  again. 

From  the  great  Gavel*,  down  by  Leeza’s  Banks, 

And  down  the  Enna,  far  as  Egremont, 

The  day  would  be  a very  festival ; 

And  those  two  bells  of  ours,  which  there  you  see  — 
Hanging  in  the  open  air  — but,  O good  Sir ! 

This  is  sad  talk  — they’ll  never  sound  for  him  — 
Living  or  dead.  — When  last  we  heard  of  him. 

He  was  in  slavery  among  the  Moors 

Upon  the  Barbary  Coast.  — ’T  was  not  a little 

That  would  bring  down  his  spirit ; and  no  doubt. 

Before  it  ended  in  his  death,  the  Youth 

Was  sadly  crossed  — Poor  Leonard  ! when  we  parted. 

He  took  me  by  the  hand,  and  said  to  me, 

♦ The  Great  Gayeh  so  called,  I imagine,  from  its  resemblance 
to  the  Gable  end  of  a bouse,  is  one  of  the  highest  of  the  Cum.- 
bei  land  mountains,  It  stands  at  the  head  of  the  several  vales 
of  Ennerdale,  Watsdale,  and  Borrowdale, 

The  Leeza  is  a river  which  flows  into  the  Lake  of  Ennerdale) 
on  issuing  from  the  Lake,  it  changes  its  name,  and  is  called  the 
End , Eyne,  or  Enna,  It  fails  intp  ibe  aea  a little  belpw  Egrement, 


If  e’er  he  should  grow  rich,  he  would  return, 

To  live  in  peace  upon  his  Father’s  Land, 

And  lay  his  bones  among  us. 

LEONARD. 

If  that  day 

Should  come,  ’t  would  needs  be  a glad  day  for  him ; 

He  would  himself,  no  doubt,  be  happy  then 
As  any  that  should  meet  him  — 

PRIEST. 

Happy!  Sir  — 

LEONARD. 

You  said  his  kindred  all  were  in  their  graves. 

And  that  he  had  one  Brother  — 

PRIEST. 

That  is  but 

A fellow  tale  of  sorrow.  From  his  youth 
James,  though  not  sickly,  yet  was  delicate 
And  Leonard  being  alw'ays  by  his  side 
Had  done  so  many  offices  about  him. 

That,  though  he  was  not  of  a timid  nature. 

Yet  still  the  spirit  of  a Mountain  Boy 

In  him  was  somewhat  checked ; and,  when  his  Brother 

Was  gone  to  sea,  and  he  was  left  alone. 

The  little  colour  that  he  had  was  soon 
Stolen  from  liis  cheek;  he  drooped,  and  pined,  and 
pined  — 

LEONARD. 

But  these  are  all  the  graves  of  full-grown  men  ! 

PRIEST. 

Ay,  Sir,  that  passed  away  : we  took  him  to  us  , 

He  was  the  child  of  all  the  dale  — he  lived 

Three  months  with  one,  and  six  months  with  another, 

And  wanted  neither  food,  nor  clothes,  nor  love: 

And  many,  many  happy  days  were  his. 

But,  wdiether  blithe  or  sad,  ’t  is  my  belief 
His  absent  Brother  still  was  at  his  heart. 

And,  when  he  dwelt  beneath  our  roof,  we  found 
(A  practice  till  this  time  unknown  to  him) 

That  often,  rising  from  his  bed  at  night. 

He  in  his  sleep  would  walk  about,  and  sleeping 
He  sought  his  brother  Leonard.  — You  are  moved  I 
Forgive  me.  Sir:  before  I spoke  to  you, 

I judged  you  most  unkindly. 

LEONARD. 

But  this  Youth, 

How  did  he  die  at  last! 

PRIEST. 

One  sweet  May  morning, 

(It  will  be  twelve  years  since  when  Spring  returns) 
He  had  gone  forth  among  the  new-dropped  lambs. 
With  two  or  throe  oompanions,  whom  thoir  course 
Of  occupation  led  from  height  to  height 
Under  a cloudless  sun,  till  he,  at  length. 

Through  weariness,  or,  haply,  to  indulge 
The  humour  of  the  moment,  lagged  behind 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


Dl 


You  see  yon  precipice  ; — it  wears  the  shape 
Of  a vast  building'  made  of  many  crags ; 

And  in  the  midst  is  one  particular  rock 
That  rises  like  a column  from  the  vale, 

Whence  by  our  shepherds  it  is  called  The  Pielar. 
Upon  its  aery  summit  crowned  with  heath, 

The  Loiterer,  not  unnoticed  by  his  Comrades, 

Lay  stretched  at  ease ; but,  passing  by  the  place 
On  their  return,  they  found  that  he  was  gone. 

No  ill  was  feared  ; but  one  of  them  by  chance 
Entering,  when  evening  was  far  spent,  the  house 
Which  at  that  time  was  James’s  home,  there  learned 
That  nobody  had  seen  him  all  that  day  : 

The  morning  came,  and  still  he  was  unheard  of; 

The  neighbours  were  alarmed,  and  to  the  Brook 
Some  hastened,  some  towards  the  Lake : ere  noon 
Tliey  found  him  at  the  foot  of  that  same  Rock 
Dead,  and  with  mangled  limbs.  The  third  day  after 
I buried  him,  poor  Youth,  and  there  he  lies! 

LEONARD. 

And  that  then  is  his  grave  ! — Before  his  death 
You  say  that  he  saw  many  happy  years? 

priest. 

Ay,  that  he  did  ! — 

LEONARD. 

And  all  went  well  with  him? — 

PRIEST. 

If  he  had  one,  the  youth  had  twenty  homes. 

LEONARD. 

And  you  believe,  then,  that  his  mind  was  easy  ? — 

PRIEST. 

Yes,  long  before  he  died,  he  found  tliat  time 
Is  a true  friend  to  sorrow ; and  unless 
His  thoughts  were  turned  on  Leonard’s  luckless  for- 
tune, 

lie  talked  about  him  with  a cheerful  love. 

LEONARD. 

He  could  not  come  to  an  unhallowed  end  ! 

PRIEST. 

Nay,  God  forbid  ! — You  recollect  I mentioned 
A habit  which  disquietude  and  grief 
Had  brought  upon  him ; and  we  all  conjectured 
That,  as  the  day  was  warm,  he  had  lain  down 
Upon  the  grass,  — and  waiting  for  his  comrades. 

He  there  had  fallen  asleep;  that  in  his  sleep 

He  to  the  margin  of  the  precipice 

Had  walked,  and  from  the  summit  had  fallen  headlong. 

And  so,  no  doubt,  he  perished ; at  the  time. 

We  guess,  that  in  his  hand  he  must  have  held 
His  Shepherd’s  staff;  for  midway  in  the  cliff 
It  had  been  caught;  and  there  for  many  years 
It  hung  — and  mouldered  there. 

The  Priest  here  ended  — 
The  Stranger  would  have  thanked  him,  but  he  felt 
A gushing  from  his  heart  that  took  away 


The  power  of  speech.  Both  left  the  spot  in  silence  ; 
And  Leonard,  when  they  reached  the  cliurch-yard  gate. 
As  the  Priest  lifted  up  the  latch  turned  round,  — 

And,  looking  at  the  grave,  he  said,  “ My  Brother !” 
The  Vicar  did  not  hear  the  words:  and  now. 

Pointing  towards  the  Cottage,  he  entreated 
That  Leonard  would  partake  his  homely  fare : 

The  other  thanked  him  with  a fervent  voice ; 

But  added,  that,  the  evening  being  calm. 

He  would  pursue  his  Journey.  So  they  parted. 

It  was  not  long  ere  Leonard  reached  a grove 
That  overhung  the  road : he  there  stopped  short. 

And,  sitting  down  beneath  the  trees,  reviewed 
All  that  the  Priest  had  said  : his  early  years 
Were  with  him  in  his  heart:  his  cherislied  hopes. 

And  thoughts  whicli  had  been  his  an  hour  before. 

All  pressed  on  him  with  such  a weight,  that  now. 

This  vale,  where  he  had  been  so  happy,  seemed 
A place  in  which  he  could  not  bear  to  live: 

So  he  relinquished  all  his  purposes. 

He  travelled  on  to  Egremont : and  thence. 

That  night,  he  wrote  a letter  to  the  Priest, 

Reminding  him  of  what  had  passed  between  them- 
x\nd  adding,  with  a hope  to  be  forgiven. 

That  it  was  from  the  weakness  of  his  heart 
He  had  not  dared  to  tell  him  who  he  was. 

This  done,  he  went  on  shipboard,  and  is  now 
A Seaman,  a gray-headed  Mariner. 


ARTEGAL  AND  ELIDURE. 

[See  the  Chronicle  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth,  and  Milton’s  History  of  England.] 

Where  be  the  Temples  which,  in  Britain’s  Lsle, 

J’or  his  paternal  Gods,  the  Trojan  raised  ? 

Gone  like  a morning  dream,  or  like  a pile 
Of  clouds  that  in  cerulean  ether  blazed  ! — 

Ere  Julius  landed  on  her  white-cliffed  shore. 

They  sank,  delivered  o’er 
To  fatal  dissolution;  and,  I ween. 

No  vestige  then  was  left  that  such  had  ever  been. 

Nathless,  a British  record  (long  concealed 
In  old  Armorica,  whose  secret  springs 
No  Gothic  conqueror  ever  drank)  revealed 
The  wondrous  current  of  forgotten  things ; 

How  Brutus  came,  by  oracles  impelled. 

And  Albion’s  giants  quelled  — 

A brood  whom  no  civility  could  melt, 

“ Who  never  tasted  grace,  and  goodness  ne’er  had  felt,” 

By  brave  Corineus  aided,  he  subdued. 

And  rooted  out  the  intolerable  kind  ; 

And  this  too-long-pollutod  land  imbued 
With  goodly  arts  and  usages  refined ; 

Whence  golden  harvests,  cities,  warlike  towers, 

And  Pleasure’s  sumptuous  bowers; 


92 


WORDSWORTH’S  ROETICAL  WORKS. 


Whence  all  the  fixed  delights  of  house  and  home, 
Friendships  that  will  not  break,  and  love  that  cannot 
roam. 

O,  happy  Britain ! rcjrion  all  too  fair 
For  self-delighting  fancy  to  endure 
That  silence  only  should  inhabit  there, 

Wild  beasts,  or  uncouth  savages  impure  ! 

But,  intermingled  with  the  generous  seed. 

Grew  many  a poisonous  weed  ; 

Thus  fares  it  still  with  all  that  takes  its  birth 
From  human  care,  or  grows  upon  the  breast  of  earth. 

Hence,  and  how  soon  ! that  war  of  vengeance  waged 
By  Guendolen  against  her  faithless  lord ; 

Till  she,  in  jealous  fury  unassuaged. 

Had  slain  his  Paramour  with  rutliless  sword: 

Then,  into  Severn  hideously  defiled. 

She  flung  her  blameless  child, 

Sabrina  — vowing  that  the  stream  should  bear 
Tliat  name  tlirough  every  age,  her  hatred  to  declare. 

So  speaks  the  Clironicle,  and  tells  of  Lear 
By  his  ungrateful  daughters  turned  adrift. 

Ye  lightnings,  hoar  his  voice!  — they  cannot  hear. 
Nor  can  the  winds  restore  his  simple  gift. 

But  One  there  is,  a Child  of  nature  meek. 

Who  comes  her  Sire  to  seek  ; 

And  he,  recovering  sense,  upon  her  breast 
Leans  smilingly,  and  sinks  into  a perfect  rest. 

There  too  we  read  of  Spenser’s  faery  themes. 

And  those  that  Milton  loved  in  youthful  years; 

The  sage  enchanter  Merlin’s  subtle  schemes; 

The  feats  of  Arthur  and  his  kniglitly  peers ; 

Of  Arthur,  — who,  to  upper  light  restored. 

With  that  terrific  sword 
Which  yet  he  wields  in  subterranean  war. 

Shall  lift  his  country’s  fame  above  the  polar  star  ! 

What  wonder,  then,  if  in  such  ample  field 
Of  old  tradition,  one  particular  flower 
Doth  seemingly  in  vain  its  fragrance  yield. 

And  bloom  unnoticed  even  to  this  late  hourl 
Now,  gentle  Muses,  your  assistance  grant. 

While  I this  flower  transplant 
Into  a garden  stored  with  Poesy  ; 

Where  flowers  and  herbs  unite,  and  haply  some 
weeds  be. 

That,  wanting  not  wild  grace,  are  from  all  mischief 
free  ! 


A Kino  more  worthy  of  respect  and  love 
Than  wise  Gorbonian  ruled  not  in  his  day ; 

And  grateful  Britain  prospered  far  above 

All  neighbouring  countries  through  his  righteous  sway ; 

He  poured  rewards  and  honours  on  the  good ; 

The  Opnressor  he  withstood  ; 


And  wliile  he  served  the  gods  with  reverence  due. 
Fields  smiled,  and  temples  rose,  and  towns  and  cities 
grew. 

He  died,  whom  Artegal  succeeds  — his  son; 

But  how  unworthy  of  such  sire  was  he: 

A hopeful  reign,  auspiciously  begun. 

Was  darkened  soon  by  foul  iniquity. 

From  crime  to  crime  he  mounted,  till  at  length 
The  nobles  leagued  their  strength 
With  a vexed  people,  and  the  tyrant  chased ; 

And,  on  the  vacant  throne,  his  worthier  Brothei 
placed. 

From  realm  to  realm  the  humbled  Exile  went. 
Suppliant  for  aid  his  kingdom  to  regain; 

In  many  a court,  and  many  a warrior’s  tent,' 

He  urged  his  persevering  suit  in  vain. 

Him,  in'whose  wretched  heart  ambition  failed. 

Dire  poverty  assailed ; 

And,  tired  with  slights  which  he  no  more  could  brook 
Towards  his  native  soil  he  cast  a longing  look. 

Fair  blew  the  wished-for  wind  — the  voyage  sped; 

He  landed ; and,  by  many  dangers  scared, 

“ Poorly  provided,  poorly  followed,” 

To  Calaterium’s  forest  he  repaired. 

How  changed  from  him  who,  born  to  highest  place. 
Had  swayed  the  royal  mace. 

Flattered  and  feared,  despised  yet  deified. 

In  Troynovant,  his  seat  by  silver  Thames’s  side! 

From  that  wild  region  where  the  crownless  king 
Lay  in  concealment  with  his  scanty  train. 

Supporting  life  by  water  from  the  spring. 

And  such  chance  food  as  outlaws  can  obtain. 

Unto  the  few  whom  he  esteems  his  friends 
A messenger  he  sends ; 

And  from  their  secret  loyalty  requires 

Shelter  and  daily  bread,  — the  amount  of  his  desires. 

While  he  the  issue  waits,  at  early  morn 
Wandering  by  stealth  abroad,  he  chanced  to  hear 
A startling  outcry  made  by  hound  and  horn. 

From  which  the  tusky  boar  hath  fled  in  fear ; 

And,  scouring  toward  him  o’er  the  grassy  plain. 

Behold  the  hunter  train 
He  bids  his  little  company  advance 
With  seeming  unconcern  and  steady  countenance. 

The  royal  Elidure,  who  leads  the  chase. 

Hath  checked  his  foaming  courser  — Can  it  be! 
Methinks  that  I should  recognise  that  face. 

Though  much  disguised  by  long  adversity! 

He  gazed  rejoicing,  and  again  he  gazed. 

Confounded  and  amazed - 
“ It  is  the  king,  my  brother !”  and,  by  sound 
Of  his  own  voice  confirmed,  he  leaps  upon  the  ground 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


93 


Long,  strict,  and  tender  was  the  embrace  he  gave, 
Feebly  returned  by  daunted  Artegal ; 

Whose  natural  affection  doubts  enslave, 

And  apprehensions  dark  and  criminal. 

Loth  to  restrain  the  moving  interview, 

The  attendant  lords  withdrew ; 

And,  while  they  stood  upon  the  plain  apart. 

Thus  Elidure,  by  words,  relieved  his  struggling  heart. 

“ By  heavenly  Powers  conducted,  we  have  met ; 

— O Brother ! to  my  knowledge  lost  so  long, 

But  neither  lost  to  love,  nor  to  regret. 

Nor  to  n>y  wishes  lost ; — forgive  the  wrong, 

(Such  it  may  seem)  if  I thy  crown  have  borne, 

Thy  royal  mantle  worn: 

I was  their  natural  guardian  ; and  ’t  is  just 
That  now  I should  restore  what  hath  been  held  in 
trust.” 

Awhile  the  astonished  Artegal  stood  mute. 

Then  thus  e.xclaimed  — “ To  me,  of  titles  shorn, 

And  stripped  of  power ! — me,  feeble,  destitute, 

To  me  a kingdom  ! — spare  the  bitter  scorn  ! 

If  justice  ruled  the  breast  of  foreign  kings. 

Then,  on  the  wide-spread  wings 
Of  war,  had  I returned  to  claim  my  right ; 

This  will  I here  avow,  not  dreading  thy  despite.” 

I do  not  blame  thee,”  Elidure  replied ; 

“ But,  if  my  looks  did  with  my  words  agree, 

I should  at  once  be  trusted,  not  defied, 

And  thou  from  all  disquietude  be  free. 

May  the  unsullied  Goddess  of  the  chase. 

Who  to  this  blessed  place 
At  this  blest  moment  led  me,  if  I speak 
With  insincere  intent,  on  me  her  vengeance  wreak ! 

“Were  this  same  spear,  which  in  my  hand  I grasp. 

The  British  sceptre,  here  would  I to  thee 
The  symbol  yield  ; and  would  undo  this  clasp. 

If  it  confined  the  robe  of  sovereignty. 

Odious  to  me  the  pomp  of  regal  court. 

And  joyless  sylvan  sport. 

While  thou  art  roving,  wretched  and  forlorn. 

Thy  couch  the  dewy  earth,  thy  roof  the  forest  thorn !” 

Then  Artegal  thus  spake— “I  only  sought. 

Within  this  realm,  a place  of  safe  retreat ; 

Beware  of  rousing  an  ambitious  thought ; 

Beware  of  kindling  hopes,  for  me  unmeet ! 

Thou  art  reputed  wise,  but  in  my  mind 
Art  pitiably  blind ; 

Full  soon  this  generous  purpose  thou  mayst  rue,  ' 

When  that  which  has  been  done  no  wishes  can  undo.  ' 

] 

“ Who,  when  a crown  is  fixed  upon  his  head,  1 

Would  balance  claim  with  claim,  and  right  with  riMit? 

But  thou  — I know  not  how  inspired,  how  led ' 

Wouldst  change  the  course  of  things  in  all  men’s  sight ! ( 


And  this  for  one  who  cannot  imitate 
Thy  virtue,  who  may  hate : 

For,  it,  by  such  strange  sacrifice  restored. 

He  reign,  thou  still  must  be  his  king,  and  sovereign  lord. 

“ Lifted  in  magnanimity  above 

Aught  that  my  feeble  nature  could  perform. 

Or  even  conceive ; surpassing  me  in  love 
Far  as  in  power  the  eagle  doth  the  worm  ; 

I,  Brother ! only  should  be  king  in  name. 

And  govern  to  my  shame  ; 

A shadow  in  a hated  land,  while  all 

Of  glad  or  willing  service  to  thy  share  would  fall.” 

“Believe  it  not,”  said  Elidure;  “respect 
Awaits  on  virtuous  life,  and  ever  most 
1 Attends  on  goodness  with  dominion  decked. 

Which  stands  the  universal  empire’s  boast ; 

This  can  thy  own  experience  testify ; 

Nor  shall  thy  foes  deny 
That,  in  the  gracious  opening  of  thy  reign. 

Our  Father’s  spirit  seemed  in  thee  to  breathe  again. 

And  what  if  o er  that  bright  unbosoming 
Clouds  of  disgrace  and  envious  fortune  past ! 

Have  we  not  seen  the  glories  of  the  spring 
By  veil  of  noontide  darkness  overcast  1 
The  frith  that  glittered  like  a warrior’s  shield. 

The  sky,  the  gay  green  field. 

Are  vanished ; — gladness  ceases  in  the  groves. 

And  trepidation  strikes  the  blackened  mountain  coves. 

“ But  is  that  gloom  dissolved  1 how  passing  clear 
Seems  the  wide  world  — far  brighter  than”before  ! 

Even  .so  thy  latent  worth  will  re-appear. 

Gladdening  the  people’s  heart  from  shore  to  shore ; 

For  youthful  faults  ripe  virtues  shall  atone; 

Re-seated  on  thy  throne. 

Proof  shaft  thou  furnish  that  misfortune,  pain. 

And  sorrow,  have  confirmed  thy  native  right  to  reign. 

“ But,  not  to  overlook  what  thou  mayst  know. 

Thy  enemies  are  neither  weak  nor  few ; 

And  circumspect  must  be  our  course,  and  slow. 

Or  from  my  purpose  ruin  may  ensue. 

Dismiss  thy  followers ; — let  them  calmly  wait 
Such  change  in  thy  estate 
As  I already  have  in  thought  devi.sed  ; 

And  which,  with  caution  due,  may  soon  be  realised.” 

The  Story  tells  wfoat  courses  were  pursued, 

Until  King  Elidure,  with  full  consent 
Of  all  his  Peers,  before  the  multitude. 

Rose,  — and,  to  consummate  this  just  intent. 

Did  place  upon  his  Brother’s  head  the  Crown, 
Relinquished  by  his  own; 

Then  to  his  people  cried,  “ Receive  your  Lord, 
Gorbonian’s  first-born  Son,  your  rightful  King  restored !” 


94 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  People  answered  with  a loud  acclaim : 

Yet  more  ; — heart-smit*en  by  the  heroic  deed, 
The  reinstated  Artegal  became 
Eartl.’s  noblest  penitent;  from  bondage  freed 
Of  vice  — thenceforth  unable  to  subvert 
Or  shake  his  high  desert.* 

Long  did  he  reign;  and,  when  he  died,  the  tear 
Of  universal  grief  bedewed  his  honoured  bier. 

Thus  was  a Brother  by  a Brother  saved ; 

With  whom  a crown  (temptation  that  hath  set 
Discord  in  hearts  of  men  till  they  have  braved 
Their  nearest  kin  with  deadly  purpose  met) 
’Gainst  duty  weighed,  and  faithful  love,  did  seem 
A thing  of  no  esteem  ; 

And,  from  this  triumph  of  affection  pure, 

\Ie  bore  the  lasting  name  of  “ pious  Elidure !” 


FAREWELL  LINES. 

‘High  bliss  is  only  for  a higher  state,’ 

But,  surely,  if  severe  afflictions  borne 
With  patience  merit  the  reward  of  peace. 

Peace  ye  deserve;  and  may  the  solid  good. 

Sought  by  a wise  though  late  exchange,  and  here 
With  bounteous  hand  beneath  a cottage  roof 
To  you  accorded,  never  be  withdrawn. 

Nor  for  the  world’s  best  promises  renounced. 

Most  soothing  was  it  for  a welcome  friend. 

Fresh  from  the  crowded  city,  to  behold 
That  lonely  union,  privacy  so  deep. 

Such  calm  employments,  such  entire  content. 

So  when  the  rain  is  over,  the  storm  laid, 

A pair  of  herons  oft-times  have  I seen. 

Upon  a rocky  islet,  side  by  side. 

Drying  their  feathers  in  the  sun,  at  ease; 

And  so,  when  night  with  grateful  gloom  had  fallen. 
Two  glow-worms  in  such  nearness  that  they  shared. 
As  seemed,  their  soft  self-satisfying  light. 

Each  with  the  other  on  the  devvy  ground. 

Where  He  that  made  them  blesses  their  repose. — 
When  wandering  among  lakes  and  hills  I note. 
Once  more,  those  creatures  thus  by  nature  paired. 
And  guarded  in  their  tranquil  state  of  life. 

Even  as  your  happy  presence  to  my  mind 
Their  union  brought,  will  they  repay  the  debt. 

And  send  a thankful  spirit  back  to  you. 

With  hope  that  we,  dear  friends!  shall  meet  again. 


TO  A BUTTERFLY. 

I ’vE  watched  you  now  a full  half-hour. 
Self-poised  upon  that  yellow  flower; 
And,  little  Butterfly  ! indeed 
I know  not  if  you  sleep  or  feed. 


How  motionless  ! — not  frozen  seas 
More  motionless  ! and  then 
What  joy  awaits  you,  when  the  breeze 
Hath  found  you  out  among  the  trees. 

And  calls  you  forth  again ! 

This  plot  of  Orchard-ground  is  ours  , 

My  trees  they  are,  my  Sister’s  flowers ; 

Here  rest  your  wings  when  they  are  weary ; 
Here  lodge  as  in  a sanctuary  ! 

Come  often  to  us,  fear  no  wrong ; 

Sit  near  us  on  the  bough  ! 

We’ll  talk  of  sunshine  and  of  song  ; 

And  summer  days,  when  we  were  young; 
Sweet  childish  days,  that  were  as  long 
As  twenty  days  are  now. 


FAREWELL. 

COMPOSED  IN  THE  YEAR  1802. 

Farewell,  thou  little  Nook  of  mountain-ground. 
Thou  rocky  corner  in  the  lowest  stair 
Of  that  magnificent  Temple  which  doth  bound 
One  side  of  our  whole  Vale  with  grandeur  rare ; 
Sweet  Garden-orchard,  eminently  fair. 

The  loveliest  spot  that  Man  hath  ever  found. 
Farewell  ! — we  leave  thee  to  Heaven’s  peaceful  care 
Thee,  and  the  Cottage  which  thou  dost  surround. 

Our  boat  is  safely  anchored  by  the  shore. 

And  safely  will  she  ride  when  we  are  gone ; 

The  flowering  shrubs  that  decorate  our  door 
^Vill  prosper,  though  untended  and  alone : 

Fields,  goods,  and  far-off  chattels  we  have  none : 
These  narrow  bounds  contain  our -private  store 
Of  things  earth  makes,  and  sun  doth  shine  upon  ; 
Here  are  they  in  our  sight  — we  have  no  more. 

Sunshine  and  shower  be  with  you,  bud  and  bell ! 

For  two  months  now  in  vain  we  shall  be  sought ; 

We  leave  you  here  in  solitude  to  dwell 
With  these  our  latest  gifts  of  tender  thought ; 

Thou,  like  the  morning,  in  thy  saffron  coat. 

Bright  gowan,  and  marsh-marigold,  farewell  I 
Whom  from  the  borders  of  the  Lake  we  brought. 
And  placed  together  near  our  rocky  Well. 

We  go  for  One  to  whom  ye  will  be  dear. 

And  she  will  prize  this  Bower,  this  Indian  shed, 

Our  own  contrivance.  Building  without  peer ! 

— A gentle  Maid,  whose  heart  is  lowly  bred. 

Whose  pleasures  are  in  wild  fields  gathered. 

With  joyousness,  and  with  a thoughtful  cheer. 

Will  come  to  you,  — to  you  herself  will  wed, — 

And  love  the  blessed  life  that  we  lead  here. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


05 


Dear  Spot ! which  we  have  watched  with  tender  heed, 
Bringing  thee  chosen  plants  and  blossoms  blown 
Among  the  distant  mountains,  flower  and  weed, 

Which  thou  hast  taken  to  thee  as  thy  own. 

Making  all  kindness  registered  and  known ; 

Thou  for  our  sakes,  though  Nature’s  Child  indeed. 
Fair  in  thyself  and  beautiful  alone. 

Hast  taken  gifts  which  thou  dost  little  need. 

And  O most  constant,  yet  most  fickle  Place, 

That  hast  thy  wayward  moods,  as  thou  dost  show 
To  them  who  look  not  daily  on  thy  face ; 

Who,  being  loved,  in  love  no  bounds  dost  know. 

And  sayest,  when  we  forsake  thee,  “ Let  them  go!” 
Thou  easy-hearted  Thing,  with  thy  wild  race 
Of  weeds  and  flowers,  till  we  return  be  slow. 

And  travel  with  the  year  at  a soft  pace. 

Help  us  to  tell  her  tales  of  years  gone  by. 

And  this  sweet  spring,  the  best  beloved  and  best; 

Joy  will  be  flown  in  its  mortality ; 

Something  must  stay  to  tell  us  of  the  rest. 

Here,  thronged  with  primroses,  the  steep  rock’s  breast 
Glittered  at  evening  like  a starry  sky  ; 

And  in  this  Bush  our  Sparrow  built  her  nest, 

Of  which  I sang  one  Song  that  will  not  die. 

O happy  Garden  ! whose  seclusion  deep 
Hath  been  so  friendly  to  industrious  hours ; 

And  to  soft  slumbers,  that  did  gently  steep 
Our  spirits,  carrying  with  them  dreams  of  flowers. 
And  wild  notes  warbled  among  leafy  bowers; 

Two  burning  months  let  summer  overleap. 

And,  coming  back  with  Her  who  will  be  ours. 

Into  thy  bosom  wo  again  shall  creep. 


STANZAS 

WRITTEN  IN  MY  POCKET-COPY  OF  THOMSON'S 
CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 

Within  our  happy  Castle  there  dwelt  One 
Whom  without  blame  I may  not  overlook ; 

For  never  sun  on  living  creature  shone 
Who  more  devout  enjoyment  with  us  took  : 

Here  on  his  hours  he  hung  as  on  a book  ; 

On  his  own  time  here  would  he  float  awaj’. 

As  doth  a fly  upon  a summer  brook ; 

But  go  to-morrow  — or  belike  to-day  — 

Seek  for  him, — he  is  fled  ; and  whither  none  can  say. 

Thus  often  would  he  leave  our  peaceful  home, 

And  find  elsewhere  his  business  or  delight ; 

Out  of  our  Valley’s  limits  did  he  roam  ; 

Full  many  a time,  upon  a stormy  night. 

His  voice  came  to  us  from  the  neighbouring  height : 


Oft  did  we  see  him  driving  full  in  view 
At  mid-day  when  the  sun  was  shining  bright ; 

What  ill  was  on  him,  what  he  had  to  do, 

A mighty  wonder  bred  among  our  quiet  crew. 

Ah  I piteous  sight  it  was  to  see  this  man 
When  he  came  back  to  us,  a withered  flower, — 

Or  like  a sinful  creature,  pale  and  wan. 

Down  wmuld  he  sit ; and  without  strength  or  power 
Look  at  the  common  grass  from  hour  to  hour : 

And  oftentimes,  how  long  I fear  to  say. 

Where  apple-trees  jn  blossom  made  a bower. 

Retired  in  that  sunshiny  shade  he  lay ; 

And,  like  a naked  Indian,  slept  himself  away. 

Great  wonder  to  our  gentle  Tribe  it  was 
Wlienever  from  our  Valley  he  withdrew ; 

For  happier  soul  no  living  creature  has 
Than  he  had,  being  here  the  long  day  througln 
Some  thought  he  was  a lover,  and  did  woo : 

Some  thought  far  worse  of  him,  and  judged  him  wrong  ■ 
But  Verse  was  what  he  had  been  wedded  to ; 

And  his  own  mind  did  like  a tempest  strong 
Come  to  him  thus,  and  drove  the  weary  Wight  aloii» 

With  him  there  often  walked  in  friendly  guise. 

Or  lay  upon  the  moss  by  brook  or  tree, 

A noticeable  man  with  large  gray  eyes. 

And  a pale  face  that  seemed  undoubtedly 
As  if  a blooming  face  it  ought  to  be ; 

Heavy  his  low-hung  lip  did  oft  appear 
Deprest  by  weight  of  musing  Phantasy ; 

Profound  his  forehead  was,  though  not  severe ; 

Yet  some  did  think  that  he  had  little  business  here . 

Sweet  heaven  forefend  ! his  was  a lawful  right ; 

Noisy  he  was,  and  gamesome  as  a boy  ; 

His  limbs  would  toss  about  him  with  delight 
Like  branches  when  strong  winds  the  trees  annoy. 

Nor  lacked  his  calmer  hours  device  or  toy 
To  banish  listlessness  and  irksome  care ; 

He  would  have  taught  you  how  you  might  employ 
Yourself;  and  many  did  to  him  repair, — 

And  certes  not  in  vain ; he  had  inventions  rare. 

E.\pedients,  too,  of  simplest  sort  he  tried : 

Long  blades  of  grass,  plucked  round  him  as  he  lav, 
Made  — to  his  ear  attentively  applied  — 

A pipe  on  which  the  wind  would  deftly  play ; 

Glasses  he  had,  that  little  things  display, 

Tlie  beetle  panoplied  in  gems  and  gold, 

A mailed  angel  on  a battle  day ; 

Tbe  mysteries  that  cups  of  flowers  enfold. 

And  all  the  gorgeous  sights  which  fairies  do  behold. 

He  would  entice  that  other  Man  to  hear 
His  music,  and  to  view  his  imagery : 

And,  sooth,  these  two  did  love  each  other  dear. 

As  far  as  love  in  such  a nlace  could  be ; 


96 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  did  they  dwell  — from  earthly  labour  free, 

As  happy  spirits  as  were  ever  seen; 

If  but  a bird,  to  keep  them  company. 

Or  butterfly  sate  down,  tliey  were,  I ween. 

As  pleased  as  if  the  same  had  been  a Maiden  Queen. 


LOUISA. 

I MET  Louisa  in  the  shade ; 

And,  having  seen  that  lovely  Maid, 

Why  should  I fear  to  say 

That  she  is  ruddy,  fleet,  and  strong ; 

And  down  the  rocks  can  leap  along. 

Like  rivulets  in  May  1 

And  she  hath  smiles  to  earth  unknown; 
Smiles,  tliat  with  motion  of  their  own 
Do  spread,  and  sink,  and  rise ; 

That  come  and  go  with  endless  play. 

And  ever,  as  they  pass  away. 

Are  hidden  in  her  eyes. 

She  loves  her  fire,  her  Cottage-home ; 

Yet  o’er  the  moorland  will  she  roam 
In  weather  rough  and  bleak  ; 

And,  when  against  the  wind  she  strains. 

Oh ! might  I kiss  the  mountain  rains 
That  sparkle  on  her  cheek. 

Take  all  that’s  mine  “beneath  the  moon,” 
If  I with  her  but  half  a noon 
May  sit  beneath  the  walls 
Of  some  old  cave,  or  mossy  nook. 

When  up  she  winds  along  the  brook 
To  hunt  the  waterfalls. 


Stranoe  fits  of  passion  have  I known: 
And  I will  dare  to  tell. 

But  in  the  Lover’s  ear  alone. 

What  once  to  me  befel. 

When  she  I loved  was  strong  and  gay, 
And  like  a rose  in  June, 

I to  her  cottage  bent  my  way. 

Beneath  the  evening  Moon. 

Upon  the  Moon  I fixed  my  eye. 

All  over  the  wide  lea  ; 

My  Horse  trudged  on  — and  we  drew  nigh 
Those  paths  so  dear  to  me. 

And  now  we  reached  the  orchard  plot; 
And,  as  we  climbed  the  hill, 

Towards  the  roof  of  Lucy’s  cot 
The  Moon  descended  still. 


In  one  of  those  sweet  dreams  I slept. 

Kind  Nature’s  gentlest  boon ! 

And  all  the  while  my  eyes  I kept 
On  the  descending  Moon. 

My  Horse  moved  on ; hoof  after  hoof 
He  raised,  and  never  stopped : 

When  down  behind  the  cottage  roof. 

At  once,  the  bright  Moon  dropped. 

What  fond  and  wayward  thoughts  will  slide 
Into  a Lover’s  head  ! — 

“ O mercy  !”  to  myself  I cried, 

“If  Lucy  should  be  dead  !” 


y 

■ Sue  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
Beside  the  springs  of  Dove, 

A Maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise. 
And  very  few  to  love: 

A Violet  by  a mossy  stone 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye ! 

— Fair  as  a star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 
When  I.ucy  ceased  to  be ; 

But  she  is  in  her  Grave,  and,  oh. 

The  difference  to  me  ! 


I TRAVELLED  among  unknowm  Men, 

In  Lands  beyond  the  Sea; 

Nor,  England ! did  I know  till  then 
What  love  I bore  to  thee. 

’T  is  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I quit  thy  shore 

A second  time ; for  still  I seem 
To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I feel 
The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 

And  she  I cherished  turned  her  wheel 
Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played ; 

And  thine  is  too  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy’s  eyes  surveyed. 


Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew 
Had  mingled  tears  of  thine, 

I grieved,  fond  Youth ! that  thou  shouldst  sue 
To  haughty  Geraldine. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


97 


Immoveable  by  generous  sighs, 

She  glories  in  a train 

Who  drag,  beneath  our  native  skies. 

An  oriental  Chain. 

Pino  not  like  them  with  arms  across. 
Forgetting  in  thy  care 

IIow  the  fast-rooted  trees  can  toss 
Their  branches  in  mid  air. 

The  humblest  Rivulet  will  take 
Its  own  wild  liberties ; 

And,  every  day,  the  imprisoned  Lake 
Is  flowing  in  the  breeze. 

Then,  crouch  no  more  on  suppliant  knee. 
But  scorn  with  scorn  outbrave ; 

A Briton,  even  in  love,  should  be 
A subject,  not  a slave ! 


To  . 

Look  at  the  fate  of  summer  Flowers, 

Which  blow  at  daybreak,  droop  ere  even-song  ; 
And,  grieved  for  their  brief  date,  confess  that  ours. 
Measured  by  what  we  are  and  ought  to  be. 
Measured  by  all  that,  trembling,  we  foresee. 

Is  not  so  long! 

If  human  Life  do  pass  away. 

Perishing  yet  more  swiftly  than  the  Flower, 

Whose  frail  existence  is  but  of  a day ; 

What  space  hath  Virgin’s  Beauty  to  disclose 
Her  sweets,  and  triumph  o’er  the  breathing  Rosel 
Not  even  an  hour! 

The  deepe.st  grove  whose  foliage  hid 
The  happiest  Lovers  Arcady  might  boast. 

Could  not  the  entrance  of  this  thought  forbid : 

O be  thou  wise  as  they,  soul-gifted  Maid ! 

Nor  rate  too  high  what  must  so  quickly  fade. 

So  soon  be  lost. 

Then  shall  Love  teach  some  virtuous  Youth 
“To  draw,  out  of  the  Object  of  his  eyes,” 

The  whilst  on  Thee  they  gaze  in  simple  truth. 
Hues  more  exalted,  “ a refined  Form,” 

That  dreads  not  age,  nor  suffers  from  the  worm. 
And  never  dies. 


’T  IS  said,  that  some  have  died  for  love: 

And  here  and  there  a church-yard  grave  is  found 
In  the  cold  North’s  unhallowed  ground. 

Because  the  wretched  Man  himself  had  slain. 

His  love  was  such  a grievous  pain. 

And  there  is  one  whom  I five  years  have  known ; 
He  dwells  alone 
Upon  Ilcivellyn’s  side: 


He  loved  — the  pretty  Barbara  died. 

And  thus  he  makes  his  moan : 

Three  years  had  Barbara  in  her  grave  been  laid 
When  thus  his  moan  he  made: 

“ Oh,  move,  thou  Cottage,  from  behind  that  oak  ! 

Or  let  the  aged  tree  uprooted  lie. 

That  in  some  other  way  yon  smoke 
May  mount  into  the  sky  ! 

The  clouds  pass  on  ; they  from  the  heavens  depart ; 

I look  — the  sky  is  empty  space  ; 

I know  not  what  I trace ; 

But  when  I cease  to  look,  my  hand  is  on  my  heart,. 

“ O ! what  a weight  is  in  these  shades ! Ye  leaves. 
When  will  that  dying  murmur  be  supprest ! 

Your  sound  my  heart  of  peace  bereaves. 

It  robs  my  heart  of  rest. 

Thou  Thrush,  that  singest  loud  — and  loud  and  free, 
Into  yon  row  of  willows  flit. 

Upon  that  alder  sit; 

Or  sing  another  song,  or  choose  another  tree. 

“Roll  back,  sweet  Rill!  back  to  thy  mountain  bounds. 
And  there  for  ever  be  thy  waters  ci)ained  ! 

For  thou  dost  haunt  the  air  with  sounds 
That  cannot  be  sustained; 

If  still  beneath  that  pine-tree’s  ragged  boug!'i 
Headlong  yon  waterfall  must  come. 

Oh,  let  it  then  be  dumb!  — 

Be  any  thing,  swmet  Rill,  but  that  which  thou  art  now  ' 

“ Thou  Eglantine,  whose  arch  so  proudly  towers 
(Even  like  a rainbow  spanning  half  the  vale) 

Thou  one  fair  shrub,  oh  ! shed  thy  flowers. 

And  stir  not  in  the  gale. 

For  thus  to  see  thee  nodding  in  the  air, — 

To  see  thy  arch  thus  stretch  and  bend. 

Thus  rise  and  thus  descend, — 

Disturbs  me  till  the  sight  is  more  than  I can  bear.” 

The  man  who  makes  this  feverish  complaint 
Is  one  of  giant  stature,  who  could  dance 
Equipped  from  head  to  foot  in  iron  mail. 

Ah,  gentle  Love!  if  ever  thought  was  thine 
To  store  up  kindred  hours  for  me,  thy  face 
Turn  from  me,  gentle  Love ! nor  let  me  walk 
Within  the  sound  of  Emma’s  voice,  or  know 
Such  happiness  as  I have  known  to-day. 


THE  FORSAKEN. 

The  peace  which  others  seek  they  find; 
The  heaviest  storms  not  longest  last; 
Heaven  grants  even  to  the  guiltiest  mind 
An  amnesty  for  what  is  past; 

When  will  my  sentence  be  reversed' 

I only  pray  to  know  the  worst; 

And  wish  as  if  my  heart  would  burst. 


N 


AVORDS WORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


0 weary  struggle ! silent  years 
Tell  seemingly  no  doubtful  tale; 

And  yet  they  leave  it  short,  and  fears 
And  hopes  are  strong  and  will  prevail. 
My  calmest  faith  escapes  not  pain; 
And,  feeling  that  the  hope  is  vain, 

1 think  that  he  will  come  again. 


A COMPLAINT. 

There  is  a change  — and  I am  poor; 
Your  love  hath  been,  nor  long  ago, 

A fountain  at  my  fond  heart’s  door, 
Whose  only  business  was  to  flow ; 

And  flow  it  did ; not  taking  heed 
Of  its  own  bounty,  or  my  need. 

What  happy  moments  did  I count! 
Blest  was  I then  all  bliss  above ! 

Now,  for  that  consecrated  fount 
Of  murmuring,  sparkling,  living  love. 
What  have  II  shall  1 dare  to  tell  1 
A comfortless  and  hidden  well. 

A well  of  love  — it  may  be  deep  — 

1 trust  it  is,  — and  never  dry: 

What  matter]  if  the  waters  sleep 
In  silence  and  obscurity. 

— Sucli  change,  and  at  the  very  door 
Of  my  fond  heart,  hath  made  me  poor. 


TO  

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing, 

Bright  suns  without  a spot; 

But  thou  art  no  such  perfect  thing: 
Rejoice  that  thou  art  not! 

Heed  not  tho’  none  should  call  thee  fair ; 

So,  Mary,  let  it  be 
If  nought  in  loveliness  compare 
With  what  thou  art  to  me. 

True  beauty  dwells  in  deep  retreats. 
Whose  veil  is  unremoved 
Till  heart  with  heart  in  concord  beats. 
And  the  lover  is  beloved. 


Yes  ! thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved 
To  scorn  the  declaration. 

That  sometimes  I in  thee  have  loved 
My  fancy’s  own  creation. 

Imagination  needs  must  stir; 

Dear  maid,  this  truth  believe, 
Minds  that  have  nothing  to  confeir 
Find  little  to  perceive. 


Be  pleased  that  nature  made  thee  fit 
To  feed  my  heart’s  devotion. 

By  laws  to  which  all  forms  submit 
In  sky,  air,  earth,  and  ocean. 


IIow  rich  that  forehead’s  calm  expanse! 
How  bright  that  heaven-directed  glance! 
— Waft  her  to  glory,  winged  Powers, 
Ere  sorrow  be  renewed. 

And  intercourse  with  mortal  hours 
Bring  back  a humbler  mood  ! 

So  looked  Cecilia  when  she  drew 
An  Angel  from  his  station ; 

So  looked  ; not  ceasing  to  pursue 
Her  tuneful  adoration ! , 


But  hand  and  voice  alike  are  still; 

No  sound  here  sweeps  away  the  will 
That  gave  it  birth:  in  service  meek 
One  upright  arm  sustains  the  cheek. 

And  one  across  the  bosom  lies  — 

That  rose,  and  now  forgets  to  rise. 
Subdued  by  breathless  harmonies 
Of  meditative  feeling; 

Mute  strains  from  worlds  beyond  the  skies 
Through  the  pure  light  of  female  eyes. 
Their  sanctity  revealing! 


What  heavenly  smiles!  O Lady  mine. 
Through  my  very  heart  they  sliine; 
And,  if  my  brow  gives  back  their  light. 
Do  thou  look  gladly  on  the  sight; 

As  the  clear  moon  with  modest  pride 
Beholds  her  own  bright  beams 
Reflected  from  the  mountain’s  side 
And  from  the  headlong  streams. 


TO  

O dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear. 

Full  oft  our  human  foresight  I deplore ; 

Trembling,  through  my  unworthiness,  with  fear 
That  friends,  by  death  disjoined,  may  meet  no  more  ! 

Misgivings,  hard  to  vanquish  or  control. 

Mix  witli  the  day,  and  cross  the  hour  of  rest; 

While  all  the  future,  for  thy  purer  soul. 

With  ‘sober  certainties’  of  love  is  blest. 

That  sigh  of  thine,  not  meant  for  human  ear, 

Tells  that  these  words  thy  humbleness  offend ; 

Yet  bear  me  up  — else  faltering  in  the  rear 
I Of  a steep  march : support  me  to  the  end. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


99 


Peace  settles  where  the  intellect  is  meek, 

And  love  is  dutiful  in  thought  and  deed ; 

Through  thee  communion  with  that  love  I seek : 

The  faith  Heaven  strengthens  where  he  moulds  the 
creed. 

LAMENT  OF  MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS. 

ON  THE  EVE  OF  A NEW  YEAR. 

Smile  of  the  moon  — for  so  I name 
That  silent  greeting  from  above ; 

A gentle  flash  of  liglit  that  came 
From  her  whom  drooping  captives  love ; 

Or  art  thou  of  still  higher  birth! 

Thou  that  didst  part  the  clouds  of  earth, 

My  torpor  to  reprove ! 

Bright  boon  of  pitying  Heaven  ! — alas, 

I may  not  trust  thy  placid  cheer ! 

Pondering  that  Time  to-night  will  pass 
The  threshold  of  another  year ; 

For  years  to  me  are  sad  and  dull ; 

My  very  moments  are  too  full 
Of  hopelessness  and  fear. 

And  yet,  the  soul-awakening  gleam. 

That  struck  perchance  the  farthest  cone 
Of  Scotland’s  rocky  wilds,  did  seem 
To  visit  me,  and  me  alone ; 

Me,  unapproached  by  any  friend. 

Save  those  who  to  my  sorrows  lend 
Tears  due  unto  their  own. 

To-night  the  church-tower  bells  will  ring 
Through  these  wide  realms  a festive  peal ; 

To  the  new  year  a welcoming; 

A tuneful  offering  for  the  weal 
Of  happy  millions  lulled  in  sleep; 

While  I am  forced  to  watch  and  weep. 

By  wounds  that  may  not  heal. 

Born  all  too  high,  by  wedlock  raised 
Still  higher  — to  be  cast  thus  low  i 
Would  that  mine  eyes  had  never  gazed 
On  aught  of  more  ambitious  show 
Than  the  sweet  flowerets  of  the  fields! 

— It  is  my  royal  state  that  yields 
This  bitterness  of  woe. 

Yet  howl  — for  I,  if  there  be  truth 
In  the  world’s  voice,  was  passing  fair ; 

And  beauty  for  confiding  youth. 

Those  shocks  of  passion  can  prepare 
That  kill  tlie  bloom  before  its  time ; 

And  blanch,  without  the  owner’s  crime. 

The  most  resplendent  hair. 

Unblest  distinction  ! showered  on  me 
To  bind  a lingering  life  in  chains: 

All  that  could  quit  my  grasp,  or  flee. 

Is  gone ; — but  not  the  subtle  stains 


Fixed  in  the  spirit;  for  even  here 
Can  I be  proud  that  jealous  fear 
Of  what  I was  remains. 

I A woman  rules  my  prison’s  key ; 

A sister  queen,  against  tire  bent 
Of  law  and  holiest  sympathy. 

Detains  me,  doubtful  of  the  event; 

Great  God,  who  feel’st  for  my  distress, 

My  thoughts  are  all  tliat  I possess, 

O keep  them  innocent! 

Farewell  desire  of  human  aid. 

Which  abject  mortals  vainly  court! 

By  friends  deceived,  by  foes  betrayed, 

Of  fears  the  prey,  of  hopes  the  sport ; 

Nought  but  the  world-redeeming  cross 
Is  able  to  supply  my  loss. 

My  burthen  to  support. 

Hark!  the  death-note  of  the  year 
Sounded  by  the  castle-clock! 

From  her  sunk  eyes  a stagnant  tear 
Stole  forth,  unsettled  by  the  shock; 

But  oft  the  woods  renewed  their  green. 

Ere  the  tired  head  of  Scotland’s  queen 
Reposed  upon  the  block ! 

THE  WIDOW  ON  WINDERMERE  SIDE. 

How  beautiful  when  up  a lolly  height 
Honour  ascends  among  the  humblest  poor. 

And  feeling  sinks  as  deep ! See  there  the  door 
Of  one,  a widow,  left  beneath  a weight 
Of  blameless  debt.  On  evil  fortune's  spite 
She  wasted  no  complaint,  but  strove  to  make 
A just  repayment,  both  for  conscience-sake 
And  that  herself  and  hers  should  stand  upright 
In  the  world’s  eye.  Her  work  when  daylight  failed 
Paused  not,  and  through  the  depth  of  night  she  kept 
Such  earnest  vigils,  that  belief  prevailed 
With  some,  the  noble  creature  never  slept; 

But,  one  by  one,  the  hand  of  death  assailed 
Her  children  from  her  inmost  heart  bewept. 

II. 

The  mother  mourned,  nor  ceased  her  tears  to  flow. 
Till  a winter’s  noon-day  placed  her  buried  son 
Before  her  eyes,  last  child  of  many  gone  — 

His  raiment  of  angelic  white,  and  lo! 

His  very  feet  briglit  as  the  dazzling  snow 
Which  they  are  touching;  yea  far  brighter,  even 
As  that  which  comes,  or  seems  to  come,  from  heaven. 
Surpasses  aught  these  elements  can  show. 

Much  she  rejoiced,  trusting  that  from  that  hour 
Whate’er  befel  she  could  not  grieve  or  pine ; 

But  the  transfigured,  in  and  out  of  season. 

Appeared,  and  spiritual  presence  gained  a power 
Over  material  forms  that  mastered  reason. 

O,  gracious  Heaven,  in  pity  make  her  thine! 


100 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


III. 

But  why  that  prayer  1 as  if  to  her  could  come 
No  good  but  by  tiie  way  that  leads  to  bliss 
Through  death,  — so  judging  we  should  judge  amiss. 
Since  reason  failed  want  is  her  threatened  doom, 

Yet  frequent  transports  mitigate  the  gloom: 

Nor  of  those  maniacs  is  she  one  that  kiss 
The  air  or  laugh  upon  a precipice; 

No,  passing  through  strange  sufferings  toward  the  tomb, 
She  smiles  as  if  a martyr’s  crown  were  won : 

Off,  when  light  breaks  tlirough  clouds  or  waving  trees, 
With  outspread  arms  and  fallen  upon  her  knees 
The  mother  hails  in  her  descending  sen 
An  angel,  and  in  earthly  ecstasies 
Her  own  angelic  glory  seems  begun. 


TIIE  LAST  OF  TIIE  FLOCK. 

Ln  distant  countries  have  I been, 

And  yet  I have  not  often  seen 
A healthy  Man,  a Man  full  grown. 

Weep  in  the  public  roads  alone. 

But  such  a one,  on  English  ground. 

And  in  the  broad  highway,  I met; 

Along  the  broad  liighway  he  came. 

Ills  cheeks  with  tears  w'ere  wet: 

Sturdy  he  seemed,  though  he  was  sad ; 

And  in  his  arms  a Lamb  he  had. 

He  saw  me,  and  he  turned  aside. 

As  if  he  wished  himself  to  hide: 

Then  with  his  coat  he  made  essay 
To  wipe  those  briny  tears  away. 

I followed  him.  and  said,  “ My  Friend, 
What  ails  you  ! wherefore  weep  you  so !” 
— “ Shame  on  me.  Sir ! this  lusty  Lamb, 
He  makes  my  tears  to  flow. 

To-day  I fetched  him  from  the  roede ; 

He  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock. 

Wlien  I was  young,  a single  Man, 

And  after  youthful  follies  ran. 

Though  little  given  to  care  and  thought. 
Yet,  so  it  was,  an  Ewe  I bought ; 

And  other  sheep  from  her  I raised. 

As  healthy  sheep  as  you  might  see ; 

And  then  I married,  and  was  rich 
As  I could  wish  to  be : 

Of  sheep  I numbered  a full  score. 

And  every  year  increased  my  store. 

Year  after  year  my  stock  it  grew; 

And  from  this  one,  this  single  Ewe, 

Full  fifty  comely  sheep  I raised. 

As  sweet  a flock  as  ever  grazed ! 

Upon  the  mountain  did  they  feed ; 

They  throve,  and  we  at  home  did  thrive : 


— This  lusty  Lamb  of  all  my  store 
Is  all  that  is  alive  ; 

And  now  I care  not  if  we  die. 

And  perish  -all  of  poverty. 

Six  Children,  Sir ! had  I to  feed ; 

Hard  labour  in  a time  of  need ! 

My  pride  was  tamed,  and  in  our  grief 
I of  the  Parish  asked  relief. 

They  said,  I was  a wealthy  man ; 

My  sheep  upon  the  mountain  fed. 

And  it  was  fit  that  thence  I took 
Whereof  to  buy  us  bread. 

“ Do  this : how  can  we  give  to  you,” 

They  cried,  “ what  to  the  poor  is  due  1” 

I sold  a sheep,  as  they  had  said,  ' 

And  bought  my  little  children  bread. 

And  they  were  healthy  with  their  food ; 

For  me  — it  never  did  me  good. 

A woeful  time  it  was  for  me. 

To  see  the  end  of  all  my  gains. 

The  pretty  flock  which  I had  reared 
With  all  my  care  and  pains. 

To  see  it  melt  like  snow  away 
For  me  it  was  a woeful  day. 

Another  still ! and  still  another ! 

A little  lamb,  anil  then  its  mother! 

It  was  a vein  that  never  stopped  — 

Like  blood-drops  from  my  heart  they  droppe.!. 

Till  thirty  were  not  left  alive 

They  dwindled,  dwindled,  one  by  one. 

And  I may  say,  that  many  a time 
I wished  they  all  were  gone  — 

Reckless  of  what  might  come  at  last 
Were  but  the  bitter  struggle  past. 

To  wicked  deeds  I was  inclined. 

And  wicked  fancies  crossed  my  mind; 

And  every  man  I chanced  to  see, 

I thought  he  knew  some  ill  of  me : 

No  peace,  no  comfort  could  I find. 

No  ease,  within  doors  or  without ; 

And  crazily  and  wearily, 

I went  my  work  about. 

Bent  oftentimes  to  flee  from  home. 

And  hide  my  head  where  wild  beasts  roam. 

Sir!  ’twas  a precious  flock  to  me. 

As  dear  as  my  own  children  be; 

For  daily  with  my  growing  store 
I loved  my  children  more  and  more. 

Alas;  it  was  an  evil  time; 

God  cursed  me  in  my  sore  distress; 

I prayed,  yet  every  day  I thought 
I loved  my  children  less ; 

And  every  week,  and  every  day. 

Ml  flock  it  seemed  to  melt  away. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


101 


They  dwindled,  Sir,  sad  siglt;  to  see  ! 
From  ten  to  five,  from  five  to  three, 
A lamb,  a wether,  and  a ewe; 

And  then  at  last  from  three  to  two; 
And,  of  my  fifty,  yesterday 
I had  but  only  one : 

And  here  it  lies  upon  my  arm, 

Alas!  and  I have  none;  — 

To-day  I fetched  it  from  the  rock; 

It  is  the  last  of  all  my  flock.” 


REPENTANCE. 

A PASTORAL  BALLAD. 

The  fields  which  with  covetous  spirit  we  sold. 

Those  beautiful  fields,  the  delight  of  the  day. 

Would  have  brought  us  more  good  than  a burthen  of 
gold. 

Could  we  but  have  been  as  contented  as  they. 

Vv'hen  the  troublesome  Tempter  beset  us,  said  I, 

“ Let  him  come,  with  his  purse  proudly  grasped  in  his 
hand ; 

But,  Allan,  be  true  to  me,  Allan,  — we’ll  die 
Before  he  shall  go  with  an  inch  of  the  land  I” 

There  dwelt  we,  as  happy  as  birds  in  their  bowers; 
Unfettered  as  bees  that  in  gardens  abide ; 

We  could  do  what  we  chose  with  the  land,  it  was  ours ; 
And  for  us  the  brook  murmured  that  ran  by  its  side. 

But  now  we  are  strangers,  go  early  or  late ; 

And  often,  like  one  overburthened  with  sin. 

With  my  hand  on  the  latch  of  the  half-opened  gate, 

I look  at  the  fields  — but  I cannot  go  in  ! 

When  I walk  by  the  hedge  on  a bright  summer’s  day. 
Or  sit  in  the  shade  of  my  grandfather’s  tree, 

A stern  face  it  puts  on,  as  if  ready  to  say, 

“ What  ails  you,  that  you  must  come  creeping  to  me  !” 

With  our  pastures  about  us,  we  could  not  be  sad ; 

Our  comfort  was  near,  if  we  ever  were  crost ; 

But  the  comfort,  the  blessings,  and  wealth  that  we  had. 
We  slighted  them  all,  — and  our  birth-right  was  lost. 

Oh,  ill-judging  sire  of  an  innocent  son 
Who  must  now  be  a wanderer! — but  peace  to  that 
strain ! 

Think  of  evening’s  repose  when  our  labour  w'as  done. 
The  Sabbath’s  return  — and  its  leisure’s  soft  chain  ! 

And  in  sickness,  if  night  had  been  sparing  of  sleep, 
llow  cheerful,  at  sunrise,  the  hill  where  I stood, 
liooking  dow’n  on  the  kine,  and  our  treasure  of  sheep 
That  besprinkled  the  field  — ’t  was  like  youth  in  my 
blood ! 


Now  I cleave  to  the  house,  and  am  dull  as  a snail ; 
And,  oftentimes,  hear  the  church-bell  with  a sigh. 
That  follows  the  thought  — We’ve  no  land  in  the  vale. 
Save  si.K  feet  of  earth  where  our  forefathers  lie  ! 


THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET. 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 

Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  deadl 
Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone ! 

Or,  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed. 

Why  am  I ignorant  of  the  same 
That  I may  rest ; and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  1 

Seven  years,  alas ! to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child ; 

To  have  despaired,  and  have  believed, 

And  be  for  evermore  beguiled  ; 

Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss ! 

I catch  at  them,  and  then  I miss ; 

Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  1 

He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 

An  object  beauteous  to  behold  ; 

Well  born,  well  bred  ; I sent  him  forth 
Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 

If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace, 

As  hath  been  said,  they  W'ere  not  base ; 

And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 

Ah  ! little  doth  the  Young-one  dream, 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares. 

What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream. 

Heard  by  his  Mother  unawares! 

He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess: 

Years  to  a Mother  bring  distress ; 

But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me!  no,  I suffered  long 
From  that  ill  thought;  and,  being  blind, 
Kaid,  “Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong: 
Kind  mother  have  I been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed and  that  is  true ; 

I’ve  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor. 
Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 

Oh  ! do  not  dread  thy  mother’s  door ; 

Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain ; 

I now  can  see  with  better  eyes ; 

And  worldly  grandeur  I despise. 

And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

9* 


102 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Alas ! the  fowls  of  Heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  Heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 
They  mount — how  short  a voyage  brings 
The  Wanderers  back  to  their  delight ! 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea; 

And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan, 
Maiiped,  mangled  by  inhuman  men; 

Or  thou  upon  a Desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  Lion’s  den ; 

Or  hast  been  summoned  to  the  deep. 

Thou,  Thou  and  all  thy  mates,  to  keep 
An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I look  for  Ghosts ; but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me : — ’t  is  falsely  said 
That  there  w'as  ever  intercourse 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead; 

For,  surely,  then  I should  have  sight 
Of  Him  I wait  for  day  and  night. 

With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds; 

I dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass; 

The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass ; 

I question  things,  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind ; 

And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief; 

If  any  chance  to  heave  a sigh. 

They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 

Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  ; 

I have  no  other  earthly  friend ! 


THE  COTTAGER  TO  HER  INFANT. 

BY  MY  SISTER. 

The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  «re  long. 
The  norlli-wind  sings  a doleful  song; 

Then  hush  again  upon  my  breast; 

All  merry  things  are  now  at  rest, 

Save  thee,  my  pretty  Love ! 

The  kitten  sleeps  upon  the  hearth. 

The  crickets  long  have  ceased  their  mirth ; 
There’s  nothing  stirring  in  the  house 
Save  one  wee,  hungry,  nibbling  mouse. 
Then  why  so  busy  thou  1 


Nay!  start  not  at  that  sparkling  light; 

’T  is  but  the  moon  that  shines  so  bright 
On  the  window  pane  bedropped  with  rain : 
Then,  little  Darling!  sleep  again. 

And  wake  when  it  is  day. 


THE  SAILOR’S  MOTHER. 

One  morning  (raw  it  was  and  wet, 

A foggy  day  in  winter  time) 

A Woman  on  the  road  I met. 

Not  old,  though  something  past  her  prime: 
Majestic  in  her  person,  tall  and  straight ; 

And  like  a Roman  matron’s  was  her  mien  and  gait 

The  ancient  Spirit  is  not  dead; 

Old  times,  thought  I,  are  breathing  there; 

Proud  was  I that  my  country  bred 
Such  strength,  a dignity  so  fair: 

She  begged  an  alms,  like  one  in  poor  estate ; 

I looked  at  her  again,  nor  did  my  pride  abate. 

When  from  these  lofty  thoughts  I woke, 

“ What  treasure,”  said  I,  “ do  you  bear. 

Beneath  the  covert  of  your  Cloak, 

Protected  from  the  cold  damp  air'!” 

She  answered,  soon  as  she  the  question  heard, 

“ A simple  burthen.  Sir,  a little  Singing-bird  ” 

And,  thus  continuing,  she  said, 

“ I had  a Son,  who  many  a day 
Sailed  on  the  seas,  but  he  is  dead; 

In  Denmark  he  was  cast  away: 

And  I have  travelled  weary  miles  to  see 
If  aught  which  he  had  owned  might  still  remain 
for  me. 

“ The  Bird  and  Cage  they  both  were  his : 

’T  was  my  Son’s  Bird ; and  neat  and  trim 

He  kept  it : many  voyages 

This  Singing-bird  had  gone  with  him: 

When  last  he  sailed,  he  left  the  Bird  behind; 
From  bodings,  as  might  be,  that  hung  upon  his  mind. 

“ He  to  a Fellow-lodger’s  care 
Had  left  it,  to  be  watched  and  fed. 

And  pipe  its  song  in  safety ; — there 
I found  it  wlien  my  Son  was  dead ; 

And  now,  God  help  me  for  my  little  w'it! 

I bear  it  with  me.  Sir,  he  took  so  much  delight  in  it.” 


THE  CHILDLESS  FATHER. 

“ Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  Staff  and  away  ! 

Not  a soul  in  the  village  this  morning  will  stay ; 

The  Hare  has  just  started  from  Hamilton’s  grounds. 
And  Skiddavv  is  glad  with  the  cry  of  the  hounds.’’ 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


103 


— Of  coats  and  of  jackets  gray,  scarlet,  and  green, 
On  the  slopes  of  the  pastures  all  colours  were  seen ; 
With  their  comely  blue  aprons,  and  caps  white  as  snow, 
The  girls  on  the  hills  made  a holiday  show. 

Fresh  sprigs  of  green  box-wood,  not  six  months  be- 
fore. 

Filled  the  funeral  basin*  at  Timothy’s  door  ; 

A Coffin  through  Timothy's  threshold  had  past; 

One  Child  did  it  bear,  and  that  Child  was  his  last. 

Now  fast  up  the  dell  came  the  noise  and  the  fray. 

The  horse  and  the  horn,  and  the  hark  ! hark  away ! 
Old  Timothy  took  up  his  staff,  and  he  shut 
With  a leisurely  motion  the  door  of  his  hut. 

Perhaps  Ij  himself  at  that  moment  he  said, 

“ The  key  I must  take,  for  my  Ellen  is  dead.” 

But  of  this  in  my  ears  not  a word  did  he  speak. 

And  he  went  to  the  chase  with  a tear  on  his  cheek. 


THE  EMIGRANT  MOTHER. 

Once  in  a lonely  Hamlet  I sojourned 
In  which  a Lady  driven  from  France  did  dwell ; 

The  big  and  lesser  griefs  with  which  she  mourned, 

In  friendship  she  to  me  would  oflen  tell. 

This  Lady,  dwelling  upon  English  ground. 

Where  she  was  childless,  daily  would  repair 
To  a poor  neighbouring  Cottage ; as  I found. 

For  sake  of  a young  Child  whose  home  was  there. 

Once  having  seen  her  take  with  fond  embrace, 

This  Infant  to  herself,  I framed  a lay. 

Endeavouring,  in  my  native  tongue,  to  trace 
Such  things  as  she  unto  the  Child  might  say; 

And  thus,  from  what  I knew,  had  heard,  and  guessed. 
My  song  the  workings  of  her  heart  expressed. 

“ Dear  Babe,  thou  Daughter  of  another. 

One  moment  let  me  be  thy  Mother! 

An  Infant’s  face  and  looks  are  thine; 

And  sure  a Mother’s  heart  is  mine : 

Thy  own  dear  Mother ’s  far  away. 

At  labour  in  the  harvest  field  : 

Thy  little  Sister  is  at  play  ; — 

What  warmth,  what  comfort  would  it  yield 
To  my  poor  heart,  if  thou  would’st  be 
One  little  hour  a Child  to  me  ! 

Across  the  waters  lam  come. 

And  I have  left  a Babe  at  home: 


* In  sev  eral  parts  of  the  North  of  England,  when  a funeral 
takes  place,  a basin  full  of  Sprigs  of  Box-wood  is  placed  at  the 
door  of  the  hotise  from  which  the  coffin  is  taken  up,  and  each 
person  who  attends  the  funeral  ordinarily  takes  a Sprig  of  this 
Box-wood,  and  throws  it  into  the  grave  of  the  deceased. 


A long,  long  way  of  land  and  sea ! 

Come  to  me  — I’m  no  enemy; 

I am  the  same  who  at  thy  side 
Sate  yesterday,  and  made  a nest 
For  thee,  sweet  Baby! — thou  hast  tried, 
Thou  knowest  the  pillow  of  my  breast ; 
Good,  good  art  thou  ; — alas ! to  me 
Far  more  than  I can  be  to  thee. 

Here,  little  Darling,  dost  thou  lie ; 

An  Infant  Thou,  a Mother  I ! 

Mine  wilt  thou  be,  thou  hast  no  fears; 
Mine  art  thou  — spite  of  these  my  tears. 
Alas ! before  I left  the  spot. 

My  baby  and  its  dwelling-place ; 

The  Nurse  said  to  mo,  ‘Tears  should  not 
Be  shed  upon  an  infant’s  face. 

It  was  unlucky’  — no,  no,  no; 

No  truth  is  in  them  who  say  so! 

My  own  dear  Little-one  will  sigh. 

Sweet  Babe ! and  they  will  let  him  die. 
‘He  pines,’  they’ll  say,  ‘it  is  his  doom. 
And  you  may  see  his  hour  is  come.’ 

Oh ! had  he  but  thy  cheerful  smiles. 

Limbs  stout  as  thine,  and  lips  as  gay. 

Thy  looks,  thy  cunning,  and  thy  wiles. 
And  countenance  like  a summer’s  day. 
They  w'ould  have  hopes  of  him — and  then 
I should  behold  his  face  again ! 

’Tis  gone  — like  dreams  that  we  forget; 
There  was  a smile  or  two  — yet  — yet 
I can  remember  them,  I see 
The  smiles,  worth  all  the  world  to  me. 
Dear  Baby ! I must  lay  thee  down ; 

Thou  troublest  me  with  strange  alarms; 
Smiles  hast  Thou,  bright  ones  of  thy  own ; 
I cannot  keep  thee  in  my  arms. 

By  those  bewildering  glances  crost 
In  which  the  light  of  his  is  lost. 

Oh!  how  I love  thee! — we  will  stay 
Together  here  this  one  half  day. 

My  Sister’s  Child,  who  bears  my  name. 
From  France  to  sheltering  England  came; 
She  with  her  mother  crossed  the  sea; 

The  Babe  and  Mother  near  me  dwell ; 

My  Darling,  she  is  not  to  me. 

What  thou  art ! though  I love  her  well : 
Rest,  little  Stranger,  rest  thee  here ! 

Never  was  any  Child  more  dear ! 

— I cannot  help  it — ill  intent 
I’ve  none,  my  pretty  Innocent! 

I weep — I know  they  do  thee  wrong. 
These  tears  — and  my  poor  idle  tongue 
Oh,  what  a kiss  was  that!  my  cheek 
How  cold  it  is ! but  thou  art  good ; 


l04 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thine  eyes  are  on  me  — they  would  speak, 
I think,  to  help  me  if  they  could. 

Blessings  upon  that  soft,  warm  face. 

My  heart  again  is  in  its  place ! 

Wliile  thou  art  mine,  my  little  Love, 

This  cannot  be  a sorrowful  grove; 
Contentment,  hope,  and  Motlier’s  glee, 

I seem  to  find  them  all  in  thee : 

Here’s  grass  to  play  with,  here  are  flowers; 
I’ll  call  thee  by  my  Darling’s  name; 

Thou  liast,  I think,  a look  of  ours. 

Thy  features  seem  to  me  the  same; 

His  little  Sister  thou  slialt  be; 

And,  when  once  more  my  home  I see, 

I ’ll  teL'  him  many  tales  of  Thee.” 


VAUDRACOUR  AND  JULIA. 


Tlio  following  tale  was  written  as  an  Episode,  in  a work  from 
which  its  length  m.ay  perhaps  exclude  it.  Tlte  facts  are  true; 
no  invention  as  to  these  has  been  exercised,  as  none  was  needed. 


O HArrv  time  of  youthful  lovers  (thus 
My  story  may  begin)  O balmy  time. 

In  w.iich  a love-knot  on  a lady's  brow 
Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  star  in  heaven  ! 

To  such  inheritance  of  blessed  fancy 
(Fancy  that  sports  more  desperately  with  minds 
Than  ever  fortune  hath  been  known  to  do) 

The  high-born  Vaudracour  was  brought,  by  years 

W'hose  progress  had  a little  overstepped 

His  stripling  prime.  A town  of  small  repute. 

Among  the  vine-clad  mountains  of  Auvergne, 

Was  the  Youth’s  birth-place.  There  he  wooed  a Maid 
Who  heard  the  heart-felt  music  of  his  suit 
With  answ’ering  vows.  Plebeian  was  the  stock. 
Plebeian,  though  ingenuous,  the  stock. 

From  which  her  graces  and  her  honours  sprung : 

And  hence  the  father  of  the  enamoured  Youth, 

With  haughty  indignation,  spurned  the  thought 
Of  such  alliance. — From  their  cradles  up, 

Witn  but  a step  between  their  several  homes. 

Twins  had  they  been  in  pleasure ; after  strife 
And  petty  quarrels,  had  grown  fond  again ; 

Each  other’s  advocate,  each  other’s  stay ; 

And  strangers  to  content  if  long  apart. 

Or  more  divided  than  a sportive  pair 
Of  sea-fowl,  conscious  both  that  they  are  hovering 
Within  the  eddy  of  a common  blast. 

Or  hidden  only  by  the  concave  depth 
Of  neighbouring  billows  from  each  other’s  sight. 

Thus,  not  without  concurrence  of  an  age 
Unknown  to  memory,  was  an  earnest  given 


By  ready  nature  for  a life  of  love, 

For  endless  constancy,  and  placid  truth  ; 

But  whatsoe’er  of  such  rare  treasure  lay 
Reserved,  had  fate  permitted,  for  support 
Of  their  maturer  years,  his  present  mind 
Was  under  fascination  ; — he  beheld 
A vision,  and  adored  the  thing  he  saw. 

Arabian  fiction  never  filled  the  world 
With  half  the  wonders  that  were  wrought  for  him. 
Earth  breathed  in  one  great  presence  of  the  spring ; 
Life  turned  the  meanest  of  her  implements, 

Before  his  eyes,  to  price  above  all  gold ; 

The  house  she  dwelt  in  was  a sainted  shrine; 

Her  chamber  window  did  surpass  in  glory 
The  portals  of  the  dawn ; all  paradise 
Could,  by  the  simple  opening  of  a door,  ' 

I.et  itself  in  upon  him ; pathways,  walks. 

Swarmed  with  enchantment,  till  his  spirit  sank. 
Surcharged,  within  him,  — overblest  to  move 
Beneath  a sun  that  wakes  a weary  world 
To  its  dull  round  of  ordinary  cares; 

A man  too  happy  for  mortality  ! 

So  passed  the  time,  till,  whether  through  effect 
Of  some  unguarded  moment  that  dissolved 
Virtuous  restraint — ah,  speak  it — think  it  not! 
Deem  rather  that  the  fervent  Youth,  who  saw 
So  many  bars  between  his  present  state 
And  the  dear  haven  where  he  wished  to  be 
In  honourable  wedlock  with  his  Love, 

Was  in  his  judgment  tempted  to  decline 
To  perilous  weakness,  and  entrust  his  cause 
To  nature  for  a happy  end  of  all ; 

Deem  that  by  such  fond  hope  the  Youth  was  swayed 
And  bear  with  their  transgression,  when  I add 
That  Julia,  wanting  yet  the  name  of  wife. 

Carried  about  her  for  a secret  grief 
The  promise  of  a mother. 

To  conceal 

The  threatened  shame,  the  parents  of  the  Maid 
Found  means  to  hurry  her  away  by  night. 

And  unforewarned,  that  in  some  distant  spot 
She  might  remain  shrouded  in  privacy. 

Until  the  babe  was  born.  When  morning  came. 

The  Lover,  thus  bereft,  stung  with  his  loss, 

And  all  uncertain  whither  he  should  turn. 

Chafed  like  a wild  beast  in  the  toils;  but  soon 
Discovering  traces  of  the  fugitives. 

Their  steps  he  followed  to  the  Maid’s  retreat. 

The  sequel  may  be  easily  divined  — 

Walks  to  and  fro  — watchings  at  every  hour; 

And  the  fair  Captive,  who,  whene’er  she  may. 

Is, busy  at  her  casement  as  the  sw’allow 
Fluttering  its  pinions,  almost  w’ithin  reach. 

About  the  pendent  nest,  did  thus  espy 
Her  Lover ! — thence  a stolen  intei  .iew. 
Accomplished  under  friendly  shade  of  night. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


105 


I pass  the  raptures  of  the  Pair ; — such  theme 
Is,  by  innumerable  poets,  touched 
In  more  delig-htful  verse  than  skill  of  mine 
Could  fashion,  chiefly  by  that  darling  bard 
Who  told  of  Juliet  and  her  Romeo, 

And  of  the  lark’s  note  heard  before  its  time. 

And  of  the  streaks  that  laced  the  severing  clouds 
In  the  unrelenting  east.  — Through  all  her  courts 
The  vacant  city  slept ; the  busy  winds. 

That  keep  no  certain  intervals  of  rest. 

Moved  not ; meanwhile  the  galaxy  displayed 
Her  fires,  that  like  mysterious  pulses  beat 
Aloft;  — momentous  but  uneasy  bliss! 

To  their  full  hearts  the  universe  seemed  hung 
On  tiiat  brief  meeting’s  slender  filament ! 

They  parted  ; and  the  generous  Vaiidracour 
Reached  speedily  tlie  native  thresiiold,  bent 
On  making  (so  the  Lovers  had  agreed) 

A sacrifice  of  birthright  to  attain 
A final  portion  from  his  Father’s  hand ; 

Which  granted,  Bride  and  Bridegroom  then  would  flee 
To  some  remote  and  solitary  place. 

Shady  as  night,  and  beautiful  as  heaven. 

Where  they  may  live,  with  no  one  to  behold 
Their  happiness,  or  to  disturb  their  love. 

But  now  of  this  no  whisper ; not  the  less, 

If  ever  an  obtrusive  word  were  dropped 
Touching  the  matter  of  his  passion,  still. 

In  his  stern  Father’s  hearing,  Vaudracour 
Persisted  openly  that  death  alone 
Should  abrogate  his  human  privilege 
Divine,  of  swearing  everlasting  truth. 

Upon  the  altar,  to  the  Maid  he  loved. 

“ You  shall  be  baffled  in  your  mad  intent 
If  there  be  justice  in  the  Court  of  France,” 

Muttered  the  Father.  — From  these  words  the  Youth 
Conceived  a terror,  — and,  by  night  or  day. 

Stirred  nowhere  without  weapons  — that  full  soon 
Found  dreadful  provocation  : for  at  night 
When  to  his  chamber  he  retired,  attempt 
Was  made  to  seize  him  by  three  armed  men. 

Acting,  in  furtherance  of  the  Father’s  will. 

Under  a private  signet  of  the  Slate. 

One,  did  the  Youth’s  ungovernable  hand 
Assault  and  slay  ; — and  to  a second,  gave 
A perilous  wound,  — he  shuddered  to  behold 
The  breathless  corse ; then  peacefully  resigned 
His  person  to  the  law,  was  lodged  in  prison. 

And  wore  the  fetters  of  a criminal. 

Have  you  beheld  a tuft  of  winged  seed 
That,  from  the  dandelion’s  naked  stalk. 

Mounted  aloft,  is  suffered  not  to  use 
Its  natural  gifts  for  purposes  of  rest. 

Driven  by  the  autumnal  whirlwind  to  and  fro 
Through  the  wide  element]  or  have  you  marked 
TIio  heavier  substance  of  a leaf-clad  bough, 

O 


Within  the  vortex  of  a foaming  flood. 

Tormented  ] by  such  aid  you  may  conceive 
The  perturbation  of  each  mind  : — ah,  no! 

Desperate  the  Maid  — the  Youth  is  stained  with  blood  ; 
But  as  the  troubled  seed  and  tortured  bough 
Is  Man,  subjected  to  despotic  sway. 

For  him,  by  private  influence  with  the  Court 
Was  pardon  gained,  and  liberty  procured; 

But  not  without  e.xaction  of  a pledge. 

Which  liberty  and  love  dispersed  in  air. 

He  flew  to  her  from  whom  they  would  divide  him  — 

He  clove  to  her  who  could  not  give  him  peace 

Yea,  his  first  word  of  greeting  was,  — “ All  right 
Is  gone  from  me ; my  lately-towering  hopes. 

To  the  least  fibre  of  their  lowest  root. 

Are  withered  ; — thou  no  longer  canst  be  mine, 

I thine  — the  Conscience-stricken  must  not  woo 
The  unruffled  Innocent,  — I see  thy  face. 

Behold  thee,  and  my  misery  is  complete !” 

“ One,  are  we  not  ]”  exclaimed  the  Maiden  — “ One 
For  innocence  and  youth,  for  weal  and  woe  ]” 

Then  with  the  Father’s  name  she  coupled  words 
Of  vehement  indignation  ; but  the  Youth 
Checked  her  with  filial  meekness ; for  no  thought 
Uncharitable,  no  presumptuous  rising 
Of  hasty  censure,  modelled  in  the  eclipse 
Of  true  domestic  loyalty,  did  e’er 
Find  place  within  his  bosom.  — Once  again 
The  persevering  wedge  of  tyranny 
Achieved  their  separation  ; — and  once  more 
Were  they  united,  — to  be  yet  again 
Disparted  — pitiable  lot ! But  here 
A portion  of  the  Tale  may  well  be  left 
In  silence,  though  my  memory  could  add 
Much  how  the  Youth,  in  scanty  space  of  time. 

Was  traversed  from  without;  much,  too,  of  thoughts 
That  occupied  his  days  in  solitude 
Under  privation  and  restraint;  and  what. 

Through  dark  and  shapeless  fear  of  things  to  come. 

And  what,  through  strong  compunction  for  the  past. 

He  suffered  — breaking  down  in  heart  and  mind  ! 

Doomed  to  "a  third  and  last  captivity, 

His  freedom  he  recovered  on  the  eve 
Ot  Julia’s  travail.  When  the  babe  was  born, 

Its  presence  tempted  him  to  cherish  schemes 
Of  future  happiness.  “ You  shall  return, 

Julia,”  said  he,  “and  to  your  Father’s  house 
Go  with  the  Child.  — You  have  been  wretched,  yet 
The  silver  shower,  whose  reckless  burthen  weighs 
Too  heavily  upon  the  lily’s  head. 

Oft  leaves  a saving  moisture  at  its  root. 

Malice,  beholding  you,  will  melt  away. 

Go!  — ’tis  a Town  where  both  of  us  were  born; 

None  will  reproach  you,  for  our  truth  is  Known ; 


106 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  if,  amid  those  once-bright  bowers,  our  fate 
Remain  unpitied,  pity  is  not  in  man. 

With  ornaments — the  prettiest,  nature  yields 
Or  art  can  fashion,  shall  you  deck  our  Boy, 

And  feed  his  countenance  witli  your  own  sweet  looks 
Till  no  one  can  resist  him. — Now,  even  now, 

I see  him  sporting  on  the  sunny  lawn ; 

IMy  Father  from  the  window  sees  him  too  ; 

Startled,  as  if  some  new-created  Thing 
Enriched  the  earth,  or  Faery  of  the  woods 
Bounded  before  him  ; — but  tlie  unweeting  Child 
Shall  by  his  beauty  w'in  his  Grandsire’s  heart 
So  that  it  shall  be  softened,  and  our  loves 
End  happily  — as  they  began  !”  These  gleams 
Appeared  but  seldom  ; oflener  was  he  seen 
Propping  a pale  and  melancholy  face 
Upon  the  Mother’s  bosom;  resting  thus 
His  liead  upon  one  breast,  while  from  the  other 
The  Babe  was  drawing  in  its  quiet  food. 

— That  pillar  is  no  longer  to  be  thine. 

Fond  Youth  ! that  mournful  solace  now  must  pass 
Into  the  list  of  things  that  cannot  be  ! 

Unw’edded  Julia,  terror-smitten,  hears 

The  sentence,  by  her  Mother’s  lip  pronounced. 

That  dooms  her  to  a Convent.  — Who  shall  tell. 

Who  dares  report,  the  tidings  to  the  I.ord 
Of  lier  affections  1 So  they  blindly  asked 
tVlio  knew  not  to  w hat  quiet  depths  a weight 
Of  agony  had  pressed  the  Sufferer  down ; — 

The  word,  by  others  dreaded,  he  can  hear 
Composed  and  silent,  without  visible  sign 
Of  even  the  least  emotion.  Noting  this. 

When  the  impatient  Object  of  his  love 
Upbraided  him  with  slackness,  he  returned 
No  answ'er,  only  took  the  Mother’s  hand 
And  kissed  it  — seemingly  devoid  of  pain. 

Or  care,  that  what  so  tenderly  he  pressed. 

Was  a dependant  on  the  obdurate  heart 
Of  One  who  came  to  disunite  their  lives 
For  ever  — sad  alternative!  preferred. 

By  the  unbending  Parents  of  the  Maid, 

To  secret  ’spousals  meanly  disavow'ed. 

— So  bo  it ! 

In  the  city  he  remained 
A season  after  Julia  had  withdrawn 
To  those  religious  walls.  He,  too,  departs  — 

Who  with  him  1 — even  the  senseless  Little-one  ! 
With  that  sole  Charge  he  passed  the  city-gates. 

For  the  last  time,  attendant  by  the  side 
Of  a close  chair,  a litter,  or  sedan. 

In  w’hich  the  Babe  was  carried.  To  a hill. 

That  rose  a brief  league  distant  from  the  towm. 

The  Dw'ellers  in  that  house  where  he  had  lodged 
Accompanied  his  steps,  by  anxious  love 
Impelled,  — they  parted  from  him  there,  and  stood 
Watching  below,  till  he  had  disappeared 


On  the  hill  top.  His  eyes  he  scarcely  took. 
Throughout  that  journey,  from  the  vehicle 
(Slow-moving  ark  of  all  his  hopes !)  that  veiled 
The  tender  Infant ; and  at  every  inn. 

And  under  every  hospitable  tree 
At  which  the  Bearers  halted  or  reposed. 

Laid  him  with  timid  care  upon  his  knees. 

And  looked,  as  mothers  ne’er  were  knowm  to  look. 
Upon  the  Nursling  which  his  arms  embraced. 

— Til  is  was  the  manner  in  which  Vaudracour 
Departed  with  his  Infant;  and  thus  reached 
His  Father’s  house,  where  to  the  innocent  Child 
Admittance  was  denied.  The  young  Man  spake 
No  words  of  indignation  or  reproof. 

But  of  his  Father  begged,  a last  request. 

That  a retreat  might  be  assigned  to  him  ' 

Where  in  forgotten  quiet  he  might  dwell. 

With  such  allowance  as  his  wants  required  ; 

For  wishes  he  had  none.  To  a Lodge  that  stood 
Deep  in  a forest,  with  leave  given,  at  the  age 
Of  four-and-twenty  summers,  he  withdrew ; 

And  thither  took  with  him  his  infant  Babe, 

And  one  Domestic  for  their  common  needs. 

An  aged  Woman.  It  consoled  him  here 
To  attend  upon  the  Orphan,  and  perform 
Obsequious  service  to  the  precious  Child, 

Which,  after  a short  time,  by  some  mistake 
Or  indiscretion  of  the  Father,  died.  — 

The  Tale  I follow  to  its  last  recess 
Of  suffering  or  of  peace,  I know  not  which : 

Theirs  be  the  blame  who  caused  the  woe,  not  mine  ? 

From  this  time  forth,  he  never  shared  a smile 
With  mortal  creature.  An  Inhabitant 
Of  that  same  Town,  in  which  the  Pair  had  left 
So  lively  a remembrance  of  their  griefs. 

By  chance  of  business,  coming  wdthin  reach 
Of  his  retirement,  to  the  forest  lodge 
Repaired,  but  only  found  the  Matron  there. 

Who  told  him  that  his  pains  were  thrown  away. 

For  that  her  Master  never  uttered  word 
To  living  Thing  — not  even  to  her.  — Behold  ! 

While  they  were  speaking,  Vaudracour  approached  ; 
But,  seeing  some  one  near,  even  as  his  hand 
Was  stretched  towards  the  garden  gate,  he  shrunk  — 
And,  like  a shadow,  glided  out  of  view. 

Shocked  at  his  savage  aspect,  from  the  place 
The  Visitor  retired. 

Thus  lived  the  Youth 
Cut  off  from  all  intelligence  with  man, 

And  shunning  even  the  light  of  common  day  ; 

Nor  could  the  voice  of  Freedom,  which  through  France 
Full  speedily  resounded,  public  hope. 

Or  personal  memory  of  his  own  deep  wrongs, 

Rouse  him  : but  in  those  solitary  shades 
His  days  he  wasted,  an  imbecile  mind  ! 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


107 


THE  ARMENIAN  LADY’S  LOVE. 


[Tlie  subject  of  the  following  poem  is  from  the  Orlandus  of 
the  author’s  friend,  Kenelra  Henry  Digby ; and  the  liberty  is 
taken  of  inscribing  it  to  him,  as  an  acknowledgment,  however 
unworthy,  of  pleasure  and  instruction  derived  from  his  nume- 
rous and  valuable  writings,  illustrative  of  the  piety  and  chivalry 
of  the  olden  time.] 


1. 

You  have  heard  “ a Spanish  Lady 
How  she  wooed  an  English  Man;* 

Hear  now  of  a fair  Armenian, 

Daughter  of  the  proud  Soldan ; 

How  she  loved  a Christian  Slave,  and  told  her  pain 
Bv  word,  look,  deed,  with  hope  that  he  might  love  again. 

2. 

“ Pluck  that  rose,  it  moves  my  liking,” 

Said  she,  lifting  up  her  veil ; 

“ Pluck  it  for  me,  gentle  Gardener, 

Ere  it  wither  and  grow  pale.” 

“ Princess  fair,  I till  the  ground,  but  may  not  take 
From  twig  or  bed  an  humbler  flower,  even  for  yotir 
sake.” 

“ Grieved  am  I,  submissive  Christian'! 

To  behold  thy  captive  state ; 

Women,  in  your  land,  may  pity 
(May  they  not?)  the  unfortunate.” 

“ Yes,  kind  Lady  ! otherwi.se  Man  could  not  bear 
Life,  which  to  every  one  that  breathes  is  full  of  care.” 

4. 

“ Worse  than  idle  is  compassion. 

If  it  end  in  tears  and  sighs ; 

Thee  from  bondage  would  I rescue 
And  from  vile  indignities; 

Nurtured,  as  thy  mien  bespeaks,  in  high  degree. 

Look  up  — and  help  a hand  that  longs  to  set  thee  free.” 

5. 

“ Lady,  dread  the  wish,  nor  venture 
In  such  peril  to  engage; 

Think  how  it  would  stir  against  you 
Your  most  loving  Father’s  rage : 

Sad  deliverance  would  it  be,  and  yoked  with  shame. 
Should  troubles  overflow  on  her  from  whom  it  came.” 

6. 

“ Generous  Frank  ! the  just  in  effort 
Are  of  inward  peace  secure ; 

‘See,  in  Percy’s  Reliqiies,  that  fine  old  ballad,  “The  Spanish 
Lady’s  Love from  which  Poem  the  form  of  stanza,  as  suitable 
to  dialogue,  is  adopted. 


Hardships  for  tlie  brave  encountered. 

Even  the  feeblest  may  endure : 

If  Almighty  Grace  through  me  thy  chains  unbind, 

My  Father  for  slave’s  work  may  seek  a slave  in 
mind.” 

7. 

“ Princess,  at  this  burst  of  goodness. 

My  long-frozen  heart  grows  warm  !” 

“Yet  you  make  all  courage  fruitless. 

Me  to  save  from  chance  of  harm  ; 

Leading  such  Companion  I that  gilded  Dome, 

Yon  Minarets,  would  gladly  leave  for  his  worst  home.” 

8. 

“Feeling  tunes  your  voice,  fair  Princess! 

And  your  brow  is  free  from  scorn. 

Else  these  words  would  come  like  mockery. 
Sharper  than  the  pointed  thorn.” 

“Whence  the  undeserved  mistrust]  Too  wide  apart 
Our  faith  hath  been,  — O would  that  eyes  could  see 
the  heart !” 

9. 

“ Tempt  me  not,  I pray  ; my  doom  is 
These  base  implements  to  wield  ; 

Rusty  Lance,  I ne’er  shall  grasp  thee. 

Ne’er  assoil  my  cobwebb’d  shield ! 

Never  see  my  native  land,  nor  castle  towers. 

Nor  Her  who  thinking  of  me  there  counts  widowed 
hours,” 

10. 

“ Prisoner ! pardon  youthful  fancies ; 

Wedded]  If  you  can,  say  no!  — 

Blessed  is  and  be  your  Consort ; 

Hopes  I cherished  — let  them  go  ! 

Handmaid’s  privilege  would  leave  my  purpose  free. 
Without  another  link  to  my  felicity.” 

11. 

“ Wedded  love  with  loyal  Christians, 

Lady,  is  a mystery  rare ; 

Body,  heart,  and  soul  in  union. 

Make  one  being  of  a pair.” 

“Humble  love  in  me  would  look  for  no  return. 

Soft  as  a guiding  star  that  cheers,  but  cannot  burn.” 

1’2. 

“Gracious  Allah!  by  such  title 
Do  I dare  to  thank  the  God, 

Him  who  thus  exalts  thy  spirit. 

Flower  of  an  unchristian  sod ! 

Or  hast  thou  put  off  wings  which  thou  in  heaven  dost 
wear  ] 

What  have  I seen,  and  heard,  or  dreamt]  where  am 
I]  where]” 


103 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  W'ORKS. 


13. 

Here  broke  off  the  dangerous  converse : 

Less  impassioned  words  might  tell 

How  the  pair  escaped  together, 

Tears  not  wanting,  nor  a knell 
Of  sorrow  in  her  heart  while  through  her  Father’s  door, 
And  from  her  narrow  world,  she  passed  for  evermore. 

14. 

But  affections  higher,  holier. 

Urged  her  steps;  she  shrunk  from  trust 

In  a sensual  creed  that  trampled 
Woman’s  birthright  into  dust. 

Little  be  the  wonder  then,  the  blame  be  none. 

If  she,  a timid  Maid,  hath  put  such  boldness  on. 

15. 

Judge  both  Fugitives  with  knowledge : 

In  those  old  romantic  days 

Mighty  were  the  soul’s  commandments 
To  support,  restrain,  or  raise. 

Foes  might  hang  upon  their  path,  snakes  rustle  near. 
But  nothing  from  tlieir  inward  selves  had  they  to  fear. 

16. 

Thought  infirm  ne’er  came  between  them, 
Wliether  printing  desert  sands 

With  accordant  steps,  or  gathering 
Forest-fruit  with  social  hands; 

Or  whispering  like  two  reeds  that  in  the  cold  moon- 
beam 

Bend  with  the  breeze  their  heads,  beside  a crystal 
stream. 

17. 

On  a friendly  deck  reposing. 

They  at  length  for  Venice  steer; 

There,  when  they  had  closed  their  voyage. 

One,  who  daily  on  the  Pier 
Watched  for  tidings  frona  me  East,  beheld  his  Lord, 
Fell  down  and  clasped  his  knees  for  joy,  not  uttering 
word. 

18. 

Mutual  was  the  sudden  transport; 

Breathless  questions  followed  fast. 

Years  contracting  to  a moment. 

Each  word  greedier  than  the  last ; 

“ Hie  thee  to  the  Countess,  Friend ! return  with  speed. 
And  of  this  Stranger  speak  by  whom  her  Lord  was  freed. 

19. 

“ Say  that  I,  who  might  have  languished. 

Drooped  and  pined  till  life  w'as  spent. 

Now  before  the  gates  of  Stolberg 
My  Deliverer  would  present 
For  a crowning  recompense,  the  precious  grace 
Of  her  who  in  iny  heart  still  holds  her  ancient  place. 


20. 

“ Make  it  known  that  my  Comuanion 
Is  of  royal  Eastern  blood, 

Thirsting  after  all  perfection. 

Innocent,  and  meek,  and  good. 

Though  with  misbelievers  bred  ; but  that  dark  night 
Will  Holy  Church  disperse  by  beams  of  Gospel  Light.” 

21. 

Swiftly  went  that  gray-haired  Servant, 

Soon  returned  a trusty  Page 

Charged  with  greetings,  benedictions. 

Thanks  and  praises,  each  a gage 
For  a sunny  thought  to  cheer  the  Stranger’s  way. 

Her  virtuous  scruples  to  remove,  her  fears , allay. 

22. 

Fancy  (while,  to  banners  floating 
High  on  Stolberg’s  Castle  walla. 

Deafening  noise  of  welcome  mounted. 

Trumpets,  Drums,  and  Atabals,) 

The  devout  embraces  still,  while  such  tears  fell 
As  made  a meeting  seem  most  like  a dear  farew’elL 

23. 

Through  a haze  of  human  nature. 

Glorified  by  heavenly  light, 

Looked  the  beautiful  Deliverer 
On  that  overpowering  sight. 

While  across  her  virgin  cheek  pure  blushes  strayed. 
For  every  tender  sacrifice  her  heart  had  made. 

24. 

On  the  ground  the  weeping  Countess 
Knelt,  and  kissed  the  Stranger’s  hand ; 

Act  of  soul-devoted  homage. 

Pledge  of  an  eternal  band: 

Nor  did  aught  of  future  days  that  kiss  belie. 

Which,  with  a generous  shout,  the  crowd  did  ratify. 

25. 

Constant  to  the  fair  Armenian, 

Gentle  pleasures  round  her  moved. 

Like  a tutelary  Spirit 
Reverenced,  like  a Sister,  loved. 

Christian  meekness  smoothed  for  all  the  path  of  life. 
Who,  loving  most,  should  wiseliest  love,  their  only 
strife. 

26. 

Mute  Memento  of  that  union 
In  a Saxon  Church  survives. 

Where  a cross-legged  Knight  lies  sculptured 
As  between  two  W'edded  Wives  — 

Figures  with  armorial  signs  of  race  and  birth, 

And  the  vain  rank  the  Pilgrims  bore  while  yet  on 
earth. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


109 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST, 

1. 

List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph’s  Tower* 

At  eve ; how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira-force,  that  torrent  hoarse, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen ! 

Pit  music  for  a solemn  vale ! 

And  holier  seems  the  ground 
To  him  who  catches  on  the  gale 
The  spirit  of  a mournful  tale, 

Embodied  in  the  sound. 

2. 

Aot  far  from  that  fair  sight  whereon 
The  Pleasure-house  is  reared. 

As  Story  says,  in  antique  days, 

A stern-brow’d  house  appeared ; 

Foil  to  a jewel  rich  in  light 
There  set,  and  guarded  well ; 

Cage  for  a bird  of  plumage  bright, 

Sweet- voiced,  nor  wishing  for  a flight 
Beyond  her  native  delL 

3. 

To  win  this  bright  bird  from  her  cage. 

To  make  this  gem  their  own. 

Came  Barons  bold,  with  store  of  gold, 

And  Knights  of  high  renown; 

But  one  she  prized,  and  only  One ; 

Sir  Eglamore  was  he; 

Full  happy  season,  when  was  known. 

Ye  Dales  and  Hills!  to  you  alone 
Their  mutual  loyalty  — 

4. 

Known  chiefly,  Aira!  to  thy  glen. 

Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly ; 

Where  Passion  caught  what  Nature  taught. 
That  all  but  Love  is  folly; 

Where  Fact  with  Fancy  stooped  to  play. 
Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret ; 

To  trouble  hours  that  winged  their  way. 

As  if  through  an  immortal  day 
Whose  sun  could  never  set. 

5. 

But  in  old  times  Love  dwelt  not  long 
Sequester’d  with  repose; 

Best  throve  the  fire  of  chaste  desire. 
Fanned  by  the  breath  of  foes. 

“ A conquering  lance  is  beauty’s  test, 

“ And  proves  the  Lover  true ;” 


* A pleasurc-fiouse  built  by  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk  upon  the 
banks  of  Ulkwater.  Force  is  the  word  used  in  the  Luke  Dis- 
Irict  for  Water-fall. 


So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  pressed 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast. 

And  looked  a blind  adieu. 

6. 

They  parted. — Well  with  him  it  fared 
Through  w’ide-spread  regions  errant ; 

A knight  of  proof  in  love’s  behoof. 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant ; 

And  she  her  happiness  can  build 
• On  woman’s  quiet  hours ; 

Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and  thield. 
The  solace  beads  and  mas.ses  yield. 

And  needlework  and  flowers. 

7. 

Yet  blest  was  Emma  when  she  heard 
Her  Champion’s  praise  recounted ; 

Though  brain  would  swim,  and  eyes  grow  dim 
And  high  her  blushes  mounted ; 

Or  w’hen  a bold  heroic  lay 
She  warbled  frotn  full  heart ; 

Delightful  blossoms  for  the  May 
Of  absence ! but  they  will  not  stay. 

Born  only  to  depart. 

8. 

Hope  W'anes  with  her,  while  lustre  fills 
Whatever  path  he  chooses; 

As  if  his  orb,  that  owms  no  curb. 

Received  the  light  hers  loses. 

He  comes  not  back ; an  ampler  space 
Requires  for  nobler  deeds ; 

He  ranges  on  from  place  to  place. 

Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace 
But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 

9. 

His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 
Her  spirit  finds  its  centre; 

Clear  sight  she  has  of  what  he  was. 

And  that  would  now  content  l;er. 

“Still  is  he  my  devoted  knight  1” 

The  tear  in  answer  flows; 

Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  weight; 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  the  night 
Is  empty  of  repose. 

10. 

In  sleep  she  sometimes  walked  abroad. 

Deep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending. 

Like  that  pale  Queen  whose  hands  are  seen 
With  fiincied  spots  contending ; 

But  she  is  innocent  of  blood, — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  while  through  the  wood 
She  thrids  her  way,  the  sounding  Flood 
Her  melancholy  lure ! 


10 


no 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


11. 

16. 

W’^Iiile  ’mid  the  fern-brake  sleeps  the  doe, 
And  owls  alone  are  waking, 

In  white  arrayed,  glides  on  the  Maid 
The  downward  pathway  taking. 

That  leads  her  to  the  torrent’s  side 
And  to  a holly  bower; 

By  whom  on  this  still  night  descried  1 
By  whom  in  that  lone  place  espied  1 
By  thee.  Sir  Eglamore! 

In  plunged  the  Knight ! when  on  firm  ground 
The  rescued  Maiden  lay. 

Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light. 
Confusion  passed  away ; 

She  heard,  ere  to  the  throne  of  grace 
Her  faithful  Spirit  flew. 

His  voice ; beheld  his  speaking  face, 

And,  dying,  from  his  own  embrace. 

She  felt  that  he  was  true. 

12. 

17. 

A wandering  Ghost,  so  thinks  the  Knight, 
His  coming  step  has  thwarted, 

Beneath  the  boughs  that  heard  their  vows. 
Within  whose  shade  they  parted. 

Hush,  hush,  the  busy  Sleeper  see  ! 

Perplexed  her  fingers  seem. 

As  if  they  from  the  holly  tree 
Green  twigs  would  pluck,  as  rapidly 
Flung  from  lier  to  tlie  stream. 

So  was  he  reconciled  to  life  : 

Brief  words  may  speak  the  rest ; 
Within  the  dell  he  built  a cell. 

And  there  was  Sorrow’s  guest ; 

In  hermits’  weeds  repose  he  found. 
From  vain  temptations  free  ; 
Beside  the  torrent  dwelling  — bound 
By  one  deep  heart-controlling  sound. 
And  awed  to  piety. 

13. 

18. 

What  means  the  Spectre!  Why  intent 
To  violate  the  Tree, 

Thought  Eglamore,  by  wliich  I swore 
Unfading  constancy  ! 

Here  am  I,  and  to-morrow’s  sun. 

To  her  I left,  shall  prove 
That  bliss  is  ne’er  so  surely  won 
As  when  a circuit  has  been  run 
Of  valour,  truth,  and  love. 

Wild  stream  of  Aira,  hold  thy  course. 

Nor  fear  memorial  lays, 

Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade, 
Are  edged  with  golden  rays ! 

Dear  art  thou  to  the  light  of  Heaven, 
Though  minister  of  sorrow ; 

Sweet  is  thy  voice  at  pensive  Even ; 

And  thou,  in  Lovers’  hearts  forgiven. 

Shall  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow  1 

14. 

So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood. 
He  moved  with  stealthy  pace; 

THE  IDIOT  BOY. 

And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye, 
He  recognised  the  face; 

And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small. 
Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree. 

Some  muttered  to  the  torrent  fall, — 

“ Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call ; 

“ I heard,  and  so  may  he  !” 

’Tis  eight  o'clock,  — a clear  March  night. 
The  Moon  is  up,  — the  Sky  is  blue, 

The  Owlet,  in  the  moonlight  air, 

Shouts,  from  nobody  knows  where  ; 

He  lengthens  out  his  lonely  shout. 

Halloo ! halloo  1 a long  halloo  ! 

15. 

Soul-shattered  was  the  Knight,  nor  knew 
If  Emma’s  Ghost  it  were. 

Or  boding  Shade,  or  if  the  Maid 

— Wliy  bustle  thus  about  your  door. 
What  means  this  bustle,  Betty  Foy ! 
Why  are  you  in  this  mighty  fret  ? 
And  why  on  horseback  have  you  set 
Him  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy! 

Her  very  self  stood  there. 

He  touched,  what  followed  who  shall  tell  ? 

The  soft  touch  snapped  the  thread 
Of  slumber  — shrieking  back  she  fell. 

And  the  Stream  whirled  her  down  the  dell 
Along  its  foaming  bed. 

There’s  scarce  a soul  that’s  out  of  bed; 
Good  Betty,  put  him  down  again; 

His  lips  with  joy  they  burr  at  you ; 

But,  Betty ! what  has  he  to  do 
With  stirrup,  saddle,  or  with  rein  ’ 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  TPIE  AFFECTIONS. 


Ill 


But  Betty’s  bent  on  her  intent; 

For  her  good  neighbour,  Susan  Gale, 
Old  Susan,  she  who  dwells  alone. 

Is  sick,  and  makes  a piteous  moan, 

As  if  her  very  life  would  fail. 

There’s  not  a house  within  a mile. 

No  hand  to  help  them  in  distress ; 

Old  Susan  lies  abed  in  pain. 

And  sorely  puzzled  are  the  twain. 

For  what  she  ails  they  cannot  guess. 

And  Betty’s  Husband 's  at  the  wood. 
Where  by  the  week  he  doth  abide, 

A W'oodman  in  the  distant  vale; 

There’s  none  to  help  poor  Susan  Gale; 
What  must  be  done  ! what  will  betide  1 

And  Betty  from  the  lane  has  fetched 
Her  Pony,  that  is  mild  and  good. 
Whether  he  be  in  joy  or  pain. 

Feeding  at  will  along  the  lane. 

Or  bringing  fagots  from  the  wood. 

And  he  is  all  in  travelling  trim, — 

And,  by  the  moonlight,  Betty  Foy 
Has  up  upon  the  saddle  set 
(The  like  was  never  heard  of  yet) 

Him  whorn  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  he  must  post  without  delay 
Across  the  bridge  and  through  the  dale. 
And  by  the  church,  and  o’er  the  down. 
To  bring  a Doctor  from  the  town. 

Or  she  will  die,  old  Susan  Gale. 

There  is  no  need  of  boot  or  spur. 

There  is  no  need  of  whip  or  w’and; 

For  Johnny  has  his  holly-bough. 

And  with  a hurly-burly  now 

lie  shakes  the  green  bough  in  his  hand. 

And  Betty  o’er  and  o’er  has  told 
The  Boy,  who  is  her  best  delight. 

Both  what  to  follow,  what  to  shun. 

What  do,  and  what  to  leave  undone. 

How  turn  to  left,  and  how  to  right. 

And  Betty’s  most  especial  charge. 

Was,  “Johnny!  Johnny!  mind  that  you 
Come  home  again,  nor  stop  at  all, — 
Come  home  again,  whate’er  befal. 

My  Johnny,  do,  I pray  you  do.’’ 

To  this  did  .Johnny  answer  make. 

Both  with  his  head  and  with  his  hand, 
And  proudly  shook  the  bridle  too ; 

And  then  ! his  words  were  not  a few. 
Which  Betty  well  could  understand. 


And  now  that  Johnny  is  just  going. 
Though  Betty’s  in  a mighty  flurry. 

She  gently  pats  the  Pony’s  side. 

On  which  her  Idiot  Boy  must  ride. 

And  seems  no  longer  in  a hurry. 

But  when  the  Pony  moved  his  legs. 

Oh ! then  for  the  poor  Idiot  Boy ! 

For  joy  he  cannot  hold  the  bridle. 

For  joy  his  head  and  heels  are  idle. 

He ’s  idle  all  for  very  joy. 

And  while  the  Pony  moves  his  legs. 

In  Johnny’s  left  hand  you  may  see 
The  green  bough  motionless  and  dead  • 
The  Moon  that  shines  above  his  head 
Is  not  more  still  and  mule  than  he. 

His  heart  it  was  so  full  of  glee. 

That  till  full  fifty  yards  were  gone. 

He  quite  forgot  his  holly  whip. 

And  all  his  skill  in  horsemanship. 

Oh  ! happy,  happy,  happy  John. 

And  while  the  Mother,  at  the  door. 
Stands  fixed,  lier  free  with  joy  o’erflows. 
Proud  of  herself,  and  proud  of  him. 

She  sees  him  in  his  travelling  trim, 

How  quietly  her  Johnny  goes. 

The  silence  of  her  Idiot  Boy, 

What  hope  it  sends  to  Betty ’s  heart ! 
He’s  at  the  Guide-post  — he  turns  right. 
She  watches  till  he’s  out  of  sight. 

And  Betty  will  not  then  depart. 

Burr,  burr  — now  Johnny’s  lips  they  burr, 
As  loud  as  any  mill,  or  near  it; 

Meek  as  a lamb  the  Pony  moves. 

And  Johnny  makes  the  noise  he  loves. 
And  Betty  listens,  glad  to  hear  it. 

Away  she  hies  to  Susan  Gale : 

Her  messenger’s  in  merry  tunc; 

The  Owlets  hoot,  the  Owlets  curr. 

And  Johnny’s  lips  they  burr,  burr,  burr. 
As  on  he  goes  beneath  the  Moon. 

His  Steed  and  He  right  well  agree; 

For  of  this  Pony  there’s  a rumour. 

That,  should  he  lose  his  eyes  and  ears. 
And  should  he  live  a thousand  years. 

He  never  will  be  out  of  humour. 

But  then  he  is  a Horse  that  thinks! 

And  when  he  thinks  his  pace  is  slack ; 
Now,  though  he  knows  poor  Jolmny  well, 
Vet,  for  his  life,  he  cannot  tell 
What  he  has  got  upon  his  back. 


112 


tVORDSWORTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So  through  the  moonlight  lanes  they  go, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale, 

And  by  the  church,  and  o’er  the  down. 

To  bring  a Doctor  from  the  town. 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  Betty,  now  at  Susan’s  side. 

Is  in  the  middle  of  her  story, 

Wliat  comfort  soon  her  Boy  will  bring, 
With  many  a most  diverting  thing, 

Of  Johnny’s  wit,  and  Johnny’s  glory. 

And  Betty,  still  at  Susan’s  side. 

By  this  time  is  not  quite  so  flurried: 
Demure  with  porringer  and  plate 
She  sits,  as  if  in  Susan’s  fate 
Her  life  and  soul  were  buried. 

But  Betty,  poor  good  Woman  ! she. 

You  plainly  in  her  face  may  read  it. 

Could  lend  out  of  that  moment’s  store 
Five  years  of  happiness  or  more 
To  any  that  might  need  it 

But  yet  I guess  that  now  and  then 
With  Betty  all  was  not  so  well ; 

And  to  the  road  she  turns  her  ears. 

And  thence  full  many  a sound  she  hoars. 
Which  she  to  Susan  will  not  tell. 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans ; 
“As  sure  as  there’s  a moon  in  heaven,” 
Cries  Betty,  “ lie  ’ll  be  back  again ; 
They’ll  both  be  here  — ’t  is  almost  ten  — 
Both  will  be  here  before  eleven.” 

Poor  Susan  moans,  poor  Susan  groans; 

The  clock  gives  warning  for  eleven  ; 

’Tis  on  the  stroke — “He  must  be  near,” 
Quoth  Betty,  “and  will  soon  be  here. 

As  sure  as  tiiere’s  a moon  in  heavc.n.” 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  twelve, 

And  Johnny  is  not  yet  in  sight, 

— The  Moon ’s  in  heaven,  as  Betty  sees, 
But  Betty  is  not  quite  at  ease; 

And  Susan  has  a dreadful  night. 

And  Betty,  half  an  hour  ago. 

On  Johnny  vile  reflections  cast: 

“ A little  idle  sauntering  Thing !” 

With  other  names,  an  endless  string ; 

But  now  that  time  is  gone  and  past. 

And  Betty ’s  drooping  at  the  heart. 

That  happy  time  all  past  and  gone, 

“How  can  it  be  he  is  so  late? 

The  Doctor  he  has  made  him  wait, 

Susan!  they’ll  both  be  here  anon.” 


And  Susan’s  growing  worse  and  worse, 
And  Betty’s  in  a sad  quandary; 

And  then  there ’s  nobotly  to  say 
If  she  must  go,  or  she  must  stay  ! 

She ’s  in  a sad  quandary. 

The  clock  is  on  the  stroke  of  one; 

But  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide 
Appears  along  the  moonlight  road  ; 
There’s  neither  horse  nor  man  abroad. 
And  Betty ’s  still  at  Susan’s  side. 

And  Susan  now  begins  to  fear 
Of  sad  mischances  not  a few. 

That  Johnny  may  perhaps  be  drowned. 
Or  lost,  perhaps,  and  never  found  ; 

Which  they  must  both  for  ever  rue. 

She  prefaced  half  a hint  of  this 
With,  “ God  forbid  it  should  be  true !” 

At  the  first  word  that  Susan  said. 

Cried  Betty,  rising  from  the  bed, 

“Susan,  I’d  gladly  stay  with  you. 

“ I must  be  gone,  I must  away, 

Consider,  Johnny’s  but  half-wise; 

Susan,  we  must  take  care  of  him. 

If  he  is  hurt  in  life  or  limb” — 

“ Oh  God  forbid  !”  poor  Susan  cries. 

“ What  can  I dol”  says  Betty,  going, 

“ What  can  I do  to  ease  your  pain  1 
Good  Susan,  tell  me,  and  I ’ll  stay  ; 

I fear  you  ’re  in  a dreadful  way, 

But  I shall  soon  be  back  again.” 

“ Nay,  Betty,  go ! good  Betty,  go ! 
There’s  nothing  that  can  ease  my  pain.” 
Then  off  she  hies ; but  with  a prayer 
That  God  poor  Susan’s  life  would  spare, 
Till  she  comes  back  again. 

So,  through  the  moonlight  lane  she  goes, 
And  far  into  the  moonlight  dale ; 

And  how  she  ran,  and  how  she  walked, 
And  all  that  to  herself  she  talked. 

Would  surely  be  a tedious  tale. 

In  high  and  low,  above,  below. 

In  great  and  small,  in  round  and  square. 
In  tree  and  tower  was  Johnny  seen. 

In  brush  and  brake,  in  black  and  green, 
’Twas  Johnny,  Johnny,  everywhere. 

The  bridge  is  past  — far  in  the  dale; 

And  now  the  thought  torments  her  sore, 
Johnny  perhaps  his  horse  forsook. 

To  hunt  the  moon  within  the  brook. 

And  never  will  be  heard  of  more. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


113 


Now  is  she  high  upon  the  down, 

Alone  amid  a prospect  wide  : 

There’s  neither  Johnny  nor  his  Horse 
Among  the  fern  or  in  the  gorse ; 

There’s  neither  Doctor  nor  his  Guide. 

“ Oh  saints ! what  is  become  of  him  I 
Perhaps  he’s  climbed  into  an  oak, 

Where  he  will  stay  till  he  is  dead ; 

Or,  sadly  he  has  been  misled, 

And  joined  the  wandering  gipsy-folk. 

“Or  him  that  wicked  Pony’s  carried 
To  the  dark  cave,  the  goblin’s  hall; 

Or  in  the  castle  he ’s  pursuing 
Among  the  ghosts  his  own  undoing  ; 

Or  playing  with  the  waterfall.” 

At  poor  old  Susan  then  she  railed. 

While  to  the  town  she  posts  away  ; 

“ If  Susan  had  not  been  so  ill, 

Alas ! 1 should  have  had  him  still. 

My  Johnny,  till  my  dying  day.” 

Poor  Betty,  in  this  sad  distemper. 

The  Doctor’s  self  could  hardly  spare  ; 
Unworthy  things  she  talked,  and  wild ; 

Even  he,  of  cattle  the  most  mild. 

The  Pony  had  his  share. 

And  now  she’s  got  into  the  town. 

And  to  the  Doctor’s  door  she  hies ; 

’T  is  silence  all  on  every  side ; 

The  town  so  long,  the  town  so  wide. 

Is  silent  as  the  skies. 

And  now  she’s  at  the  Doctor’s  door. 

She  lifts  the  knocker,  rap,  rap,  rap ; 

The  Doctor  at  the  casement  shows 
His  glimmering  eyes  that  peep  and  doze ! 

And  one  hand  rubs  his  old  night-cap. 

“Oh  Doctor!  Doctor!  where’s  my  Johnny  1” 
“I’m  here,  what  is’t  you  want  with  mel” 
“Oh  Sir!  you  know  I’m  Betty  Foy, 

And  I have  lost  my  poor  dear  Boy, 

You  know  him  — him  you  often  see;” 

“ He’s  not  so  wise  as  some  folks  be.” 

“ The  devil  take  his  wisdom  !”  said 
The  Doctor,  looking  somewhat  grim, 

“ What,  Woman  ! should  I know  of  him  1” 
And,  grumbling,  he  went  back  to  bed. 

“ O woe  is  me  ! O woe  is  me ! 

Here  will  I die;  here  will  I die; 

I thought  to  find  my  lost  one  here. 

But  he  is  neither  far  nor  near. 

Oh  ! what  a wretched  Mother  I !” 

P 


She  stops,  she  stands,  she  looks  about ; 
Which  way  to  turn  she  cannot  tell. 

Poor  Betty  ! it  would  ease  her  pain 
If  she  had  heart  to  knock  again  ; 

— The  clock  strikes  three  — a dismal  knel. ! 

Then  up  along  the  town  she  hies. 

No  wonder  if  her  senses  fail. 

This  piteous  news  so  much  it  shocked  her. 
She  quite  forgot  to  send  the  Doctor, 

To  comfort  poor  old  Susan  Gale. 

And  now  she ’s  high  upon  the  down. 

And  she  can  see  a mile  of  road ; 

“ Oh  cruel ! I’m  almost  threescore  ; 

Such  night  as  this  was  ne’er  before. 

There’s  not  a single  soul  abroad.” 

She  listens,  but  she  cannot  hear 
The  foot  of  horse,  the  voice  of  man ; 

The  streams  with  softest  sound  are  flowing- 
The  grass  you  almost  hear  it  growing. 

You  hear  it  now,  if  e’er  you  can. 

The  Owlets  through  the  long  blue  night 
Are  shouting  to  each  other  still : 

Fond  lovers ! yet  not  quite  hob  nob. 

They  lengthen  out  the  tremulous  sob, 

That  echoes  far  from  hill  to  hill. 

Poor  Betty  now  has  lost  all  hope. 

Her  thoughts  are  bent  on  deadly  sin, 

A green-grown  pond  she  just  has  past. 

And  from  the  brink  she  hurries  fast. 

Lest  she  should  drown  herself  therein. 

And  now  she  sits  her  down  and  weeps: 

Such  tears  she  never  shed  before ; 

“ Oh  dear,  dear  Pony  ! my  sweet  joy  ! 

Oh  carry  back  my  Idiot  Boy  ! 

And  we  will  ne’er  o’ei’oad  thee  more.” 

A thought  is  come  into  her  head  : 

“ The  Pony  he  is  mild  and  good. 

And  we  have  always  used  him  well : 

Perhaps  he’s  gone  along  the  dell. 

And  carried  Johnny  to  the  wood.” 

Then  up  she  springs  as  if  on  wings ; 

She  thinks  no  more  of  deadly  sin  ; 

If  Betty  fifty  ponds  should  see. 

The  last  of  all  her  thoughts  would  be 
To  drown  herself  therein. 

O Reader ! now  that  I might  tell 
What  Johnny  and  his  Horse  are  doing ! 
What  they’ve  been  doing  all  this  time, 

O could  I put  it  into  rhyme, 

A most  delightful  tale  pursuing! 

10* 


114 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Perhaps,  and  no  unlikely  thought ! 
lie  with  his  Pony  now  doth  roam 
The  cliffs  and  peaks  so  high  that  are, 

To  lay  his  hands  upon  a star, 

And  in  his  pocket  bring  it  home. 

Perhaps  he’s  turned  himself  about. 

His  face  unto  his  horse’s  tail, 

And,  still  and  mute,  in  wonder  lost, 

.411  like  a silent  Horseman-Ghost, 

He  travels  on  along  the  vale. 

And  now,  perhaps,  is  hunting  sheep, 

A fierce  and  dreadful  hunter  he  ; 

Yon  valley,  now  so  trim  and  green. 

In  five  months’  time,  should  he  be  seen, 
A desert  wilderness  will  be  ! 

Perhaps,  with  head  and  heels  on  fire, 

.4nd  like  the  very  soul  of  evil. 

He’s  galloping  away,  away. 

And  so  will  gallop  on  for  aye. 

The  bane  of  all  that  dread  the  devil! 

I to  the  Muses  have  been  bound 
Tliese  fourteen  years,  by  strong  indentures: 
O gentle  Muses ! let  me  tell  , 

But  half  of  what  to  him  befel ; 

He  surely  met  with  strange  adventures. 

O gentle  Muses!  is  this  kindl 
Why  will  ye  thus  my  suit  repel  1 
Why  of  your  further  aid  bereave  me  1 
And  can  ye  thus  unfriended  leave  me; 

Ye  Muses!  whom  I love  so  well  1 

Who’s  yon,  that,  near  the  waterfall. 
Which  thunders  down  with  headlong  force. 
Beneath  the  Moon,  yet  shining  fair. 

As  careless  as  if  nothing  were. 

Sits  upright  on  a feeding  Horse  1 

Unto  his  Horse,  there  feeding  free. 

He  seems,  I think,  the  rein  to  give; 

Of  Moon  or  Stars  he  takes  no  heed; 

Of  such  we  in  romances  read : 

— ’T  is  Johnny  ! Johnny  ! as  I live. 

And  that’s  the  very  Pony,  too! 

Where  is  she,  where  is  Betty  Foy? 

She  hardly  can  sustain  her  fears; 

The  roaring  waterfall  she  hears. 

And  cannot  find  her  Idiot  Boy. 

Your  Pony’s  worth  his  weight  in  gold: 
Then  calm  your  terrors,  Betty  Foy! 

She’s  coming  from  among  the  trees. 

And  now  all  full  in  view  she  sees 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy, 


And  Betty  sees  the  Pony  too: 

Why  stand  you  thus,  good  Betty  Foy  1 
It  is  no  goblin,  ’tis  no  ghost, 

’Tis  he  whom  you  so  long  have  lost. 

He  whom  you  love,  your  Idiot  Boy. 

She  loolcs  again  — her  arms  are  up  — 
She  screams  — she  cannot  move  for  joy; 
She  darts,  as  with  a torrent’s  force. 

She  almost  has  o’erturned  the  Horse, 
And  fast  she  holds  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  Johnny  burrs,  and  laughs  aloud  ; 
Whether  in  cunning  or  in  joy 
I cannot  tell ; but  while  he  laughs, 

Betty  a drunken  pleasure  quaffs 
To  hear  again  her  Idiot  Boy. 

And  now  she’s  at  the  Pony’s  tail 
And  now'  is  at  the  Pony’s  head, — 

On  that  side  now',  and  now  on  this ; 
And,  almost  stifled  with  her  bliss, 

A few  sad  tears  does  Betty  shed 

She  kisses  o’er  and  o’er  again 
Him  whom  she  loves,  her  Idiot  Boy; 
She’s  happy  here,  is  happy  there. 

She  is  uneasy  every  w'here  ; 

Her  limbs  are  all  alive  with  joy. 

She  pats  the  Pony,  where  or  w'hen 
She  knows  not,  happy  Betty  Foy ! 

The  little  Pony  glad  may  be. 

But  he  is  milder  far  than  she. 

You  hardly  can  perceive  his  joy. 

“ Oh  ! Johnny  never  mind  the  Doctor; 
You’ve  done  your  best,  and  that  is  all.” 
She  took  the  reins,  when  this  was  said. 
And  gently  turned  the  Pony’s  head 
From  the  loud  waterfall. 

By  this  the  stars  were  almost  gone. 

The  moon  was  setting  on  the  hill. 

So  pale  you  scarcely  looked  at  her : 

The  little  birds  began  to  stir. 

Though  yet  their  tongues  w'ere  still. 

The  Pony,  Betty,  and  her  Boy, 

Wind  slowly  through  the  woody  dale  ; 
And  who  is  she,  betimes  abroad. 

That  hobbles  up  the  steep  rough  road  I 
Who  is  it,  but  old  Susan  Galel 

Long  time  lay  Susan  lost  in  thought. 
And  many  dreadful  fears  beset  her. 

Both  for  her  Messenger  and  Nurse; 

And,  as  her  mind  grew  worse  and  w'orse, 
Her  body  — it  grew  better. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


115 


She  turned,  she  tossed  herself  in  bed. 

On  all  sides  doubts  and  terrors  met  her ; 
Point  after  point  did  she  discuss; 

And,  while  her  mind  was  figfhtirig  thus. 

Her  body  still  grew  better. 

“ Alas ! what  is  become  of  them  1 
These  fears  can  never  be  endured. 

I’ll  to  the  wood.” — The  word  scarce  said, 
Did  Susan  rise  up  from  her  bed. 

As  if  by  magic  cured. 

Away  she  posts  up  hill  and  down, 

And  to  the  wood  at  length  is  come; 

She  spies  her  Friends,  she  shouts  a greeting ; 
Oh  me ! it  is  a merry  meeting 
As  ever  was  in  Christendom. 

The  Owls  have  hardly  sung  their  last. 
While  our  four  Travellers  homeward  wend  ; 
The  Owls  have  hooted  all  night  long, 

And  with  the  Owls  began  my  song. 

And  with  the  Owls  must  end. 

For  while  they  all  were  travelling  home, 
Cried  Betty,  “ Tell  us,  Johnny,  do, 

Where  all  this  long  night  you  have  been. 
What  you  have  heard,  what  you  have  seen. 
And,  Johnny,  mind  you  tell  us  true.” 

Now  Johnny  all  night  long  had  heard 
The  Owls  in  tuneful  concert  strive  ; 

No  doubt  too  he  the  Moon  had  seen; 

For  in  the  moonlight  he  had  been 
From  eight  o’clock  till  five. 

And  thus,  to  Betty’s  question,  he 
]\Iade  answer,  like  a Traveller  bold, 

(Ills  very  word.s  I give  to  you,) 

“ The  Cocks  did  crow  to-whoo,  to-whoo, 

And  the  sun  did  shine  so  cold.” 

— Thus  answered  Johnny  in  his  glory. 

And  that  was  all  his  travel’s  story. 


MICHAEL. 

A P A S T O K A I,  POEM. 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps 
Up  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
You  will  suppose  that  with  an  upright  path 
Your  feet  must  struggle ; in  such  bold  ascent 
The  pastoral  Mountains  front  you,  face  to  face. 
But,  courage ! for  around  that  boisterous  Brook 
The  mountains  have  all  opened  out  themselves; 
And  made  a hidden  valley  of  their  own. 

No  habitation  can  be  seen;  but  they 
Who  journey  thither  find  themselves  alone 


With  a few  sheep,  with  rocks  and  stones,  and  kites 
That  overhead  are  sailing  in  the  sky. 

It  is  in  truth  an  utter  solitude; 

Nor  should  I have  made  mention  of  this  Dell 
But  for  one  object  which  you  might  pass  by, 

Might  see  and  notice  not.  Beside  the  brook 
Appears  a straggling  heap  of  unhewn  stones! 

And  to  that  place  a story  appertains. 

Which,  though  it  be  ungarnished  with  events. 

Is  not  unfit,  I deem,  for  the  fireside, 

I Or  for  the  summer  shade.  It  was  the  first 
Of  those  domestic  tales  that  spake  to  me 
j Of  Shepherds,  dwellers  in  the  valleys,  men 
Whom  I already  loved;  — not  verily 
For  their  own  sakes,  but  for  the  fields  and  hills 
Where  was  their  occupation  and  abode. 

And  hence  this  Tale,  while  I was  yet  a Boy 
Careless  of  books,  yet  having  felt  the  power 
Of  Nature,  by  the  gentle  agency 
Of  natural  objects  led  me  on  to  feel 
For  passions  that  were  not  my  own,  and  think 
(At  random  and  imperfectly  indeed) 

On  man,  the  heart  of  man,  and  human  life. 
Therefore,  although  it  be  a history 
' Homely  and  rude,  I will  relate  the  same 
I For  the  delight  of  a few  natural  hearts; 
j And,  with  yet  fonder  feeling,  for  the  sake 
Of  youthful  Poets,  who  among  these  Hills 
1 Will  be  my  second  self  when  I am  gone. 


Upon  the  Forest-side  in  Grasmere  Vale 
There  dwelt  a Shepherd,  Michael  was  his  name; 

An  old  man,  stout  of  heart,  and  strong  of  limb. 

His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength ; his  mind  was  keen, 

Intense,  and  frugal,  apt  for  all  affairs. 

And  in  his  Shepherd’s  calling  he  was  prompt 
And  watchful  more  than  ordinary  men. 

Hence  had  he  learned  the  meaning  of  all  winds, 

Of  blasts  of  every  tone;  and,  oftentimes. 

When  others  heeded  not,  he  heard  the  South 
Make  subterraneous  music,  like  the  noise 
Of  Bagpipers  on  distant  Highland  hills. 

The  Shepherd,  at  such  warning,  of  his  flock 
Bethought  him,  and  he  to  himself  would  say, 

“ The  winds  are  now  devising  work  for  me  !” 

And,  truly,  at  all  times,  the  storm  — that  drives 
The  Traveller  to  a shelter  — summoned  him 
Up  to  the  mountains:  he  had  been  alone 
Amid  the  heart  of  many  thousand  mists. 

That  came  to  him  and  left  him  on  the  heights. 

So  lived  he  till  his  eightieth  year  was  past. 

And  grossly  that  man  errs,  who  .should  suppose 
That  the  green  Valley.s,  and  tire  Streams  and  Rocks, 
Were  things  indifferent  to  the  Shepherd’s  thoughts. 
Fields,  where  with  cheerful  spirits  he  had  breathed 
The  common  air;  the  hills,  which  he  so  oft 
Had  climbed  with  vigorous  steps ; which  had  impressed 


116 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


So  many  incidents  upon  his  mind 
Of  hardship,  skill  or  courage,  joy  or  fear ; 

Which,  like  a book,  preserved  the  memory 
Of  the  dumb  animals,  whom  he  had  saved, 

Had  fed  or  sheltered,  linking  to  such  acts. 

The  certainty  of  honourable  gain. 

Those  fields,  those  hills  — what  could  they  less!  had 
laid 

Strong  hold  on  his  affections,  were  to  him 
A pleasurable  feeling  of  blind  love. 

The  pleasure  which  there  is  in  life  itself. 

Ilis  days  had  not  been  past  in  singleness. 

His  helpmate  v/as  a comely  Matron,  old  — 

Though  younger  than  himself  full  twenty  years. 

She  was  a woman  of  a stirring  life. 

Whose  heart  was  in  her  house : two  wheels  she  had 
Of  antique  form,  this  large  for  spinning  w’ool. 

That  small  for  flax ; and  if  one  wheel  had  rest, 

It  was  because  the  other  was  at  work. 

The  Pair  had  but  one  inmate  in  their  house. 

An  only  Child,  who  had  been  born  to  them, 

When  Michael,  telling  o’er  his  years,  began 
To  deem  that  he  was  old,  — in  Shepherd’s  phrase, 
\\"ith  one  foot  in  the  grave.  This  only  Son, 

Mlth  tw’o  brave  Sheep-dogs  tried  in  many  a storm. 
The  one  of  an  inestimable  worth, 

I\Iade  all  their  Household.  I may  truly  say, 

Tliat  they  were  as  a proverb  in  the  vale 
For  endless  industry.  When  day  was  gone, 

And  from  their  occupations  out  of  doors 
Tlie  Son  and  Father  were  come  home,  even  then. 
Their  labour  did  not  cease ; unless  when  all 
Turned  to  their  cleanly  supper-board,  and  there. 

Each  with  a mess  of  pottage  and  skimmed  milk, 

Sat  round  their  basket  piled  with  oaten  cakes. 

And  their  plain  home-made  cheese.  Yet  when  their  meal 
Was  ended,  Luke  (for  so  the  Son  was  named) 

And  his  old  Father  both  betook  themselves 
To  such  convenient  work  as  might  employ 
Their  hands  by  the  fire-side  ; perhaps  to  card 
Wool  for  the  Housewife’s  spindle,  or  repair 
Some  injury  done  to  sickle,  flail,  or  scythe. 

Or  other  implement  of  house  or  field. 

Down  from  the  ceiling,  by  the  chimney’s  edge. 

That  in  our  ancient  uncouth  country  style 
Did  with  a huge  projection  overbrow 
I.arge  space  beneath,  as  duly  as  the  light 
Of  day  grew  dim  the  Housewife  hung  a Lamp; 

An  aged  utensil,  which  had  performed 
Service  beyond  all  others  of  its  kind. 

Early  at  evening  did  it  burn  and  late. 

Surviving  Comrade  of  uncounted  Hours, 

Which,  going  by  from  year  to  year,  had  found, 

And  left  the  couple  neither  gay  perhaps 
Nor  cheerful,  yet  with  objects  and  with  hopes. 

Living  a life  of  eager  industry. 


And  now,  when  Luke  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year 
There  by  the  light  of  this  old  Lamp  they  sat. 

Father  and  Son,  while  late  into  the  night 
The  Housewife  plied  her  own  peculiar  work, 

Making  the  cottage  through  the  silent  hours 
Murmur  as  with  the  sound  of  summer  flies. 

This  Light  was  famous  in  its  neighbourhood, 

And  was  a public  Symbol  of  the  life 

That  thrifty  Pair  had  lived.  For,  as  it  chanced. 

Their  Cottage  on  a plot  of  rising  ground 
Stood  single,  with  large  prospect,  North  and  South 
High  into  Easedale,  up  to  Dummail-Raise, 

And  westward  to  the  village  near  the  Lake ; 

And  from  this  constant  light,  so  regular 
And  so  far  seen,  the  House  itself,  by  all 
Who  dwelt  within  the  limits  of  the  vale,  < 

Both  old  and  young,  was  named  The  Evening  Star. 

Thus  living  on  through  such  a length  of  years?. 

The  Shepherd,  if  he  loved  himself,  must  needs 
Have  loved  his  Helpmate;  but  to  Michael’s  heart 
This  Son  of  his  old  age  was  yet  more  dear  — 

Less  from  instinctive  tenderness,  the  same 
Blind  Spirit,  which  is  in  the  blood  of  all  — 

Than  that  a child,  more  than  all  other  gifts, 

Brings  hope  with  it,  and  forward-looking  thoughts, 
And  stirrings  of  inquietude,  when  they 
By  tendency  of  nature  needs  must  fail. 

Exceeding  was  the  love  he  bare  to  him. 

His  Heart  and  his  Heart’s  joy  ! For  oftentimes 
Old  Michael,  white  he  was  a babe  in  arms. 

Had  done  him  female  service,  not  alone 
For  pastime  and  delight,  as  is  the  use 
Of  Fathers,  but  with  patient  mind  enforced 
To  acts  of  tenderness ; and  he  had  rocked 
His  cradle  with  a woman’s  gentle  hand. 

And,  in  a later  time,  ere  yet  the  Boy 
Had  put  on  boy’s  attire,  did  Michael  love. 

Albeit  of  a stern  unbending  mind. 

To  have  the  Young-one  in  his  sight,  when  he 
Had  work  by  his  own  door,  or  when  he  sat 
With  sheep  before  him  on  his  Shepherd’s  stool. 
Beneath  that  large  old  Oak,  which  near  their  doer 
Stood,  — and,  from  its  enormous  breadth  of  shade 
Chosen  for  the  Shearer’s  covert  from  the  sun, 

Thence  in  our  rustic  dialect  was  called 
The  Clipping  Tree*,  a name  which  yet  it  bears. 
There,  while  they  two  w'ere  sitting  in  the  shade. 

With  others  round  them,  earnest  all  and  blithe, 

Would  Michael  exercise  his  heart  with  looks 
Of  fond  correction  and  reproof  bestowed 
Upon  the  Child,  if  he  disturbed  the  sheep 
By  catching  at  their  legs,  or  with  his  shouts 
Scared  them,  while  they  lay  still  beneath  the  .shears 

And  when  by  Heaven’s  good  grace  the  Boy  grew  up 
A healthy  Lad,  and  carried  in  his  cheek 

1 * Clippingis  the  word  used  in  the  NorthofEngland  forshearing. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


117 


Two  steady  roses  that  were  five  years  old, 

Then  Michael  from  a winter  coppice  cut 
With  his  own  hand  a sapling,  which  he  hooped 
With  iron,  making  it  throughout  in  all 
Due  requisites  a perfect  Shepherd’s  Staff, 

.\nd  gave  it  to  the  Boy ; wherewith  equipt 
He  as  a Watchman  ol'tentirnes  was  placed 
At  gate  or  gap,  to  stem  or  turn  the  flock; 

.\nd,  to  his  office  prematurely  called. 

There  stood  the  Urchin,  as  you  will  divine. 

Something  between  a hinderance  and  a help  ; 

And  for  this  cause  not  alw’ays,  I believe, 

Receiving  from  his  Father  hire  of  praise; 

Though  nought  was  left  undone  which  staff,  or  voice, 
Or  looks,  or  threatening  gestures,  could  perform. 

But  soon  as  Luke,  full  ten  years  old,  could  stand 
Against  the  mountain  blasts ; and  to  the  heights. 

Not  fearing  toil,  nor  length  of  weary  w'ays. 

He  W'ith  his  father  daily  went,  and  they 
Were  as  companions,  why  should  I relate 
That  objects  which  the  Shepherd  loved  before 
Were  dearer  now  1 that  from  the  Boy  there  came 
Feelings  and  emanations  — things  which  were 
Light  to  the  sun  and  Music  to  the  wind; 

And  that  the  Old  Man’s  heart  seemed  born  again  1 

Thus  in  his  Father’s  sight  the  Boy  grew  up : 

And  nowq  when  he  had  reached  his  eighteenth  year, 
He  was  his  comfort  and  his  daily  hope. 

While  in  this  sort  the  simple  Household  lived 
From  day  to  day,  to  Michael’s  ear  there  came 
Distressful  tidings.  Ijong  before  the  time 
Of  which  I speak,  the  Shepherd  had  been  bound 
In  surety  for  his  Brother’s  Son,  a man 
Of  an  industrious  life,  and  ample  means,  — 

But  unforeseen  misfortunes  suddenly 

Had  prest  upon  him,  — and  old  Michael  now 

Was  summoned  to  discharge  the  forfeiture, 

A grievous  penalty,  but  little  less 

Than  half  his  substance.  This  unlooked-for  claim, 

At  the  first  hearing,  for  a moment  took 
Slore  hope  out  of  hie  life  than  he  supposed 
That  any  old  man  ever  could  have  lost. 

As  soon  as  he  had  gathered  so  much  strength 
That  he  could  look  his  trouble  in  the  face. 

It  seemed  tliat  his  sole  refuge  was  to  sell 
A portion  of  his  patrimonial  fields. 

Such  was  his  first  resolve;  he  thought  again. 

And  his  heart  failed  him.  “ Isabel,”  said  he. 

Two  evenings  after  he  had  heard  the  news, 

“I  have  been  toiling  more  than  seventy  years, 

And  in  the  open  sunshine  of  God’s  love 
Have  we  all  lived  ; }’et  if  these  fields  of  ours 
Should  pass  into  a Stranger’s  hand,  I think 
That  I could  not  lie  quiet  in  my  grave. 

Our  lot  is  a hard  lot ; the  sun  himself 


Has  scarcely  been  more  diligent  than  I ; 

And  I have  lived  to  be  a fool  at  last 
To  my  own  family.  An  evil  Man 
That  was,  and  made  an  evil  choice,  if  he 
Were  false  to  us;  and  if  he  were  not  false. 

There  are  ten  thousand  to  whom  loss  like  this 
Had  been  no  sorrow.  I forgive  him  — but 
’T  were  better  to  be  dumb  than  to  talk  thus. 

When  I began,  my  purpose  was  to  speak 
Of  remedies,  and  of  a cheerful  hope. 

I Our  Luke  shall  leave  us,  Isabel ; the  land 
Shall  not  go  from  us,  and  it  shall  be  free ; 

He  shall  possess  it,  free  as  is  the  wind 
That  passes  over  it.  We  have,  thou  know’st. 
Another  Kinsman  — he  will  be  our  friend 
In  this  distress.  He  is  a prosperous  man. 

Thriving  in  trade  — and  Luke  to  him  shall  go. 

And  with  his  Kinsman’s  help  and  his  owm  thrift 
He  quickly  will  repair  this  loss,  and  then 
May  come  again  to  us.  If  here  he  stay. 

What  can  be  done  1 Where  every  one  is  poor. 

What  can  be  gained?”  At  this  the  Old  Man  paused, 
And  Isabel  sat  silent,  for  her  mind 
Was  busy,  looking  back  into  past  times. 

There’s  Richard  Bateman,  thought  she  to  herself. 

He  was  a Parish-boy  — at  the  Church-door 
They  made  a gathering  for  him,  shillings,  pence. 

And  halfpennies,  wherewith  the  neighbours  bought 
A Basket,  which  they  filled  with  Pedlar’s  wares; 
And,  with  this  Basket  on  his  arm,  the  Lad 
Went  up  to  London,  found  a Master  there. 

Who,  out  of  many,  chose  the  trusty  Boy 

To  go  and  overlook  his  merchandise 

Beyond  the  seas  ; where  he  grew  wondrous  rich, 

I And  left  estates  and  moneys  to  the  poor, 

I And,  at  his  birth-blace,  built  a Chapel  floored 
I With  Marble,  which  he  sent  from  foreign  lands. 

I These  thoughts,  and  many  others  of  like  sort. 

Passed  quickly  through  the  mind  of  Isabel, 

And  her  face  brightened.  The  Old  Man  was  glad. 
And  thus  resumed: — “Well,  Isabel!  this  scheme, 

{ These  tw'o  days,  has  been  meat  and  drink  to  me. 
j Far  more  than  we  have  lost  is  left  us  yet. 
j — We  have  enough  — I wish  indeed  that  I 
j Were  younger,  — but  this  hope  is  a good  hope. 

I — Make  ready  Luke’s  best  garments,  of  the  best 
j Buy  for  him  more,  and  let  us  send  him  forth 
To-morrow,  or  the  next  day,  or  to-night:  ■ 

— If  he  could  go,  the  Boy  should  go  to-night.” 

Here  Michael  ceased,  and  to  the  fields  went  forth 
With  a light  heart.  The  Housewife  for  five  days 
Was  restless  morn  and  night,  and  all  day  long 
Wrought  on  with  her  best  fingers  to  prepare 
Things  needful  for  the  journey  of  her  son. 

But  Isabel  was  glad  when  Sunday  came 
To  stop  her  in  her  work : for,  when  she  lay 
By  Michael’s  side,  she  through  the  two  last  nights 
Heard  him,  how  he  was  troubled  in  his  sleep- 


118 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  when  they  rose  at  morningf  she  could  see 
That  all  his  hopes  were  gone.  That  day  at  noon 
She  said  to  Luke,  while  they  two  by  themselves 
Were  sitting  at  the  door,  “Thou  must  not  go  : 

We  have  no  other  Child  but  thee  to  lose, 

None  to  remember — do  not  go  away, 

For  if  thou  leave  thy  Father  he  will  die.” 

The  Youth  made  answer  with  a jocund  voice ; 

And  Isabel,  when  she  had  told  her  fears. 

Recovered  heart.  That  evening  her  best  fare  . 
Did  she  bring  forth,  and  all  together  sat 
Like  happy  people  round  a Christmas  fire. 

With  daylight  Isabel  resumed  her  work  ; 

And  all  the  ensuing  week  the  house  appeared 
As  cheerful  as  a grove  in  Spring:  at  length 
Tlie  expected  letter  from  their  Kinsman  came. 
With  kind  assurances  that  he  would  do 
Ills  utmost  for  the  welfare  of  the  Boy; 

To  which,  requests  were  added,  that  forthv.'ith 
He  might  be  sent  to  him.  Ten  times  or  more 
The  letter  was  read  over  ; Isabel 
Went  forth  to  show  it  to  the  neighbours  round ; 

Nor  was  there  at  that  time  on  English  land 
A prouder  heart  than  Luke’s.  When  Isabel 
Had  to  her  house  returned,  the  Old  Man  said, 

“ He  shall  depart  to-morrow.”  To  this  word 
The  Housewife  answered,  talking  much  of  things 
Whicli,  if  at  such  short  notice  he  should  go. 

Would  surely  be  forgotten.  But  at  length 
She  gave  consent,  and  Michael  was  at  ease. 

Near  the  tumultuous  brook  of  Green-head  Ghyll, 
In  that  deep  Valley,  Michael  had  designed 
To  build  a Sheep-fold ; and  before  he  heard 
The  tidings  of  his  melancholy  loss. 

For  this  same  purpose  he  had  gathered  up 
A heap  of  stones,  whicli  by  the  Streamlet’s  edge 
Lay  thrown  together,  ready  for  the  work. 

With  Luke  that  evening  thitherward  he  walked ; 
And  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  place  he  stopped. 
And  thus  the  Old  Man  spake  to  him  : — “ My  Son, 
To-morrow  thou  wilt  leave  me:  with  full  heart 
I look  upon  thee,  for  thou  art  tlie  same 
That  wert  a promise  to  me  ere  thy  birth, 

And  all  thy  life  hast  been  my  daily  joy. 

I will  relate  to  thee  some  little  part 
Of  our  two  histories;  ’twill  do  thee  good 
When  thou  art  from  me,  even  if  I should  speak 

Of  tilings  thou  canst  not  know  of. After  thou 

.First  earnest  into  the  world  — as  oft  befalls 
To  new-born  infiints  — thou  didst  sleep  away 
Two  days,  and  blessings  from  thy  Father’s  tongue 
Then  fell  upon  thee.  Day  by  day  passed  on. 

And  still  I loved  thee  with  increasing  love. 

Never  to  living  ear  came  sweeter  sounds 
Than  when  I heard  thee  by  our  own  fire-side 
First  uttering,  without  words,  a natural  tune ; 


When  thou,  a feeding  babe,  didst  in  thy  joy 

Sing  at  thy  Mother’s  breast.  Month  followed  month, 

And  in  the  open  fields  my  life  was  passed 

And  on  the  mountains;  else  I think  that  thou 

Iladst  been  brought  up  upon  thy  Father’s  knees. 

But  we  were  playmates,  Luke : among  these  hills, 

As  well  thou  knowest,  in  us  the  old  and  young 
Have  played  together,  nor  with  me  didst  thou 
Lack  any  pleasure  which  a boy  can  know.” 

Luke  had  a manly  heart ; but  at  these  words 
He  sobbed  aloud.  The  Old  Man  grasped  his  hand. 
And  said,  “ Nay,  do  not  take  it  so  — I see 
That  these  are  tlnngs  of  which  I need  not  speak. 

— Even  to  the  utmost  I have  been  to  thee 
A kind  and  a good  Father : and  herein 

I but  repay  a gift  which  I myself  ' 

Received  at  others’  hands  ; for,  though  nljw  old 
Beyond  the  common  life  of  man,  I still 
Remember  them  who  loved  me  in  my  youth. 

Both  of  them  sleep  together:  here  they  lived. 

As  all  their  Forefathers  had  done ; and  when 
At  length  their  time  was  come,  they  were  not  loth 
To  give  their  bodies  to  the  family  mould. 

I wished  that  thou  shonldst  live  the  life  they  lived. 
But,  ’tis  a long  time  to  look  back,  my  Son, 

And  see  so  little  gain  from  threescore  years. 

These  fields  were  burthened  when  they  canVe  to  me 
Till  I was  forty  years  of  age,  not  more 
Than  half  of  my  inheritance  was  mine. 

I toiled  and  toiled  ; God  blessed  me  in  my  work. 

And  till  these  three  weeks  past  the  land  was  fi-ee. 

— It  looks  as  if  it  never  could  endure 
Another  Master.  Heaven  forgive  me,  Luke, 

If  I judge  ill  for  thee,  but  it  seems  good 

That  thou  shouldst  go.”  At  this  the  Old  Man  paused ' 
Then,  pointing  to  the  Stones  near  which  they  stood. 
Thus,  after  a short  silence,  he  resumed  : 

“This  was  a work  for  us;  and  now,  my  Son, 

It  is  a work  for  me.  But,  lay  one  Stone  — 

Here,  lay  it  for  me,  Luke,  with  thine  own  hands. 

Nay,  Boy,  be  of  good  hope ; — we  both  may  live 
To  see  a better  day.  At  eighty-four 
I still  am  strong  and  hale; — do  thou  thy  part; 

I will  do  mine.  — I will  begin  again 
With  many  tasks  that  were  resigned  to  thee : 

Up  to  the  heights,  and  in  among  the  storms. 

Will  I without  thee  go  again,  and  do 
All  works  which  I was  wont  to  do  alone. 

Before  I knew  thy  face.  — Heaven  bless  thee.  Boy  ! 
Thy  heart  these  two  weeks  has  been  beating  fast 
With  many  hopes — It  should  be  so Yes — yes  — 

I knew  that  thou  couldst  never  have  a wish 
To  leave  me,  Luke:  thou  hast  been  bound  to  me 
Only  by  links  of  love : when  thou  art  gone. 

What  will  be  left  to  us!  — But,  I forget 
My  purposes.  Lay  now  the  corner-stone. 

As  I requested ; and  hereafter,  Luke, 


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119 


VVlien  thou  art  gone  away,  should  evil  men 
Be  thy  companions,  think  of  me,  my  Son, 

And  of  this  moment;  hither  turn  thy  thoughts, 

And  God  will  strengthen  thee:  amid  all  fear 
And  all  temptation,  Luke,  I pray  that  thou  ' 

Mayst  bear  in  mind  the  life  thy  Fathers  lived, 

Who,  being  innocent,  did  for  that  cause 
Bestir  them  in  good  deeds.  Now,  fare  thee  well  — 
When  thou  returnest,  thou  in  this  place  wilt  see 
A work  which  is  not  here : a covenant 

’Twill  be  between  us But,  whatever  fate 

Befall  thee,  I shall  love  thee  to  tlie  last, 

And  bear  thy  memory  with  me  to  the  grave.” 

The  Shepherd  ended  here ; and  Luke  stooped  down. 
And,  as  his  Father  had  requested,  laid 
The  first  stone  of  the  Sheep-fold.  At  the  sight, 

The  Old  Man’s  grief  broke  from  him ; to  his  heart 
He  pressed  his  Son,  he  kissed  him  and  wept ; 

And  to  the  house  together  they  returned. 

— Hushed  was  that  house  in  peace,  or  seeming  peace. 
Ere  the  night  fell : — with  morrow’s  dawn  the  Boy 
Began  his  journey,  and  when  he  had  reached 
The  public  Way,  he  put  on  a bold  face ; 

And  all  the  Neighbours,  as  he  passed  their  doors, 
Came  forth  with  wishes  and  with  farewell  prayers. 
That  followed  him  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 

A good  report  did  from  their  Kinsman  come 
Of  Luke  and  his  well-doing:  and  the  Boy 
Wrote  loving  letters,  full  of  wondrous  news, 

Which,  as  the  Housewife  phrased  it,  were  throughout 
“ The  prettiest  letters  that  were  ever  seen.” 

Both  parents  read  them  with  rejoicing  hearts. 

So,  many  months  passed  on : and  once  again 
The  Shepherd  went  about  his  daily  work 
With  confident  and  cheerful  thoughts;  and  now 
Sometimes  when  he  could  find  a leisure  hour 
He  to  that  valley  took  his  way,  and  there 
Wrought  at  the  Sheep-fold.  Meantime  Luke  began 
To  slacken  in  his  duty  ; and,  at  length. 

He  in  the  dissolute  city  gave  himself 
To  evil  courses:  ignominy  and  shame 
Fell  on  him,  so  that  he  was  driven  at  last 
To  seek  a hiding-place  beyond  the  seas. 

There  is  a comfort  in  the  strength  of  Love ; 

•T  will  make  a thing  endurable,  which  else 
Would  overset  the  brain,  or  break  the  heart: 

I have  conversed  with  more  than  one  who  well 
Remember  the  Old  Man,  and  what  he  w'as 
Years  after  he  had  heard  this  heavy  news. 

His  bodily  frame  had  been  from  youth  to  age 
Of  an  unusual  strength.  Among  the  rocks 
He  went,  and  still  looked  up  tow’ards  the  sun, 

And  listened  to  the  wind ; and,  as  before, 

Performed  all  kinds  of  labour  for  his  Sheep, 
knd  for  the  land  his  small  inheritance. 


And  to  that  hollow  Dell  from  time  to  time 
Did  he  repair,  to  build  the  Fold  of  which 
His  flock  had  need.  ’T  is  not  forgotten  yet 
The  pity  which  was  then  in  every  heart 
For  the  Old  Man  — and  ’tis  believed  by  all 
That  many  and  many  a day  he  thither  went. 

And  never  lifted  up  a single  stone. 

There,  by  the  Sheep-fold,  sometimes  was  he  seen 
Sitting  alone,  with  that  his  faithful  Dog, 

Then  old,  beside  him,  lying  at  his  feet. 

The  length  of  full  seven  years,  from  time  to  time. 

He  at  the  building  of  this  sheep-fold  wrought. 

And  left  the  work  unfinished  when  he  died. 

Three  years,  or  little  more,  did  Isabel 
Survive  her  Husband  : at  her  deatli  the  estate 
Was  sold,  and  went  into  a Stranger’s  hand. 

The  Cottage  which  was  named  the  Evening  Star 
Is  gone — the  ploughshare  has  been  through  the  ground 
On  which  it  stood  ; great  changes  have  been  wrouglit 
In  all  the  neighbourhood : — yet  the  Oak  is  left 
That  grew  beside  tiieir  Door ; and  the  remains 
Of  the  unfinished  Sheep-fold  may  be  seen 
Beside  the  boisterous  brook  of  Green-head  Gliyll 


THE  RUSSIAN  FUGITIVE. 


[Peter  Henry  Bruce,  having  given  in  his  entertaining  Memr  rs 
the  substance  of  the  following  Tale,  affirms,  that,  besides  tho 
concurring  reports  of  others,  he  had  the  story  from  the  Lady's 
own  mouth. 

The  Lady  Catherine,  mentioned  towards  the  close,  was  the 
famous  Catherine,  then  bearing  that  name  as  the  acknowledged 
Wife  of  Peter  the  Great.] 


PART  I, 

Enough  of  rose-bud  lips,  and  eyes 
Like  harebells  bathed  in  dew, 

Of  cheek  that  with  carnation  vies. 

And  veins  of  violet  hue; 

Earth  wants  not  beauty  that  may  scorn 
A likening  to  frail  flowers; 

Yea,  to  the  stars,  if  they  were  born 
For  seasons  and  for  hotirs. 

Through  Moscow’s  gates,  with  gold  unbarred. 
Stepped  one  at  dead  of  night. 

Whom  such  high  beauty  could  not  guard 
From  meditated  blight; 

By  stealth  she  passed,  and  fled  as  fast 
As  doth  the  hunted  fawn. 

Nor  stopped,  till  in  the  dappling  cast 
Appeared  unwelcome  dawn. 


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Seven  days  she  lurked  in  brake  and  field, 
Seven  nights  her  course  renewed, 
Sustained  by  what  her  scrip  might  yield. 
Or  berries  of  the  wood  ; 

At  length,  in  darkness  travelling  on, 

When  lowly  doors  were  shut. 

The  haven  of  her  hope  she  won, 

Her  Foster-mother’s  hut. 

“ To  put  your  love  to  dangerous  proof 
I come,”  said  she,  “ from  far ; 

For  I have  left  my  Father’s  roof, 

In  terror  of  the  Czar.” 

No  answer  did  the  Matron  give. 

No  second  look  she  cast; 

Slie  hung  upon  the  Fugitive, 

Embracing  and  embraced. 

She  led  tlie  Lady  to  a seat 
Beside  the  glimmering  fire. 

Bathed  duteously  her  wayworn  feet. 
Prevented  each  desire: 

The  cricket  chirped,  the  house-dog  dozed. 
And  on  that  simple  bed, 

^Vhere  she  in  childhood  had  reposed. 

Now  rests  her  weary  head. 

When  she,  whose  couch  had  been  the  sod, 
Whose  curtain  pine  or  thorn. 

Had  breathed  a sigh  of  thanks  to  God, 
Who  comforts  the  forlorn ; 

While  over  her  the  Matron  bent 
Sleep  sealed  her  eyes,  and  stole 
Feeling  from  limbs  with  travel  spent. 

And  trouble  from  the  soul. 

Refreshed,  the  Wanderer  rose  at  mom. 
And  soon  again  was  dight 
In  those  unworthy  vestments  W'orn 
Through  long  and  perilotis  flight; 

And  “ O beloved  Nurse,”  she  said, 

“ My  thanks  with  silent  tears 
Have  unto  Heaven  and  You  been  paid : 
Now  listen  to  my  fears  1 

“ Have  you  forgot” — and  here  she  smiled  — 
“The  babbling  flatteries 
You  lavished  on  me  when  a child 
Disporting  round  your  knees? 

I was  your  lambkin,  and  your  bird, 

Your  star,  your  gem,  your  flower; 

Light  words,  that  were  more  lightly  heard 
In  many  a cloudless  Ixmr! 


The  blossom  you  so  fondly  praised 
Is  come  to  bitter  fruit; 

A mighty  One  upon  me  gazed  ; 

I spurned  his  lawless  suit, 

And  must  be  hidden  from  his  wrath : 

You,  Foster-father  dear. 

Will  guide  me  in  my  forward  path; 

I may  not  tarry  here  1 

I cannot  bring  to  utter  woe 
Your  proved  fidelity.”  — 

“Dear  Child,  sweet  Mistress,  say  not  so? 

For  you  we  both  would  die.” 

“ Nay,  nay,  I come  with  semblance  feigned 
And  cheek  embrowned  by  art ; 

Yet,  being  inwardly  unstained. 

With  courage  will  depart.” 

“But  whither  would  you,  could  you,  flee? 

A poor  Man’s  counsel  take; 

The  Holy  Virgin  gives  to  me 
A thought  for  your  dear  sake; 

Rest,  shielded  by  our  Lady’s  grace; 

And  soon  shall  you  be  led 
Forth  to  a safe  abiding-place. 

Where  never  foot  doth  tread.” 


PART  II. 

The  Dwelling  of  this  faithful  pair 
In  a straggling  village  stood. 

For  One  who  breathed  unquiet  air 
A dangerous  neighbourhood ; 

But  wide  around  lay  forest  ground 
With  thickets  rough  and  blind ; 

And  pine-trees  made  a heavy  shade 
Impervious  to  the  wind. 

And  there,  sequestered  from  the  sight. 
Was  spread  a treacherous  swamp. 

On  which  the  noonday  sun  shed  light 
As  from  a lonely  lamp; 

And  midway  in  the  unsafe  morass, 

A single  Island  rose 

Of  firm  dry  ground,  with  healthful  grass 
Adorned,  and  shady  boughs. 

The  Woodman  knew,  for  such  the  craft 
This  Russian  Vassal  plied. 

That  never  fowler’s  gun,  nor  snaft 
Of  archer,  there  was  tried ; 


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121 


A sanctuary  seemed  the  spot, 

From  all  intrusion  free; 

And  there  he  planned  an  artful  Cot 
For  perfect  secrecy. 

With  earnest  pains  unchecked  by  dread 
Of  Power’s  far-stretching  hand, 

The  bold  good  Man  his  labour  sped 
At  nature’s  pure  command  ; 
Heart-soothed,  and  busy  as  a wren. 
While,  in  a hollow  nook, 

She  moulds  her  sight-eluding  den 
Above  a murmuring  brook. 


Rejoiced  to  bid  the  world  farewell. 

No  saintly  Anchoress 
E’er  took  possession  of  her  cell 
With  deeper  thankfulness. 

“ Father  of  all,  upon  thy  care 
And  mercy  am  I thrown  ; 

Be  thou  my  safeguard  !” — such  her  prayer 
When  she  was  left  alone. 

Kneeling  amid  the  wilderness 
When  joy  had  passed  away. 

And  smiles,  fond  efforts  of  distress 
To  hide  what  they  betray  ! 


His  task  accomplished  to  his  mind. 

The  twain  ere  break  of  day 
Creep  forth,  and  through  the  forest  wind 
Their  solitary  way; 

Few  words  they  speak,  nor  dare  to  slack 
Their  pace  from  mile  to  mile. 

Till  they  have  crossed  the  quaking  marsh, 
And  reached  the  lonely  Isle. 


The  prayer  is  heard,  the  Saints  have  seen, 
Diffused  through  form  and  face. 
Resolves  devotedly  serene; 

That  monumental  grace 
Of  Faith,  which  doth  all  passions  tame 
That  Reason  should  control ; 

And  shows  in  the  untrembling  frame 
A statue  of  tlw  soul 


ine  sun  above  the  pine-trees  showed 
A bright  and  cheerful  face; 

And  Ina  looked  for  her  abode. 

The  promised  hiding-place; 

She  sought  in  vain,  the  Woodman  smiled  ; 

No  threshold  could  be  seen. 

Nor  roof,  nor  window ; all  seemed  wild 
As  it  had  ever  been. 


Advancing,  you  might  guess  an  hour, 
The  front  wit’n  such  nice  care 
Is  masked,  “ if  house  it  be  or  bower,” 
But  in  they  entered  are  ; 

As  shaggy  as  were  wall  and  roof 
With  branches  intertwined. 

So  smooth  was  all  within,  air-proof. 
And  delicately  lined. 


And  hearth  was  there,  and  maple  dish. 
And  cups  in  seemly  rows. 

And  couch  — all  ready  to  a wish 
For  nurture  or  repose; 

And  Heaven  doth  to  her  virtue  grant 
That  here  she  may  abide 
In  solitude,  with  every  want 
By  cautious  love  supplied. 


No  Queen,  before  a shouting  crowd. 
Led  on  in  bridal  state. 

E’er  struggled  with  a heart  so  proud. 
Entering  her  palace  gate  ; q 


PART  III. 


’Tis  sung  in  ancient  minstrelsy 
That  Phoebus  wont  to  wear 
“ The  leaves  of  any  pleasant  tree 
Around  his  golden  hair,”* 

Till  Daphne,  desperate  with  pursuit 
Of  his  imperious  love. 

At  her  own  prayer  transformed,  took  root, 
A laurel  in  the  grove. 


Then  did  the  Penitent  adorn 
His  brow  with  laurel  green  ; 

And  ’mid  his  bright  locks  never  shorn 
No  meaner  leaf  was  seen  ; 

And  Poets  sage,  through  every  age. 

About  their  temples  wound 
The  bay ; and  Conquerors  thanked  the  Gods, 
With  laurel  chaplets  crowned. 


Into  the  mists  of  fabling  Time 
So  far  runs  back  the  praise 
Of  Beauty,  that  disdains  to  climb 
Along  forbidden  ways ; 

That  scorns  temptation  ; power  defies 
Where  mutual  love  is  not ; 

And  to  the  tomb  for  rescue  flies. 
When  life  would  be  a blot. 


♦ From  Golding’s  Translation  of  Ovid’s  Metamorphoa<»  So 
also  his  Dedicatory  Epistle  prefix’d  to  the  same  work. 


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WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  this  fair  Votaress,  a fate 
More  mild  doth  Heaven  ordain 
Upon  her  Island  desolate  ; 

And  words,  not  breathed  in  vain. 

Might  tell  what  intercourse  she  found. 

Her  silence  to  endear ; 

What  birds  she  tamed,  what  flowers  the  ground 
Sent  forth  her  peace  to  cheer. 

To  one  mute  Presence,  above  all. 

Her  soothed  affections  clung, 

A picture  on  the  Cabin  wall 
By  Russian  usage  hung  — 

The  Mother-maid,  whose  countenance  bright 
With  love  abridged  the  day ; 

And,  communed  with  by  taper  light. 

Chased  spectral  fears  away. 

And  ofl,  as  cither  Guardian  came, 

The  joy  in  that  retreat 
Might  any  common  friendship  shame. 

So  high  their  hearts  would  beat; 

And  to  the  lone  Recluse,  whate’er 
They  brought,  each  visiting 
Was  like  the  crowding  of  the  year 
With  a now  burst  of  spring. 

But,  when  she  of  her  Parents  thought. 

The  pang  was  hard  to  bear; 

And,  if  with  all  things  not  enwrought. 

That  trouble  still  is  near. 

Before  her  flight  she  had  not  dared 
Their  constancy  to  prove. 

Too  much  the  heroic  Daughter  feared 
The  weakness  of  their  love. 

Dark  is  the  Past  to  them,  and  dark 
The  future  still  must  be. 

Till  pitying  Saints  conduct  her  bark 
Into  a safer  sea  — 

Or  gentle  Nature  close  her  eyes, 

And  set  her  Spirit  free 
From  the  altar  of  this  sacrifice, 

In  vestal  purity. 

Yet,  when  above  the  forest-glooms 
The  white  swans  southward  passed. 

High  as  the  pitch  of  their  swift  plumes 
Her  fancy  rode  the  blast; 

And  bore  her  tow’rd  the  fields  of  France, 

Her  Father’s  native  land. 

To  mingle  in  the  rustic  dance. 

The  happiest  of  the  band  ! 


Of  those  beloved  fields  she  oft 
Had  heard  her  Father  tell 
In  phrase  that  now  with  echoes  soft 
Haunted  her  lonely  Cell ; 

She  saw  the  hereditary  bowers. 

She  heard  the  ancestral  stream ; 
The  Kremlin  and  its  haughty  towers 
Forgotten  like  a dream  ! 


PART  IV. 

The  ever-changing  Moon  had  traced 
Twelve  times  her  monthly  round. 

When  through  the  unfrequented  Waste 
Was  heard  a startling  sound; 

A shout  thrice  sent  from  one  who  cha,sed 
At  speed  a wounded  Deer, 

Bounding  through  branches  interlaced, 

And  where  the  wood  was  clear. 

The  fainting  Creature  took  the  marsh. 

And  toward  the  Island  fled. 

While  plovers  screamed  with  tumult  harsh 
Above  his  antlered  head ; 

This,  Ina  saw;  and,  pale  with  fear. 

Shrunk  to  her  citadel; 

The  desperate  Deer  rushed  on,  and  near 
The  tangled  covert  fell. 

Across  the  marsh,  the  game  in  view. 

The  Hunter  followed  fast. 

Nor  paused,  till  o’er  the  Stag  he  blew 
A death-proclaiming  blast: 

Then,  resting  on  her  upright  mind. 

Came  forth  the  Maid  — “In  me 
Behold,”  she  said,  “a  stricken  Hind 
Pursued  by  destiny ! 

From  your  deportment.  Sir!  I deem 
That  you  have  worn  a sword. 

And  will  not  hold  in  light  esteem 
A suffering  woman’s  word; 

There  is  my  covert,  there  perchance 
I might  have  lain  concealed. 

My  fortunes  hid,  my  countenance 
Nor  even  to  you  revealed. 

Tears  might  be  shed,  and  I might  pray, 
Crouching  and  terrified. 

That  what  has  been  unveiled  to  day, 

You  would  in  mystery  hide; 


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123 


But  I will  not  defile  with  dust 
The  knee  that  bends  to  adore 
The  God  in  heaven ; — attend,  be  just : 
This  ask  I,  and  no  more ! 

Faint  sanction  given,  the  Cavalier 
Was  eager  to  depart. 

Though  question  followed  question,  dear 
To  the  Maiden’s  filial  heart. 

1 speak  not  of  the  winter’s  cold, 

For  summer’s  heat  exchanged. 

While  I have  lodged  in  this  rough  hold, 
From  social  life  estranged ; 

Nor  yet  of  trouble  and  alarms; 

High  Heaven  is  my  defence ; 

And  every  season  has  soft  arms 
For  injured  Innocence. 

Light  was  his  step,  — his  Iiopcs,  more  light. 
Kept  pace  with  his  desires ; 

And  the  third  morning  gave  him  sight 
Of  Moscow’s  glittering  spires. 

He  sued  : — heart-smitten  by  the  wrong. 

To  the  lorn  Fugitive 
The  Emperor  sent  a pledge  as  strong 
As  sovereign  pow'er  could  give. 

From  Moscow  to  the  Wilderness 
It  was  my  choice  to  come. 

Lest  virtue  should  be  harbourloss. 
And  honour  want  a home; 

And  happy  were  I,  if  the  Czar 
Retain  his  lawless  will. 

To  end  life  here  like  this  poor  Deer, 
Or  a Lamb  on  a green  hill.” 

0 more  than  mighty  change ! If  e’er 
Amazement  rose  to  pain, 

And  over-joy  produced  a fear 
Of  something  void  and  vain, 

’T  was  when  the  Parents,  who  had  mourned 
So  long  the  lost  as  dead. 

Beheld  their  only  Child  returned. 

The  household  floor  to  tread. 

“ Are  you  the  Maid,”  the  Stranger  cried, 
“From  Gallic  Parents  sprung. 

Whose  vanishing  was  rumoured  wide 
Sad  theme  for  every  tongue  ; 

Who  foiled  an  Emperor’s  eager  quest  1 
You,  Lady,  forced  to  wear 
These  rude  habiliments,  and  rest 
Your  head  in  this  dark  lair !” 

Soon  gratitude  gave  way  to  love 
Within  the  Maiden’s  breast: 
Delivered  and  Deliverer  move 
In  bridal  garments  drest; 

Meek  Catherine  had  her  own  reward ; 

The  Czar  bestowed  a dower ; 

And  universal  Moscow  shared 
The  triumph  of  that  hour. 

But  wonder,  pity,  soon  were  quelled  ; 

And  in  her  face  and  mien 
The  soul’s  pure  brightness  he  beheld 
Without  a veil  between  : 

He  loved,  he  hoped,  — a holy  flame 
Kindled  ’mid  rapturous  tears ; 

The  passion  of  a miomcnt  came 
As  on  the  wings  of  years. 

Flowers  strewed  the  ground  ; the  nuptial  feasi 
Was  held  with  costly  state; 

And  there,  ’mid  many  a noble  Guest, 

The  Foster  Parents  sate  ; 

Encouraged  by  the  imperial  eye. 

They  shrank  not  into  shade; 

Great  was  their  bliss,  the  honour  high 
To  them  and  nature  paid ! 

“ Such  bounty  is  no  gift  of  cliance,” 
Exclaimed  he;  “righteous  Heaven, 
Preparing  your  deliverance. 

To  me  the  charge  hath  given. 

The  Czar  full  oft  in  words  and  deeds 
Is  stormy  and  self-willed  ; 

But,  when  the  I.ady  Catherine  pleads. 
His  violence  is  stilled. 

GRACE  DARLING. 

Among  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  fields 
The  natural  heart  is  touched,  and  public  way 
And  crowded  streets  resound  with  ballad  strains. 
Inspired  by  one  whose  very  name  bespeaks 
Favour  divine,  exalting  human  love; 

Whom  since  her  birth  on  bleak  Northumbria’s  coast, 

“ Leave  open  to  my  wish  the  course. 
And  I to  her  will  go ; 

From  that  hum.ane  and  heavenly  source, 
Good,  only  good,  can  flow.” 

Known  unto  few  but  prized  as  far  as  known, 

A single  act  endears  to  high  and  low 

Through  the  whole  land  — to  Manhood,  moved  in  spue 

Of  the  world’s  freezing  cares  — to  generous  Youth  — 

121 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  Infancy,  that  lisps  lier  praise — to  Age 

Whose  eye  reflects  it,  glistening  through  a tear 

Of  tremulous  admiration.  Such  true  fame 

Awaits  her  vow  ; but,  verily,  good  deeds 

Do  no  imperishable  record  find 

Save  in  the  rolls  of  heaven,  where  hers  may  live 

A theme  for  angels,  when  they  celebrate 

The  high-souled  virtues  which  forgetful  earth 

lias  witnessed.  Oh ! that  winds  and  waves  could  speak 

Of  things  which  their  united  power  call  forth 

From  the  pure  depths  of  her  humanity  ! 

A maiden  gentle,  yet,  at  duty’s  call. 

Firm  and  unflinching,  as  the  lighthouse  reared 
On  the  Island-rock,  her  lonely  dwelling-place  ; 

Or  like  the  invincible  rock  itself,  that  braves 
Age  after  age  the  hostile  element.s. 

As  when  it  guarded  holy  Culhbert’s  cell. 

All  night  tlie  storm  had  raged,  nor  ceased,  nor  paused, 
When,  as  day  broke,  the  maid,  through  misty  air, 
Espies  far  oft’  a wreck,  amid  the  surf. 

Beating  on  one  of  those  disastrous  isles  — 

Half  of  a vessel,  half — no  more;  the  rest 
Had  vanished,  swallowed  up  with  all  that  there 
Had  for  the  common  safety  striven  in  vain. 

Or  thither  thronged  for  refuge.  With  quick  glance 
Daughter  and  sire  through  optic-glass  discern. 

Clinging  about  the  remnant  of  this  ship. 

Creatures  — how  precious  in  the  maiden’s  sight! 

For  whom,  belike,  the  old  man  grieves  still  more 
Than  for  their  fellow-sufferers  engulfed 
Where  every  parting  agony  is  hushed, 

And  hope  and  fear  mix  not  in  further  strife. 

“But  courage,  father!  let  us  out  to  sea  — 

A few  may  yet  be  saved.”  The  daughter’s  words, 

Her  earnest  tone,  and  look  beaming  with  faith. 

Dispel  the  father’s  doubts : nor  do  they  lack 
The  noble-minded  mother’s  helping  hand 
To  launch  the  boat;  and  witli  her  blessing  cheered. 
And  inwardly  sustained  by  silent  prayer. 

Together  they  put  forth,  father  and  child  ! 

Each  grasp  an  oar,  and  struggling  on  they  go  — 

Rivals  in  effort;  and,  alike  intent 
Here  to  elude  and  there  surmount,  they  watch 
The  billows  lengthening,  mutually  crossed 
And  shattered,  and  re-gathering  their  might; 

As  if  the  tumult,  by  the  Almighty’s  will 
Were,  in  the  conscious  sea,  roused  and  prolonged 
That  woman’s  fortitude  — so  tried,  so  proved  — 

May  brighten  more  and  more ! 

True  to  the  mark, 

They  stem  the  current  of  that  perilous  gorge, 

Their  arms  still  strengthening  with  the  strengthening 
heart. 

Though  danger  as  the  wreck  is  near’d,  becomes 
More  imminent.  Not  unseen  do  they  approach  ; 

And  rapture,  with  varieties  of  fear 
Incessantly  conflicting,  thrills  the  frames 


Of  those  who,  in  that  dauntless  energy, 

I Foretaste  deliverance;  but  the  least  perturbed 
Can  scarcely  trust  his  eyes,  when  he  perceives 
j That  of  the  pair  — tossed  on  the  waves  to  bring 
j Hope  to  the  hopeless,  to  the  dying,  life  — 

I One  is  a woman,  a poor  earthly  sister. 

Or,  be  the  visitant  other  than  she  seems, 
i A guardian  spirit  sent  from  pitying  Heaven, 

In  woman’s  shape.  But  why  prolong  the  tale. 
Casting  weak  words  amid  a host  of  thoughts 
! Armed  to  repel  them?  Every  hazard  faced 
And  difficulty  mastered,  with  resolve 
' That  no  one  breathing  should  be  left  to  perish, 

This  last  remainder  of  the  crew  are  all 
Placed  in  the  little  boat,  then  o’er  the  deep 
j Are  safely  borne,  landed  upon  the  beach,  • 

And,  in  fulfilment  of  God’s  mercy,  lodged 
I Within  the  sheltering  lighthouse.  — Shout  ye  waves! 
J Send  forth  a song  of  triumph.  Waves  and  winds, 
Exult  in  this  deliverance  wrought  through  faith 
In  Him  whose  Providence  your  rage  hath  served  ! 

Ye  screaming  Sea-mews,  in  the  concert  join  ! 

And  would  that  some  immortal  voice — a voice 
Fitly  attuned  to  all  that  gratitude 
Breathes  out  from  floor  or  couch,  througli  pallid  lips 
Of  the  survivors  — to  the  clouds  might  bear  — 
Blended  with  praise  of  that  parental  love, 

Beneath  whose  watchful  eye  the  maiden  grew 
Pious  and  pure,  modest  and  yet  so  brave. 

Though  young  so  wise,  though  meek  .so  resolute  — 
Might  carry  to  the  clouds  and  to  the  stars. 

Yea,  to  celestial  choirs,  Grace  Darling’s  name  ! 


THE  COMPLAINT 

OF  A FORSAKEN  INDIAN  WOMAN. 

[When  a Nortliern  tmlian,  from  sickness,  is  unalile  to  continue  his 
journey  with  his  companions  he  is  left  behind,  covered  over  with 
deer-skins,  and  is  snpiilied  with  water,  food,  and  fuel,  if  the  situa- 
tion of  the  place  will  afford  it.  He  is  informed  of  the  track  which 
his  companions  intend  to  pursue,  and  if  he  he  unable  to  ftdlow,  or 
overtake  them,  he  perishes  alone  in  the  desert;  unless  he  should 
have  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with  some  other  tribes  of  Indians. 
The  females  are  equally,  or  still  more,  e-vitosed  to  the  same  fate. 
See  that  very  interesting  work  He.iaNE's  Jour.net  from  Hudson's 
Bay  to  the  Northern  Ocean.  In  the  high  northern  latitudes,  as 
the  same  writer  informs  us,  when  the  northern  lights  vary  their 
position  in  the  air,  they  make  a rustling  and  a crackling  noise,  «s 
alluded  to  in  the  following  poem.] 

Before  I see  another  day, 

0 let  my  body  die  away ! 

In  sleep  I heard  the  northern  gleams; 

The  stars,  they  were  among  my  dreams; 

In  rustling  conflict  through  the  skies, 

1 heard,  I saw  the  flashes  drive, 

And  yet  they  are  upon  my  eyes. 

And  yet  I am  alive; 

Before  I see  another  day, 

O let  my  body  die  away ! 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


125 


II. 

My  fire  is  dead : it  knew  no  pain  ; 

Yet  is  it  dead,  and  I remain : 

All  stiff  with  ice  the  ashes  lie; 

And  they  are  dead,  and  I will  die. 

When  I was  well,  I wished  to  live, 

For  clothes,  for  warmth,  for  food,  and  fire ; 

But  they  to  me  no  joy  can  give. 

No  pleasure  now,  and  no  desire. 

Then  here  contented  will  I lie  ! 

Alone,  I cannot  fear  to  die. 

III. 

Alas ! ye  might  have  dragged  me  on 
Another  day,  a single  one ! 

Too  soon  I yielded  to  despair ; 

Why  did  ye  listen  to  my  prayer! 

When  ye  were  gone,  my  limbs  were  stronger; 
And  O,  how  grievously  I rue. 

That,  afterwards,  a little  longer. 

My  friends,  I did  not  follow  you ! 

For  strong  and  without  pain  I lay. 

Dear  friends,  when  ye  were  gone  away. 

IV. 

My  child  ! they  gave  thee  to  another, 

A woman  who  was  not  thy  mother. 

When  from  my  arms  my  babe  they  took. 

On  me  how  strangely  did  he  look ! 

Through  his  whole  body  something  ran, 

A most  strange  working  did  I see; 

— As  if  he  strove  to  be  a man, 

'J'nat  he  might  pull  the  sledge  for  me : 

And  then  he  stretched  his  arms,  how  wild  ! 

0 mercy  ! like  a helpless  child. 

V. 

My  little  joy  ! my  little  pride  ! 

In  two  days  more  1 must  have  died. 

Then  do  not  weep  and  grieve  for  me ; 

1 feel  I must  have  died  with  thee. 

0 wind,  that  o’er  my  head  art  flying 

The  way  my  friends  their  course  did  bend, 

1 should  not  feel  the  pain  of  dying. 

Could  I with  thee  a message  send  ; 

Too  soon,  my  friends,  ye  went  away; 

For  I had  many  things  to  say. 

VI. 

I ’ll  follow  you  across  the  snow; 

Ye  travel  heavily  and  slow; 

In  spite  of  all  my  weary  pain, 

I’ll  look  upon  your  tents  again. 

— My  fire  is  dead,  and  snowy  white 
The  water  which  beside  it  stood  : 

1’he  wolf  has  come  to  me  to-night. 

And  he  has  stolen  away  my  food. 

For  ever  left  alone  am  I ; 

Then  wherefore  should  I fear  to  die! 


VII. 

Young  as  I am,  my  course  is  run, 

I shall  not  see  another  sun ; 

I cannot  lift  my  limbs  to  know 
If  they  have  any  life  or  no. 

My  poor  forsaken  child,  if  I 
For  once  could  have  thee  close  to  me, 
With  happy  heart  I then  would  die, 
And  my  last  thought  would  happy  be ; 
But  thou,  dear  babe,  art  far  away. 

Nor  shall  I see  another  day 


MATERNAL  GRIEF. 

Departed  child ! I could  forget  thee  once 
Though  at  my  bosom  nursed ; this  woeful  gain 
Thy  di.ssolution  brings,  that  in  my  soul 
Is  present  and  perpetually  abides 
A shadow,  never,  never  to  be  displaced 
By  the  returning  substance,  seen  or  touched. 

Seen  by  mine  eyes,  or  clasped  in  my  embrace. 
Absence  and  death  how  differ  they!  and  how 
Shall  I admit  that  nothing  can  restore 
What  one  short  sigh  so  easily  removed ! — 

Death,  life,  and  sleep,  reality  and  thought. 

Assist  me,  God,  their  boundaries  to  know, 

O teach  me  calm  submission  to  thy  Will ! 

The  child  she  mourned  had  overstepf>ed  the  pale 

Of  infancy,  but  still  did  breathe  the  air 

That  sanctifies  its  confines,  and  partook 

Reflected  beams  of  that  celestial  light 

To  all  the  little-ones  on  sinful  earth 

Not  unvouchsafed  — a light  that  warmed  and  cheered 

Those  several  qualities  of  heart  and  mind 

Which,  in  her  own  blest  nature,  rooted  deep. 

Daily  before  the  mother’s  watchful  eye. 

And  not  hers  only,  their  peculiar  charms 
Unfolded,  — beauty,  for  its  present  self. 

And  for  its  promises  to  future  years. 

With  not  unfrequent  rapture  fondly  hailed. 

Have  you  espied  upon  a dewy  lawn 
A pair  of  Leverets  each  provoking  each 
To  a continuance  of  their  fearless  sport. 

Two  separate  creatures  in  their  several  gifts 
Abounding,  but  so  fashioned  that,  in  all 
That  nature  prompts  them  to  display,  their  looks. 
Their  starts  of  motion  and  their  fits  of  rest. 

An  undistinguishable  style  appears 
And  character  of  gladness,  as  if  spring 
Lodged  in  their  innocent  bosoms,  and  the  spirit 
Of  the  rejoicing  morning  were  their  own. 


Such  union,  in  the  lovely  girl  maintained 
And  her  twin  brother,  had  the  parent  seen. 
Ere,  pouncing  like  a ravenous  bird  of  prey, 
i Death  in  a moment  parted  them,  and  left 
11* 


126 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  mother,  in  her  turns  of  anguish,  worse 
Than  desolate;  for  ofttimes  from  the  sound 
Of  the  survivor’s  sweetest  voice  (dear  cliild, 
lie  knew  it  not)  and  from  Ids  happiest  looks. 

Did  she  extract  the  food  of  self-reproach, 

As  one  that  lived  ungrateful  for  the  stay 
By  Heaven  afforded  to  uphold  her  maimed 
And  tottering  spirit.  And  full  oft  the  boy, 

Now  first  acquainted  with  distress  and  grief, 

Shrunk  from  his  mother’s  presence,  shunned  with  fear 
Her  sad  approach,  and  stole  away  to  find. 

In  his  known  haunts  of  joy  where’er  he  might, 

A more  congenial  object.  But,  as  time 
Softened  her  pangs  and  reconciled  the  child 
To  wliat  he  saw,  he  gradually  returned, 

Like  a scared  bird  encouraged  to  renew 
A broken  intercourse ; and,  while  his  eyes 
Were  yet  with  pensive  fear  and  gentle  awe 
Turned  upon  her  who  bore  him,  she  would  stoop 
To  imprint  a kiss  that  lacked  not  power  to  spread 
Faint  colour  over  both  their  pallid  cheeks. 

And  stilled  his  tremulous  lip.  Thus  they  were  calmed 
And  cheered ; and  now  together  breathe  fresh  air 
In  open  fields;  and  when  the  glare  of  day 
Is  gone,  and  twilight  to  the  mother’s  wish 
Befriends  the  observance,  readily  they  join 
In  walks  whose  boundary  is  the  lost  one’s  grave. 

Which  he  with  flowers  hath  planted,  finding  there 
Amusement,  where  the  mother  does  not  miss 
Dear  consolation,  kneeling  on  the  turf 
In  prayer,  yet  blending  with  that  solemn  rite 
Of  pious  faith  the  vanities  of  grief; 

For  such,  by  pitying  Angels  and  by  Spirits 
Transferred  to  regions  upon  which  the  clouds 
Of  our  weak  nature  rest  not,  must  be  deemed 
Those  willing  tears,  and  unforbidden  sighs. 

And  all  those  tokens  of  a cherished  sorrow. 

Which,  soothed  and  sweetened  by  the  grace  of  Heaven 
As  now  it  is,  seems  to  her  own  fond  heart. 

Immortal  as  the  love  that  gave  it  being. 

LOVING  AND  LIKING: 

lUUEGULAR  VERSES,  .ADDRESSED  TO  A CHILD. 

BY  MY  SISTER. 

There’s  more  in  words  than  I can  teach: 

Yet  listen,  child  ! — I would  not  preach  ; 

But  only  give  some  plain  directions 
To  guide  your  speech  and  your  affections. 

Say  not  you  love  a roasted  fowl, 

But  you  may  love  a screaming  owl, 

And,  if  you  can,  the  unwieldy  toad 
That  crawls  from  his  secure  abode 
Within  the  mossy  garden  wall 
When  evening  dews  begin  to  fall. 

O mark  the  beauty  of  his  eye’ 

What  wonders  in  that  circle  lie ! 


I So  clear,  so  bright,  our  fathers  said 
j He  wears  a jewel  in  his  head ! 

And  when,  upon  some  showery  day. 

Into  a path  or  public  way 
A frog  leaps  out  from  bordering  grass, 

I Startling  the  timid  as  they  pass, 
j Do  you  observe  him,  and  endeavour 
To  take  the  intruder  into  favour; 

Learning  from  him  to  find  a reason 
I For  a light  heart  in  a dull  season. 

[ And  you  may  love  him  in  the  pool, 
j That  is  for  him  a happy  school, 

; In  which  he  swims  as  taught  by  nature, 

Fit  pattern  for  a buman  creature. 

Glancing  amid  the  water  bright, 

And  sending  upward  sparkling  light. 

Nor  blush  if  o’er  your  heart  be  stealing 
A love  for  things  that  have  no  feeling : 

The  Spring’s  first  rose  by  you  espied. 

May  fill  your  breast  with  joyful  pride; 

And  you  may  love  the  strawberry-flower, 

And  love  the  strawberry  in  its  bower; 

But  when  the  fruit,  so  often  praised 
For  beauty,  to  your  lip  is  raised. 

Say  not  you  love  the  delicate  treat. 

But  like  it,  enjoy  it,  and  thankfully  eat. 

j Long  may  you  love  your  pensioner  mouse, 
j Though  one  of  a tribe  that  torment  the  hou.se: 

Nor  dislike  for  her  cruel  sport  the  cat. 

Deadly  foe  both  of  mouse  and  rat; 

Remember  she  follows  the  law  of  her  kind, 
j And  instinct  is  neither  wayward  nor  blind. 

1 Then  think  of  her  beautiful  gliding  form, 
j Her  tread  that  would  scarcely  crush  a worm. 

And  her  soothing  song  by  the  winter  fire. 

Soft  as  the  dying  throb  of  the  lyre. 

I would  not  circumscribe  your  love: 

It  may  soar  with  the  eagle  and  brood  with  the  dove. 
May  pierce  the  earth  with  the  patient  mole, 

I Or  track  the  hedgehog  to  his  hole. 

I Loving  and  liking  are  the  solace  of  life. 

Rock  the  cradle  of  joy,  smooth  the  death-bed  of  strife. 
I You  love  your  father  and  your  mother. 

Your  grown-up  and  your  baby  brother; 
j You  love  your  sister,  and  your  friends, 
j And  countless  blessings  which  God  sends : 

’ And  while  these  right  affections  play, 

You  live  each  moment  of  your  day ; 

They  lead  you  on  to  full  content, 

I And  likings  fresh  and  innocent. 

That  store  the  mind,  the  memory  feed, 

And  prompt  to  many  a gentle  deed : 

But  likings  come,  and  pass  away ; 

’T is  love  that  remains  till  our  latest  day: 

Our  heavenward  guide  is  holy  love. 

And  will  be  our  bliss  with  saints  above. 


POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


127 


THE  REDBREAST. 

SUGGESTED  IN  A WESTMORELAND  COTTAGE. 

Driven  in  by  Autumn’s  sharpening  air 
From  half-stripped  woods  and  pastures  bare, 

Brisk  robin  seeks  a kindlier  home  : 

Not  like  a beggar  is  he  come, 

But  enters  as  a looked-for  guest. 

Confiding  in  his  ruddy  breast. 

As  if  it  were  a natural  shield 
Charged  with  a blazon  on  the  field. 

Due  to  that  good  and  pious  deed 
Of  which  we  in  the  ballad  read. 

But  pensive  fancies  putting  by. 

And  wild-wood  sorrows,  speedily 
He  plays  the  expert  ventriloquist ; 

And,  caught  by  glimpses  now  — now  missed. 
Puzzles  the  listener  with  a doubt 
If  the  soft  voice  he  throws  about 
Comes  from  within  doors  or  without ! 

Was  ever  such  a sweet  confusion, 

Sustained  by  delicate  illusion  1 
He ’s  at  your  elbow  — to  your  feeling 
The  notes  are  from  the  floor  or  ceiling; 

And  there’s  a riddle  to  be  guessed, 

’Till  you  have  marked  his  heaving  chest. 

And  busy  throat  whose  sink  and  swell 
Betray  the  elf  that  loves  to  dwell 
In  Robin’s  bosom,  as  a chosen  cell. 

Heart-pleased  we  smile  upon  the  bird 
If  seen,  and  with  like  pleasure  stirred 
Commend  him,  when  he’s  only  heard. 

But  small  and  fugitive  our  gain 
Compared  with  hers  who  long  hath  lain. 

With  languid  limbs  and  patient  head 
Reposing  on  a lone  sick-bed  ; 

Where  now,  she  daily  hears  a strain 
That  cheats  her  of  too  busy  cares. 

Eases  her  pain,  and  helps  her  prayers. 

And  who  but  this  dear  bird  beguiled 
The  fever  of  that  pale-faced  child  ; 

Now  cooling  with  his  passing  wing. 

Her  forehead,  like  a breeze  of  Spring: 

Recalling  now,  with  descant  soft 
Shed  round  her  pillow  from  aloft. 

Sweet  thoughts  of  angels  hovering  nigh. 

And  the  invisible  sympathy 
Of  ‘ Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 
Blessing  the  bed  siie  lies  upon!’* 

And  sometimes,  just  as  listening  ends 
In  slumber,  witli  the  cadence  blends 
A dream  of  that  low-warbled  hymn 

* The  words  — 

‘Matthew,  Mark,  and  Luke,  and  John, 

Bless  the  bed  that  I lie  on,’ 
are  part  of  a child’s  prayer,  still  in  general  use  through  the 
northern  counties. 


Which  old  folk,  fondly  pleased  to  trim 
Lamps  of  faith,  now  burning  dim. 

Say  that  the  cherubs  carved  in  stone, 

Wlien  clouds  gave  way  at  dead  of  night 
And  the  ancient  church  was  filled  with  light. 
Used  to  sing  in  heavenly  tone. 

Above  and  round  the  sacred  places 
They  guard,  with  winged  baby-faces. 

Thrice  happy  creature ! in  all  lands 
Nurtured  by  hospitable  hands: 

Free  entrance  to  this  cot  has  he. 

Entrance  and  exit  both  yel  free  ; 

And,  when  the  keen  unruffled  weather 
That  thus  brings  man  and  bird  together. 

Shall  with  its  pleasantness  be  past. 

And  casement  closed  and  door  made  fast. 

To  keep  at  bay  the  howling  blast, 
lie  needs  not  fear  the  season’s  rage. 

For  the  whole  house  is  Robin’s  cage. 
Whether  the  bird  flit  here  or  there. 

O’er  table  lilt,  or  perch  on  chair. 

Though  some  may  frown  and  make  a stir 
To  scare  him  as  a trespasser. 

And  he  belike  will  flinch  or  start. 

Good  friends  he  has  to  take  his  part; 

One  chiefly,  who  with  voice  and  look 
Pleads  for  him  from  the  chimney-nook, 
Wliere  sits  tlie  dame,  and  wears  away 
Her  long  and  vacant  holiday  ; 

With  images  about  her  heart. 

Reflected  from  the  years  gone  by. 

On  human  nature’s  second  infancy. 


HER  EYES  ARE  WILD. 

Her  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare. 
The  sun  has  burnt  her  coal-black  hair; 
Her  eyebrows  have  a rusty  stain. 

And  site  came  far  from  over  the  main. 
She  has  a baby  on  her  arm. 

Or  else  she  were  alone : 

And  underneath  the  hay-stack  warm. 
And  on  the  greenwood  stone. 

She  talked  and  sung  the  woods  among, 
And  it  was  in  the  English  tongue. 

II. 

“ Sweet  babe ! they  say  that  I am  mad. 
But  nay,  my  heart  is  far  too  glad  ; 

And  I am  happy  wlien  I sing 
Full  many  a sad  and  doleful  thing: 
Then,  lovely  baby,  do  not  fear! 

I pray  thee  have  no  fear  of  me ; 

But  safe  as  in  a cradle,  here 
My  lovely  baby  ! thou  shaft  be : 

To  thee  I know  too  mucli  I owe ; 

I cannot  work  thee  any  woe. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


12P^ 


III. 

VII. 

A fire  was  once  within  my  brain ; 

And  in  my  head  a dull,  dull  pain; 

And  fiendish  faces,  one,  two,  three, 
Ilunnr  at  my  breast,  and  pulled  at  me ; 
But  then  there  came  a sight  of  joy; 

It  came  at  once  to  do  me  good; 

I waked,  and  saw  my  little  boy, 

My  little  boy  of  flesli  and  blood ; 

0 joy  for  me  that  sight  to  see  ! 

For  he  was  here,  and  only  he. 

Thy  father  cares  not  for  my  breast, 

’T  is  thine,  sweet  baby,  there  to  rest; 
’T  is  all  thine  own  ! — and,  if  its  hue 
Be  changed,  that  was  so  fair  to  view, 
’T  is  fair  enough  for  thee,  rny  dove ! 

My  beauty,  little  child,  is  flown. 

But  thou  wilt  live  with  me  in  love; 
And  what  if  my  poor  cheek  be  brown  J 
’T  is  well  for  me,  thou  canst  not  see 
How  pale  and  wan  it  else  would  be. 

IV. 

VIII. 

Suck,  little  babe,  O suck  again ! 

It  cools  my  blood  ; it  cools  my  brain ; 
Thy  lips  I feel  them,  baby ! they 
Draw  from  my  lieart  the  pain  away. 
Oil ! press  me  with  thy  little  hand  ; 

It  loosens  something  at  my  chest; 
About  that  tight  and  deadly  band 
I feel  thy  little  fingers  prest. 

The  breeze  I see  is  in  the  tree : 

. It  comes  to  cool  my  babe  and  me. 

Dread  not  their  taunts,  my  little  life; 

I am  thy  father’s  wedded  wife; 

And  underneath  the  spreading  tree 
We  two  will  live  in  honesty. 

If  his  sweet  boy  he  could  forsake. 
With  me  he  never  would  have  stayed: 
From  him  no  liarm  my  babe  can  take; 
But  he,  poor  man  I is  wretched  made ; 
And  every  day  we  two  will  pray 
For  him  that’s  gone  and  far  away. 

V. 

IX. 

Oh  ! love  me,  love  me,  little  boy ! 

Thou  art  thy  mother’s  only  joy ; 

And  do  not  dread  the  waves  below. 
When  o’er  the  sea-rock’s  edge  we  go: 
The  high  crag  cannot  work  me  harm. 
Nor  leaping  torrents  when  they  howl ; 
The  babe  I carry  on  my  arm, 
lie  saves  for  me  my  precious  soul; 
Tlien  happy  lie;  for  blest  am  1; 
Without  me  my  sweet  babe  would  die. 

I ’ll  teach  my  boy  the  sweetest  things : 

I’ll  teach  him  how  the  owlet  sings. 

My  little  babe  ! thy  lips  are  still. 

And  thou  hast  almost  sucked  thy  fill. 

— Where  art  tliou  gone,  my  own  dear  child! 
What  wicked  looks  are  those  I see! 

Alas!  alas!  that  look  so  wild. 

It  never,  never  came  from  me : 

If  thou  art  mad,  my  pretty  lad. 

Then  I must  be  for  ever  sad. 

VI. 

X. 

Then  do  not  fear,  my  boy  ! for  thee 
Bold  as  a lion  will  1 be; 

.\nd  I will  always  be  thy  guide. 
Through  hollow  snows  and  rivers  wide. 
I’ll  build  an  Indian  bower;  1 know 
The  leaves  that  make  the  softest  bed  : 
And,  if  from  me  tbou  wilt  not  go. 

But  still  be  true  till  I am  dead. 

My  pretty  thing!  then  thou  shalt  sing 
As  merry  as  the  birds  in  spring. 

Oh  ! smile  on  me,  my  little  lamb! 

For  I thy  own  dear  mother  am  : 

My  love  for  thee  has  well  been  tried : 

I ’ve  sought  thy  father  far  and  wide. 

I know  the  poisons  of  the  shade ; 

I know  the  earth-nuts  fit  for  food : 

Then,  pretty  dear,  be  not  afraid  : 

We’ll  find  thy  father  in  the  wood. 

Now  laugh  and  be  gay,  to  the  woods  away ! 
And  there,  my  babe,  we’ll  live  for  ave.” 

POEMS  POUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


129 


NOTES 

TO 

POEMS  FOUNDED  ON  THE  AFFECTIONS. 


J 


J 


Note,  p.  67. 

Brothers." 

[Extract  .‘I'om  a letter  addressed  by  Wordsworth  to 
Charles  James  Fox  in  1802,  and  accompanying  a copy 
of  the  Poems : 

“In  the  two  poems,  ‘The  Brothers’  and  ‘Michael,’ 

I have  attempted  to  draw  a picture  of  the  domestic 
affections,  as  I know  they  exist  amongst  a class  of  men 
who  are  now  almost  confined  to  the  north  of  England. 
They  are  small  independent  proprietors  of  land,  here 
called  ‘statesmen,’  men  of  respectable  education,  who 
daily  labour  on  their  own  little  properties.  The  domestic 
affections  will  always  be  strong  amongst  men  who  live 
in  a country  not  crowded  with  population  ;'if  these  men 
are  placed  above  poverty.  But,  if  they  are  proprietors 
of  small  estates  which  have  descended  to  them  from 
their  ancestors,  the  power  which  these  affections  will 
acquire  amongst  such  men,  is  inconceivable  by  those 
who  have  only  had  an  opportunity  of  observing  hired 
labourers,  farmers,  and  the  manufacturing  poor.  Their 
little  tract  of  land  serves  as  a kind  of  permanent  rally- 
ing point  for  their  domestic  feelings,  as  a tablet  upon 
which  they  are  written,  which  makes  them  objects  of 
memory  in  a thousand  instances  when  they  would 
otherwise  be  forgotten.  It  is  a fountain  fitted  to  the 
nature  of  social  man,  from  which  supplies  of  affection 
as  pure  as  his  heart  was  intended  for,  are  daily  drawn. 
This  class  of  men  is  rapidly  disappearing.  You,  Sir, 
have  a consciousness,  upon  which  every  good  man  will 
congratulate  you,  that  the  whole  of  your  public  conduct 
has  in  one  way  or  other  been  directed  to  the  preservation 
of  this  class  of  men,  and  those  who  hold  similar  situa- 
tions. You  have  felt  that  the  most  sacred  of  all  pro- 
perty is  the  property  of  the  poor.  The  two  poems 
that  I have  mentioned  were  written  with  a view  to 
show  that  men  who  do  not  wear  fine  deaths  can  feel 
deeply.  ‘Pectus  enim  est  quod  di.sertos  facit,  et  vis 
mentis.  Ideoque  imperitis  quoque,  si  mode  sint  aliquo 
affectu  concitati,  verba  non  desunt.’  The  poems  are 
faithful  copies  from  nature ; and  I hope  whatever  effect 
they  may  have  upon  you,  you  will  at  least  be  able  to 
perceive  that  they  may  excite  profitable  sympathies  in 
many  kind  and  good  hearts ; and  may  in  some  small 
degree  enlarge  our  feelings  of  reverence  for  our  species, 
and  our  knowledge  of  human  nature,  by  showing  that 
our  best  qualities  are  possessed  by  men  whom  we  arc 
too  apt  to  consider,  not  with  reference  to  the  points 
in  which  they  resemble  us,  but  to  those  in  which  they 
manifestly  differ  from  us.” 

11 


The  letter  from  which  tliis  extract  is  made,  was  pub- 
lished in  1838,  by  Sir  Henry  Bunbury,  among  some 
miscellaneous  letters  in  his  “ Correspondence  of  Sir 
Thomas  Ilanmer,  etc.,”  p.  436. 

It  is  this  poem  of  which  Coleridge  said — “The  Bro- 
thers, that  model  of  English  pastoral,  which  I never 
yet  read  with  unclouded  eye.”  Biographia  JAterarin, 
Vol.  II.,  chap,  v.,  p.  8.7,  Note,  Edit,  of  1847.  And 
Southey,  writing  to  Coleridge,  July  11,  1801,  says:  — 
“God  bless  Wordsworth  for  that  poem  ! (‘The  Bro- 
thers.’)” Lz/e  rtnti  Correspondence  of  Southey,  Vu\.  II., 
p.  150,  chap.  viii.  — II.  R.] 

Page  96. 

‘7  travelled  among  unhiown  men.' 

[“Amongst  the  Poems  founded  on  the  Affections  is 
one  called,  from  its  first  line,  ‘ I travelled  among  un- 
known men,’  which  ends  with  these  lines,  wherein  the 
poet  addresses  his  native  land  : 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  played  ; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy’s  eyes  surveyed. 

A friend,  a true  poet  himself,  to  whom  I owe  some  new 
insight  into  the  merits  of  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  poetry, 
and  who  showed  me  to  my  surprise,  that  there  were 
nooks  in  that  rich  and  varied  region,  some  of  the  shj 
treasures  of  which  1 was  not  perfectly  acquainted  with, 
first  made  me  feel  the  great  beauty  of  this  stanza;  m 
which  the  poet,  as  it  were,  spreads  day  and  night  over 
the  object  of  his  affections,  and  seems,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  passionate  feeling,  to  think  of  England,  whether 
in  light  or  darkness,  only  as  her  play-place  and  verdant 
home.  — S.  C.”  (Sara  Coleridge.)  Biographia  JAte- 
raria  of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Vol.  II.,  chap,  ix.,  p.  173,  Note, 
Edit,  of  1847.  — II.  R.] 

Page  98. 

'Let  other  hards  of  angels  sing.' 

[In  his  editions  of  1845  and  1850,  the  author  has  e.x- 
eluded  the  following  stanza,  which  was  the  second  in 
this  piece  in  the  earlier  editions,  to  the  readers  of  which 
it  had  become  familiar,  and  is  therefore  preserved  in 
this  note: 

Such  if  thou  wert  in  all  men’s  view, 

A universal  show, 

What  would  my  fancy  have  to  do? 

My  feelings  to  bestow  1 — H.  R.] 


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POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

By  persons  resident  in  the  country  and  attached  to 
rural  objects,  many  places  will  be  found  unnamed  or 
of  unknown  names,  where  little  Incidents  must  have 
occurred,  or  feelings  been  experienced,  which  will 
have  given  to  such  places  a private  and  peculiar  inter- 
est. From  a wish  to  give  some  sort  of  record  to  such 
Incidents,  or  renew  the  gratification  of  such  Feelings, 
Names  have  been  given  to  Places  by  the  Author  and 
some  of  his  Friends,  and  the  following  Poems  written 
in  consequence. 


I. 

It  was  an  April  morning : fresh  and  clear 
The  Rivulet,  delighting  in  its  strength. 

Ran  with  a young  man’s  speed ; and  yet  the  voice 
Of  waters  which  the  winter  had  supplied 
W^as  softened  down  into  a vernal  tone. 

The  spirit  of  enjoyment  and  desire. 

And  hopes  and  wishes,  from  all  living  things 
Went  circling,  like  a multitude  of  sounds. 

The  budding  groves  appeared  as  if  in  haste 
To  spur  the  steps  of  June  ; as  if  their  shades 
Of  various  green  were  hinderances  that  stood 
Between  them  and  their  object : yet,  meanwhile. 
There  was  such  deep  contentment  in  the  air. 

That  every  naked  ash,  and  tardy  tree 
Yet  leafless,  seemed  as  though  the  countenance 
With  which  it  looked  on  this  delightful  day 
Were  native  to  the  summer.  — Up  the  brook 
I roamed  in  the  confusion  of  my  heart. 

Alive  to  all  things  and  forgetting  all. 

At  length  I to  a sudden  turning  came 
In  this  continuous  glen,  where  down  a rock 
The  Stream,  so  ardent  in  its  course  before. 

Sent  forth  such  sallies  of  glad  sound,  that  all 
Which  I till  then  had  heard,  appeared  the  voice 
Of  common  pleasure : beast  and  bird,  the  Lamb, 

The  Shepherd’s  Dog,  the  Linnet  and  the  Thrush 
Vied  with  this  Waterfall,  and  made  a song 
Which,  while  I listened,  seemed  like  the  wild  growth 
Or  like  some  natural  produce  of  the  air, 

That  could  not  cease  to  be.  Green  leaves  were  here ; 


But  ’twas  the  foliage  of  the  rocks,  the  birch. 

The  yew,  the  holly,  and  the  bright  green  thor". 

With  hanging  islands  of  resplendent  furze : 

And  on  a summit,  distant  a short  space. 

By  any  who  should  look  beyond  the  dell, 

A single  mountain  Cottage  might  be  seen. 

I gazed  and  gazed,  and  to  myself  I said, 

“ Our  thoughts  at  least  are  ours ; and  this  wild  nook 
My  Emma,  I will  dedicate  to  thee.” 

Soon  did  the  spot  become  my  other  home. 

My  dwelling,  and  my  out-of-doors  abode. 

And,  of  the  Shepherds  who  have  seen  me  there. 

To  whom  I sometimes  in  our  idle  talk 
Have  told  this  fancy,  two  or  three,  perhaps. 

Years  after  we  are  gone  and  in  our  graves. 

When  they  have  cause  to  speak  of  this  wild  place. 
May  call  it  by  the  name  of  Emma’s  Dell. 

II. 

TO  JOANNA. 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass 
The  time  of  early  youth ; and  there  you  learned. 
From  years  of  quiet  industry,  to  love 
The  living  Beings  by  your  own  fire-side. 

With  such  a strong  devotion,  that  your  heart 
Is  slow  toward  the  sympathies  of  them 
Who  look  upon  the  hills  with  tenderness, 

And  make  dear  friendships  with  the  streams  and  groves. 
Yet  we,  who  are  transgressors  in  this  kind. 

Dwelling  retired  in  our  simplicity 

Among  the  woods  and  fields,  we  love  you  well, 

Joanna ! and  I guess,  since  you  have  been 
So  distant  from  us  now  for  two  long  years. 

That  you  will  gladly  listen  to  discourse. 

However  trivial,  if  you  thence  are  taught 
That  they,  with  whom  you  once  were  happy,  talk 
Familiarly  of  you  and  of  old  times. 

While  I was  seated,  now  some  ten  days  past. 

Beneath  those  lofty  firs,  that  overtop 

Their  ancient  neighbour,  the  old  Steeple  tower. 

The  Vicar  from  his  gloomy  house  hard  by 
Came  forth  to  greet  me ; and  when  he  had  asked, 
“How  fares  Joanna,  that  wild-hearted  Maid! 


131 


132 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  when  will  she  return  to  us  ?”  he  paused; 

And,  after  short  exchange  of  village  news, 

He  with  grave  looks  demanded,  for  what  cause 
Reviving  obsolete  Idolatry, 

I,  like  a Runic  Priest,  in  characters 
Of  formidable  size  had  chiselled  out 
Some  uncouth  name  upon  the  native  rock. 

Above  the  Rotha,  by  the  forest  side.* 

— Now,  by  those  dear  immunities  of  heart 
Engendered  betwixt  malice  and  true  love, 

I was  not  loth  to  be  so  catechised. 

And  this  was  my  reply:  — “As  it  befel. 

One  summer  morning  we  had  walked  abroad 
At  break  of  day,  Joanna  and  myself. 

— ’Twas  that  delightful  season  when  the  broom. 

Full- flowered,  and  visible  on  every  steep. 

Along  the  copses  runs  in  veins  of  gold. 

Our  pathw’ay  led  us  on  to  Rotha's  banks;  " 

And  when  we  came  in  front  of  that  tall  rock 
Which  looks  towards  the  East,  I there  stopped  short, 
And  traced  the  lofty  barrier  w'ith  my  eye 
From  base  to  summit;  such  delight  I found 
To  note  in  shrub  and  tree,  in  stone  and  flower. 

That  intermixture  of  delicious  hues. 

Along  so  vast  a surface,  all  at  once. 

In  one  impression,  by  connecting  force 
Of  their  cwn  beauty,  imaged  in  the  heart. 

— When  I had  gazed  perhaps  two  minutes’  space, 
Joanna,  looking  in  my  eyes,  beheld 

That  ravishment  of  mine,  and  laughed  aloud. 

The  Rock,  like  something  starting  from  a sleep. 

Took  up  the  Lady’s  voice,  and  laughed  again  ; 

That  ancient  Woman  seated  on  Helrn-Crag 
Was  ready  wdth  her  cavern;  Ilammar-Scar, 

And  the  tall  Steep  of  Silver-How,  sent  forth 
A noise  of  laughter;  southern  Loughrigg  heard. 

And  I'airfield  answered  with  a mountain  tone: 
Helvellyn  far  into  the  clear  blue  sky 
Carried  the  Lady’s  voice,  — old  Skiddaw  blew 
His  speaking  trumpet;  — back  out  of  the  clouds 
Of  Glaramara  southward  came  the  voice ; 

And  Kirkstone  tossed  it  from  his  misty  head.f 


* In  Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  are  several  Inscriptions, 
upon  the  native  rock,  which,  from  the  wasting  of  Time,  and 
the  rudeness  of  the  workmanship,  liave  been  mistaken  for 
Runic.  They  are  without  doubt  Roman. 

The  Rolha,  mentioned  in  this  poem,  is  the  River  which,  flow- 
ing through  the  lakes  of  Grasmere  and  Rydale,  falls  into  Wy- 
nander.  On  Ilelra-Crag,  that  impressive  single  Mountain  at  the 
head  of  the  Vale  of  Grasmere,  is  a rock  which  from  most  points 
of  view  bears  a striking  resemblance  to  an  Old  Woman  cower- 
ing. Close  by  this  rock  is  one  of  those  Fissures  or  Caverns, 
which  in  the  language  of  the  country  are  called  Dungeons. 
Most  of  the  Mountains  here  mcnlioned  immediately  surround 
the  Vale  of  Grasmere  ; of  the  others,  some  are  at  a considerable 
distance,  but  they  belong  to  the  same  cluster. 

t [“  — a noble  imitation  of  Drayton,  (if  it  was  not  rather  a 
coincidence).”  Coleridge,  ‘ Biographia  Literaria,’  chap  20  — 
It  mattere  little  which,  though  there  seems  to  be  greater  proba- 1 


— Now  whether  (said  I to  our  cordial  friend. 

Who  in  the  heyday  of  astonishment 
Smiled  in  my  face)  this  were  in  simple  truth 
A work  accomplished  by  the  brotherhood 

Of  ancient  mountains,  or  my  ear  was  touched 
With  dreams  and  visionary  impulses 
To  me  alone  imparted,  sure  I am 
That  there  was  a loud  uproar  in  the  hills; 

And,  while  we  both  were  listening,  to  my  side 
The  fair  Joanna  drew,  as  if  she  wished 
To  shelter  from  some  object  of  her  fear. 

— And  hence,  long  afterwards,  when  eighteen  moons 
Were  wasted,  as  I chanced  to  walk  alone 

Beneath  tliis  rock,  at  sunrise,  on  a calm 
And  silent  morning,  I sat  down,  and  there,  , 

In  memory  of  affections  old  and  true, 

I chiselled  out  in  those  rude  characters 
Joanna’s  name  upon  the  living  stone. 

And  I,  and  all  who  dwell  by  my  fire-side. 

Have  called  the  lovely  rock,  Joanna’s  Rock.” 


III. 

There  is  an  Eminence,  — of  these  our  hills 
The  last  that  parleys  with  the  setting  sun. 

We  can  behold  it  from  our  Orchard-seat ; 

And,  when  at  evening  we  pursue  our  walk 
Along  the  public  way,  this  Cliff,  so  high 
Above  us,  and  so  distant  in  its  height. 

Is  visible ; and  often  seems  to  send 
Its  own  deep  quiet  to  restore  our  hearts. 

The  meteors  make  of  it  a favourite  haunt: 

The  star  of  Jove,  so  beautiful  and  large 
In  the  mid  heavens,  is  never  half  so  fair 
As  when  he  shines  above  it.  ’T  is  in  truth 
The  loneliest  place  we  have  among  the  clouds. 
And  She  who  dwells  with  me,  whom  I have  loved 
With  such  communion,  that  no  place  on  earth 
Can  ever  be  a solitude  to  me. 

Hath  to  this  lonely  Summit  given  my  Name. 


bility  in  the  la'!er  supposition.  The  passage  in  Drayton,  alluded 
to,  is  as  loilows : 

“ — Till  to  your  shouts  the  hills  with  echo  all  reply, 

Which  Copland  scarce  had  spoke,  but  quickly  every  hill. 
Upon  her  verge  that  stands,  the  neighbouring  valleys  fill ; 
Ilelvillon  from  his  height,  it  through  the  mountains  threw, 
From  whom  as  soon  again,  the  sound  Dunbalrase  drew. 

From  whose  slone-trophicd  head,  it  on  to  Wendross  went, 
Which  tow'rds  the  sea  again,  resounded  it  to  Dent, 

That  Broadwater  therewith  within  her  banks  astound,' 

In  sailing  to  the  sea,  told  it  in  Fgremound, 

Whose  buildings,  walks,  and  streets,  with  echoes  loud  and 
long. 

Did  mightily  commend  old  Copland  for  her  .song.” 

Tohjolbion;  Song  XXX.  — II.  R.] 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAMING  OF  PLACES. 


133 


IV. 

A NARROW  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags, 

A rude  and  natural  causeway,  interposed 
Between  the  water  and  a winding  slope 
Of  copse  and  thicket,  leaves  the  eastern  shore 
Of  Grasmere  safe  in  its  own  privacy  ; 

And  there,  myself  and  two  beloved  Friends, 

One  calm  September  morning,  ere  the  mist 
Had  altogether  yielded  to  the  sun, 

Sauntered  on  this  retired  and  difficult  wa)\ 

Ill  suits  the  road  with  one  in  haste,  but  we 

Played  with  our  time ; and,  as  we  strolled  along. 

It  was  our  occupation  to  observe 

Such  objects  as  the  waves  had  tossed  ashore. 

Feather,  or  leaf,  or  weed,  or  withered  bough. 

Each  on  the  other  heaped,  along  the  line 
Of  the  dry  wreck.  And,  in  our  vacant  mood. 

Not  seldom  did  we  stop  to  watch  some  tuft 
Of  dandelion  seed  or  thistle’s-beard. 

That  skimmed  the  surface  of  the  dead  calm  lake. 
Suddenly  halting  now  — a lifeless  stand  ! 

And  starting  off  again  with  freak  as  sudden ; 

In  all  its  sportive  wanderings,  all  the  while. 

Making  report  of  an  invisible  breeze 
That  was  its  wings,  its  chariot,  and  its  horse. 

Its  playmate,  rather  say  its  moving  soul. 

And  often,  trifling  with  a privilege 

Alike  indulged  to  all,  we  paused,  one  now. 

And  now  the  other,  to  point  out,  perchance 
To  pluck,  some  flower  or  water-weed,  too  fair 
Either  to  be  divided  from  the  place 
On  which  it  grew,  or  to  be  left  alone 
To  its  own  beauty. ' Many  such  there  are. 

Fair  Ferns  and  Flowers,  and  chiefly  that  tall  Fern, 
So  stately,  of  the  Queen  Osmunda  named ; 

Plant  lovelier,  in  its  own  retired  abode 
On  Grasmere’s  beach,  than  Naiad  by  the  side 
Of  Grecian  brook,  or  Lady  of  the  Mere, 

Sole-sitting  by  the  shores  of  old  Romance. 

— So  fared  we  that  bright  morning  : from  the  fields. 
Meanwhile,  a noise  was  heard,  the  busy  mirth 
Of  Reapers,  Men  and  Women,  Boys  and  Girls. 
Delighted  much  to  listen  to  those  sounds. 

And  feeding  thus  our  fancies,  we  advanced 
Along  the  indented  shore ; when  suddenly. 

Through  a thin  veil  of  glittering  haze  was  seen 
Before  us,  on  a point  of  jutting  land. 

The  tall  and  upright  figure  of  a Man 
Attired  in  peasant’s  garb,  who  stood  alone, 

Angling  beside  the  margin  of  the  lake. 

Improvident  and  reckless,  we  exclaimed. 

The  Man  must  be,  who  thus  can  lose  a day 
Of  the  mid  harvest,  when  the  labourer’s  hire 
Is  ample,  and  some  little  might  be  stored 
Wherewith  to  cheer  him  in  the  winter  time. 

Thus  talking  of  that  Peasant,  we  approached 
Close  to  the  spot  where  with  his  rod  and  line 


He  stood  alone ; whereat  he  turned  his  head 
To  greet  us  — and  we  saw  a Man  worn  down 
By  sickness,  gaunt  and  lean,  with  sunken  cheeks 
And  wasted  limbs,  his  legs  so  long  and  lean 
That  for  my  single  self  I looked  at  them. 
Forgetful  of  the  body  they  sustained. — 

Too  weak  to  labour  in  the  harvest  field, 

The  Man  was  using  his  best  skill  to  gain 
A pittance  from  the  dead  unfeeling  lake 
That  knew  not  of  his  wants.  I will  not  say 
What  tlioughts  immediately  were  ours,  nor  how 
The  happy  idleness  of  that  sweet  morn. 

With  all  its  lovely  images,  was  changed 
To  serious  musing  and  to  self-reproach. 

Nor  did  we  fail  to  see  within  ourselves 
What  need  there  is  to  be  reserved  in  speech. 

And  temper  all  our  thoughts  with  charity. 

— Therefore,  unwilling  to  forget  that  day, 

My  Friend,  Myself,  and  She  who  then  received 
The  same  admonishment,  have  called  the  place 
By  a nremorial  name,  uncouth  indeed 
As  e’er  by  Mariner  was  given  to  Bay 
Or  Foreland,  on  a new-discovered  coast; 

And  Point  Rash-Judgment  is  the  Name  it  bears. 


V, 

TO  M.  II. 

Our  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees; 

There  was  no  road,  nor  any  woodman’s  path ; 

But  the  thick  umbrage,  checking  the  wild  growth 
Of  weed  and  sapling,  along  soft  green  turf 
Beneath  the  branches,  of  itself  had  made 
A track,  that  brought  us  to  a slip  of  lawn, 

And  a small  bed  of  water  in  the  woods. 

All  round  this  pool  both  flocks  and  herds  might  drink 
On  its  firm  margin,  even  as  from  a Well, 

Or  some  Stone-basin  which  the  Herdsman’s  hand 
Had  shaped  for  their  refreshment;  nor  did  sun. 

Or  wind  from  any  quarter,  ever  come. 

But  as  a blessing,  to  this  calm  recess. 

This  glade  of  water  and  this  one  green  field. 

The  spot  was  made  by  Nature  for  herself; 

The  travellers  know  it  not,  and  ’twill  remain 
Unknown  to  tliem  : but  it  is  beautiful ; 

And  if  a man  should  plant  his  cottage  near. 

Should  sleep  beneath  tlie  shelter  of  its  trees, 

And  blend  its  waters  with  his  daily  meal. 

He  would  so  love  it,  that  in  his  death  hour 
Its  image  would  survive  among  his  thoughts: 

And  therefore,  my  sweet  Mary,  this  still  Nook 
With  all  its  beeches,  we  have  named  from  You 


VI. 

When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  World, 
Preferring  studious  leisure,  I had  chosen 
12 


]34 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A habitation  in  this  peaceful  Vale, 

Sharp  season  followed  of  continual  storm 
In  deepest  winter ; and,  from  week  to  week, 
Pathway,  and  lane,  and  public  road,  were  clog'ged 
With  frequent  showers  of  snow.  Upon  a hill 
At  a short  distance  from  my  Cottage,  stands 
A stately  Fir-grove,  whither  I was  wont 
To  hasten,  for  I found,  beneath  the  roof 
Of  that  perennial  shade,  a cloistral  place 
Of  refuge,  with  an  unincumbered  floor. 

Here,  in  safe  covert,  on  the  shallow  snow. 

And,  sometimes,  on  a speck  of  visible  earth. 

The  redbreast  near  me  hopped  ; nor  v;as  I loth 
To  sympathise  with  vulgar  coppice  Birds 
That,  for  protection  from  the  nipping  blast, 

Hither  repaired.  — A single  beech-tree  grew 
Within  this  grove  of  firs ; and,  on  the  fork 
Of  that  one  beech,  appeared  a thrush’s  nest ; 

A last  year’s  nest,  conspicuously  built 
At  such  small  elevation  from  the  ground 
As  gave  sure  sign  that  they,  who  in  that  house 
Of  nature  and  of  love  had  made  their  home 
Amid  the  fir-trees,  all  the  summer  long 
Dwelt  in  a tranquil  spot.  And  oftentimes, 

A few  sheep,  stragglers  from  some  mountain-flock. 
Would  watch  my  motions  with  suspicious  stare. 
From  the  remotest  outskirts  of  the  grove,  — 

Some  nook  where  they  had  made  their  final  stand. 
Huddling  together  from  two  fears  — the  fear 
Of  me  and  of  the  storm.  Full  many  an  hour 
Here  did  I lose.  But  in  this  grove  the  trees 
Had  been  so  thickly  planted,  and  had  thriven 
In  such  perplexed  and  intricate  array. 

That  vainly  did  1 seek,  between  their  stems, 

A length  of  open  space,  where  to  and  fro 
My  feet  might  move  without  concern  or  care ; 

And,  baffled  thus,  before  the  storm  relaxed, 

I ceased  the  shelter  to  frequent,  — and  prized. 

Less  than  I wished  to  prize,  that  calm  recess. 

The  snows  dissolved,  and  genial  Spring  returned 
To  clothe  the  fields  with  verdure.  Other  haunts 
Meanwhile  were  mine;  till,  one  bright  April  day, 
By  chance  retiring  from  the  glare  of  noon 
To  this  forsaken  covert,  there  I found 
A hoary  path-way  traced  between  the  trees, 

And  winding  on  witli  such  an  easy  line 
Along  a natural  opening,  that  I stood 
Much  wondering  how  I could  have  sought  in  vain 
For  what  was  now  so  obvious.  To  abide, 

For  an  allotted  interval  of  ease. 

Beneath  my  cottage  roof,  had  newly  come 
From  the  wild  sea  a cherished  Visitant ; 

And  with  the  sight  of  this  same  path  — begun, 
Begun  and  ended,  in  the  shady  grove. 

Pleasant  conviction  flashed  upon  my  mind 
That,  to  this  opportune  recess  allured, 


He  had  surveyed  it  with  a finer  eye, 

A heart  more  wakeful ; and  had  worn  the  track 
By  pacing  here,  unwearied  and  alone, 

In  that  habitual  restlessness  of  foot 

With  which  the  Sailor  measures  o’er  and  o’er 

His  short  domain  upon  the  vessel’s  deck. 

While  she  is  travelling  through  the  dreary  sea. 

When  thou  hadst  quitted  Esthwaite’s  pleasant  shore, 
And  taken  thy  first  leave  of  those  green  hills 
And  rocks  that  were  the  play-ground  of  thy  Youth, 
Year  followed  year,  my  Brother  ! and  we  two. 
Conversing  not,  knew  little  in  what  mould 
Each  other’s  minds  were  fashioned ; and  at  length. 
When  once  again  we  met  in  Grasmere  Vale, 

Between  us  there  was  little  other  bond 
Than  common  feelings  of  fraternal  love. 

But  thou,  a School-boy,  to  the  sea  hadst  carried 

Undying  recollections ; Nature  there 

Was  with  thee ; she,  who  loved  us  both,  she  still 

Was  with  thee;  and  even  so  didst  thou  become 

A silent  Poet ; from  the  solitude 

Of  the  vast  sea  didst  bring  a watchful  heart 

Still  couchant,  an  inevitable  ear. 

And  an  eye  practised  like  a blind  man’s  touch. 

— Back  to  the  joyless  Ocean  thou  art  gone ; 

Nor  from  this  vestige  of  thy  musing  hours 
Could  I withhold  tliy  lionourcd  name,  and  now 
I love  the  fir-grove  with  a perfect  love. 

Thither  do  I withdraw  when  cloudless  suns 
Shine  hot,  or  wind  blows  troublesome  and  strong: 

And  there  I sit  at  evening,  when  the  steep 
Of  Silver-how,  and  Grasmere’s  peaceful  Lake, 

And  one  green  Island,  gleam  between  the  stems 
Of  the  dark  firs,  a visionary  scene  1 
And,  while  I gaze  upon  the  spectacle 
Of  clouded  splendour,  on  this  dream-like  sight 
I Of  solemn  loveliness,  I think  on  thee. 

My  Brother,  and  on  all  which  thou  hast  lost. 

Nor  seldom,  if  I rightly  guess,  while  Thou, 

Muttering  the  verses  which  I muttered  first 
Among  the  mountains,  through  the  midnight  watch 
Art  pacing  thoughtfully  the  Vessel’s  deck 
In  some  far  region,  here,  while  o’er  my  head. 

At  every  impulse  of  the  moving  breeze. 

The  fir-grove  murmurs  with  a sea-like  sound. 

Alone  I tread  this  path ; — for  aught  I know, 

Timing  my  steps  to  thine  ; and,  with  a store 
Of  undistinguishable  sympathies. 

Mingling  most  earnest  wishes  for  the  day 
When  we,  and  others  whom  we  love,  shall  meet 
A second  time,  in  Grasmere’s  happy  Vale.* 

♦ This  wish  was  not  granted ; the  lamented  Person  not  long 
after  perished  by  shipwreck,  in  discharge  of  his  duty  as  Om 
mander  of  the  Honourable  East  India  Company’s  Vessel,  the 
Earl  of  Abergavenny. 


POEMS  ON  THE  NAxMING  OF  PLACES. 


135 


VII. 

Forth  from  a jutting  ridge,  around  wliose  base 
Winds  our  deep  vale,  two  heath-clad  rocks  ascend 
In  fellowship,  the  loftiest  of  the  pair 
Rising  to  no  ambitious  height;  yet  both. 

O’er  lake  and  stream,  mountain  and  flowery  mead, 
Unfolding  prospects  fair  as  human  eyes 
Ever  beheld.  Up-led  with  mutual  help. 

To  one  or  other  brow  of  those  twin  peaks 
Were  two  adventurous  sisters  wont  to  climb. 

And  took  no  note  of  the  hour  while  thence  they  gazed. 
The  blooming  heath  their  couch,  gazed,  side  by  side. 

In  speechles.s  admiration.  I,  a witness 


I And  frequent  sharer  of  their  calm  delight 
With  thankful  heart,  to  either  eminence 
Gave  the  baptismal  name  each  sister  bore. 

Now  are  they  parted,  far  as  death’s  cold  hand 
Hath  power  to  part  the  Spirits  of  those  who  love 
As  they  did  love.  Ye  kindred  pinnacles  — 
That,  while  the  generations  of  mankind 
Follow  each  other  to  their  hiding-place 
I In  time’s  abyss,  are  privileged  to  endure 
I Beautiful  in  yourselves,  and  richly  graced 
1 With  like  command  of  beauty — grant  your  aid 
: For  Mary’s  humble,  Sarah’s  silent,  claim, 

I That  their  pure  joy  in  nature  may  survive 
1 From  age  to  age  in  blended  memory. 


E 3»i?K 

- - -^T-r^  -t -t;itu-  --I  I - -p-  - .^ 

J^  Tj^'fesp  artira  fwNM 

- .l>#>  »ai^  ^ 

'-V  ^ V f^*T'viri  ^ .If, 

rv-  * ' ' ■„  i,jt 

Ir> '\.  tiar*' •<(>44ii«fe:  v' .f  / 4t‘i'i-' ; »>  <‘‘  <,.«/i»iif>«  .m*>rti»-f)jy)^,i»^.  v^ 


i.“Y  *.  ' 

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j-  . 'v4kt 


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*U".‘  -^**rv-*w!4 

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4 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


A MORNING  EXERCISE. 

Fanxy,  who  leads  the  pastimes  of  the  glad, 

Full  ofl  is  pleased  a wayward  dart  to  throw  ; 

Sending  sad  shadows  after  things  not  sad, 

Peopling  the  harmless  fields  with  signs  of  woe; 
Beneath  her  sway,  a simple  forest  cry 
Becomes  an  echo  of  man’s  misery. 

Blithe  ravens  croak  of  death  ; and  when  the  owl 
Tries  his  two  voices  for  a favourite  strain  — 

Tu-whil  — Tu-whoo!  the  unsuspecting  fowl 
Forebodes  mishap,  or  seems  but  to  complain  : 

Fancy,  intent  to  harass  and  annoy. 

Can  thus  pervert  the  evidence  of  joy. 

Through  border  wilds  where  naked  Indians  stray, 
Myriads  of  notes  attest  her  subtle  skill ; 

A feathered  task-master  cries,  “ Work  away  !” 

And,  in  thy  iteration,  “ Whip  poor  Will,’”'' 

Is  heard  the  spirit  of  a toil-worn  slave. 

Lashed  out  of  life,  not  quiet  in  the  grave ! 

What  wonder?  at  her  bidding  ancient  lays 
Steeped  in  dire  griefs  the  voice  of  Philomel ; 

And  that  fleet  messenger  of  summer  days, 

The  swallow,  twittered  subject  to  like  spell; 

But  ne'er  could  Fancy  bend  the  buoyant  lark 
To  melancholy  service  — hark ! O hark ! 

The  daisy  sleeps  upon  the  dewy  lawn. 

Not  lifting  yet  the  head  that  evening  bowed ; 

But  lie  is  risen,  a later  star  of  dawn. 

Glittering  and  twinkling  near  yon  rosy  cloud; 

Bright  gem  instinct  with  music,  vocal  spark ; 

The  happiest  bird  that  sprang  out  of  the  ark ! 

Had,  blest  above  all  kinds ! — Supremely  skilled 
Restless  with  fixed  to  balance,  high  with  low. 

Thou  leav’st  the  halcyon  free  her  hopes  to  build 
On  such  forbearance  as  the  deep  may  show; 

Perpetual  flight,  unchecked  by  earthly  ties, 

Leavest  to  the  wandering  Bird  of  Paradise. 

Faithful,  though  swift  as  lightning,  the  meek  dove; 
Yet  more  hath  nature  reconciled  in  thee; 

So  constant  with  thy  downward  eye  of  love. 

Yet,  in  aerial  singleness,  so  free; 

So  humble,  yet  so  ready  to  rejoice 
In  power  of  wing  and  never-wearied  voice ! 


To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond. 

Mount,  daring  warbler ! — that  love-prompted  strain, 
(’Twixt  thee  and  thine  a never-failing  bond) 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain ; 

Yet  might’st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  ! to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

How  would  it  please  old  ocean  to  partake. 

With  sailors  longing  for  a breeze  in  vain. 

The  harmony  thy  notes  most  gladly  make 
Where  earth  resembles  most  his  own  domain ! 
Urania’s  self  might  welcome  with  pleased  ear 
These  matins  mounting  towards  her  native  sphere. 

Chanter  by  heaven  attracted,  whom  no  bars 
To  day-light  known  deter  from  that  pursuit, 

’T  is  well  that  some  sage  instinct,  when  the  stars 
Come  forth  at  evening,  keeps  thee  still  and  mute ; 
For  not  an  eyelid  could  to  sleep  incline 
Wert  thou  among  them,  singing  as  they  shine! 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

“Herf  divine  skill  taught  me  this. 

That  from  every  thing  I saw 
I could  some  instruction  draw, 

And  raise  pleasure  to  the  height 
Through  the  meanest  object's  sight. 

By  the  murmur  of  a spring. 

Or  the  least  bough’s  rustelling ; 

By  a daisy  whose  leaves  spread 
Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed ; 

Or  a shady  bush  or  tree ; 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me 

Than  all  nature’s  beauties  can 

In  some  other  wiser  man.”  G.  Wminas. 


In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I went. 

From  hill  to  hill  in  discontent 
Of  pleasure  high  and  turbulent. 

Most  pleased  when  most  uneasy; 
But  now  my  own  delights  I make, — 
My  thirst  at  every  rill  can  slake. 

And  gladly  Nature’s  love  partake 
Of  thee,  sweet  Daisy  ! 

When  Winter  decks  his  few  gray  hairs. 
Thee  in  the  scanty  wreath  he  wears; 
Spring  parts  the  clouds  with  softest  airs. 
That  she  may  sun  thee; 


l.'i7 


See  Waterton’s  Wanderings  in  South  America. 

S 


t Ilis  muse. 
12* 


138 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whole  summer  fields  are  thine  by  right; 
And  Autumn,  melancholy  Wight! 

Doth  in  thy  crimson  head  delight 
When  rains  are  on  thee. 

In  shoals  and  bands,  a morrice  train. 

Thou  greetest  the  Traveller  in  the  lane; 
If  welcome  thou  countest  it  gain ; 

Thou  art  not  daunted. 

Nor  carest  if  thou  be  set  at  naught: 

And  oft  alone  in  nooks  remote 
We  meet  thee  like  a pleasant  thought. 
When  such  are  wanted. 

Be  Violets  in  their  secret  mews 
The  flowers  the  wanton  Zephyrs  choose; 
Proud  be  the  Rose,  with  rains  and  dews 
Her  head  impearling; 

Thou  livest  with  less  ambitious  aim, 

Yet  hast  not  gone  without  tliy  fame ; 

Tliou  art  indeed  by  many  a claim 
The  Poet’s  darling. 

If  to  a rock  from  rains  he  fly. 

Or,  some  bright  day  of  April  sky. 
Imprisoned  by  hot  sunshine  lie 
Near  the  green  holly, 

.^nd  wearily  at  length  should  fare; 

He  needs  but  look  about,  and  there 
Thou  art ! — a Friend  at  hand,  to  scare 
Ilis  melancholy. 

A hundred  times,  by  rock  or  bower. 

Ere  thus  I have  lain  couched  an  hour. 
Have  I derived  from  thy  sweet  power 
Some  apprehension ; 

Come  steady  love ; some  brief  delight ; 
Some  memory  that  had  taken  flight ; 

Some  chime  of  fancy  wrong  or  right; 

Or  stray  invention. 

If  stately  passions  in  me  burn. 

And  one  chance  look  to  Thee  should  turn, 
I drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn 
A lowlier  pleasure ; 

The  homely  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds; 

A wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 
Of  hearts  at  leisure. 

When,  smitten  by  the  morning  ray, 

I see  thee  rise,  alert  and  gay. 

Then,  cheerful  Flower ! my  spirits  play 
W'ith  kindred  gladness; 

And  when,  at  dusk,  by  dews  opprest 
Thou  sink'st,  the  image  of  thy  rest 
Hath  often  eased  my  pensive  breast 
Of  careful  sadness. 


And  all  day  long  I number  yet. 

All  seasons  through,  another  debt. 

Which  I,  wherever  thou  art  met, 

To  thee  am  owing; 

An  instinct  call  it,  a blind  sense ; 

A happy,  genial  influence. 

Coming  one  knows  not  how,  nor  whence, 

Nor  whither  going. 

Child  of  the  year!  that  round  dost  run 
Thy  course  bold  lover  of  the  sun. 

And  cheerful  when  the  days  begun 
As  morning  Leveret, 

Thy  long-lost  praise*  thou  shalt  regain; 

Dear  shalt  thou  be  to  future  men 
As  in  old  time;  — thou  not  in  vain 
Art  Nature’s  favourite. 

A WHIRL-BLAST  from  behind  the  hill 
Rushed  o’er  the  wood  with  startling  sound ; 
Then  — all  at  once  the  air  was  still. 

And  showers  of  hail-stones  pattered  round 
Where  leafless  Oaks  towered  high  abore, 

I sat  within  an  undergrove 
Of  tallest  hollies,  tall  and  green ; 

A fairer  bower  was  never  seen. 

From  year  to  year  the  spacious  floor 
With  withered  leaves  is  covered  o’er. 

And  all  the  year  the  bower  is  green. 

But  see ! where’er  the  hail-stones  drop 
The  withered  leaves  all  skip  and  hop; 

There’s  not  a breeze  — no  breath  of  air — ■ 

Yet  here,  and  there,  and  everywhere 
Along  the  floor,  beneath  the  shade 
By  those  embowering  hollies  made. 

The  leaves  in  myriads  jump  and  spring, 

A.S  if  with  pipes  and  music  rare 
Some  Robin  Good-fellow  were  there. 

And  all  those  leaves,  in  festive  glee. 

Were  dancing  to  the  minstrelsy. 

THE  GREEN  LINNET, 

Beneath  these  fruit  tree  boughs  that  shed 
Their  snovv-white  blossoms  on  my  head. 

With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 
Of  spring’s  unclouded  weather. 

In  this  sequestered  nook  how  sweet 
To  sit  upon  my  Orchard-.seat ! 

And  birds  and  flowers  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year’s  Friends  together. 

One  have  I marked,  the  happiest  Guest 
In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest: 

Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 

* See,  in  Chaucer  and  the  elder  Poets,  the  honours  lornterly 
paid  to  this  flower 


rOE?vIS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


lao 


III  joy  of  voice  and  pinion, 

Thou,  Linnet ! in  thy  green  array. 
Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day. 

Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May, 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  Birds,  and  Butterflies,  and  Flowers, 
Make  all  one  Band  of  Paramours, 

Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bowers. 
Art  sole  in  thy  employment ; 

A Life,  a Presence  like  the  Air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care. 

Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair, 

TTiyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Upon  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees. 

That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perched  in  ecstasies, 

Yet  seeming  still  to  hover ; 
There!  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings 
That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  the  Bird  deceives, 

A Brother  of  the  dancing  Leaves ; 

Then  flits,  and  from  the  Cottage  eaves 
Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes; 
As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mocked  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign. 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 


THE  CONTRAST. 

THE  PARROT  AND  THE  WREN. 

I. 

Within  her  gilded  cage  confined, 

I saw  a dazzling  Belle, 

A Parrot  of  that  famous  kind 
Whose  name  is  Non-pareil. 

Like  beads  cf  glossy  jet  her  eyes; 

And,  smoothed  by  Nature’s  skill. 

With  pearl  or  gleaming  agate  vies 
Her  finely-curved  bill. 

Her  plumy  Mantle’s  living  hues 
In  mass  opposed  to  mass. 

Outshine  the  splendour  that  imbues 
The  robes  of  pictured  glass. 

Ana,  sootii  to  say,  an  apter  Mate 
Did  never  tempt  the  choice 
Of  feathered  Thing  most  delicate 
Li  figure  and  in  voice. 


But,  exiled  from  Australian  Bowers, 

And  singleness  her  lot. 

She  trills  her  song  with  tutored  powers. 

Or  mocks  each  casual  note. 

1 No  more  of  pity  for  regrets 
I With  which  she  may  have  striven ! 

Now  but  in  wantonness  she  frets. 

Or  spite,  if  cause  be  given  ; 

Arch,  volatile,  a sportive  Bird 
By  social  glee  inspired ; 

Ambitious  to  be  seen  or  heard. 

And  pleased  to  be  admired  i 

II. 

This  moss-lined  shed,  green,  soft,  and  dry. 
Harbours  a self-contented  Wren, 

Not  shunning  man’s  abode,  though  shy. 

Almost  as  thought  itself,  of  human  ken. 

Strange  places,  coverts  unendeared 
She  never  tried;  the  very  nest 
In  which  this  Child  of  Spring  was  reared. 

Is  warmed,  thro’  winter,  by  her  feathery  breast. 

To  the  bleak  winds  she  sometimes  gives 
A slender  unexpected  strain ; 

That  tells  the  Hermitess  still  lives. 

Though  she  appear  not,  and  be  sought  in  vain. 

Say,  Dora ! tell  me  by  yon  placid  Moon, 

If  called  to  choose  between  the  favoured  pair, 
Which  would  you  be,  — the  Bird  of  the  Saloon, 
By  Lady  fingers  tended  with  nice  care, 
Caressed,  applauded,  upon  dainties  fed. 

Or  Nature’s  Darkling  of  this  mossy  Shed  1 


TO  THE  SMALL  CELANDINE.’ 

Pansies,  Lilies,  Kingcups,  Daisies, 
ijct  them  live  upon  their  praises ; 

Long  as  there’s  a sun  that  sets. 
Primroses  will  have  their  glory  ; 

Long  as  there  are  Violets, 

They  will  have  a place  in  story : 
There’s  a flower  that  shall  be  mine. 
’Tis  the  little  Celandine. 

Eyes  of  some  men  travel  far 
For  the  finding  of  a star; 

Up  and  down  the  heavens  they  go. 

Men  that  keep  a mighty  rout! 

I’m  as  great  as  they,  I trow. 

Since  the  day  I found  thee  out. 

Little  flower  ! — I ’ll  make  a stir. 

Like  a great  Astronomer. 


Common  PileworL 


140 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Modest,  yet  withal  an  Elf 
Bold,  and  lavish  of  thyself; 

Since  we  needs  must  first  have  met 
I have  seen  thee,  high  and  low, 
Thirty  years  or  more,  and  yet 
’T  was  a face  I did  not  know; 

Thou  hast  now,  go  where  I may. 
Fifty  greetings  in  a day. 

Ere  a leaf  is  on  a bush. 

In  the  time  before  the  Thrush 
Has  a thought  about  her  nest, 

Thou  wilt  come  with  half  a call. 
Spreading  out  thy  glossy  breast 
Like  a careless  Prodigal; 

Telling  tales  about  the  sun. 

When  we’ve  little  warmth  or  none. 

Celandine ! and  long  ago. 

Praise  of  which  I nothing  know 

j I have  not  a doubt  but  he. 

Whosoe’er  the  man  might  be, 

Who  the  first  with  pointed  rays 
(W’orkmen  worthy  to  be  saintedt 
Set  the  sign-board  in  a blaze. 

When  the  rising  sun  he  painted. 

Took  the  fancy  from  a glance 
At  thy  glittering  countenance. 

Soon  as  gentle  breezes  bring 
News  of  winter’s  vanishing. 

And  the  children  build  their  bowers 
Sticking  ’kerchief-plots  of  mould 
All  about  with  full-blown  flowers,  ’ 

Thick  as  sheep  in  shepherd’s  fold . 

Poets,  vain  men  in  their  mood! 
Travel  with  the  multitude; 

Never  heed  them;  I aver 

That  they  are  all  wanton  Wooers; 

But  the  thrifty  Cottager, 

Who  stirs  little  out  of  doors, 

Joys  to  spy  thee  near  her  home; 
Spring  is  coming.  Thou  art  come! 

Comfort  have  thou  of  thy  merit. 
Kindly,  unassuming  Spirit! 

Careless  of  thy  neighbourhood. 
Thou  dost  show  thy  pleasant  face 
On  the  moor,  and  in  the  wood. 

In  the  lane  — there’s  not  a place. 
Howsoever  mean  it  be. 

But  ’tis  good  enough  for  thee. 

Ill  befall  the  yellow  Flowers, 
Children  of  the  flaring  hours! 
Buttercups,  that  will  be  seen. 
Whether  we  will  see  or  no; 
Others,  too,  of  lofty  mien ; 

They  have  done  as  worldlings  do. 
Taken  praise  that  should  be  thine. 
Little,  humble  Celandine! 

With  the  proudest  thou  art  there. 
Mantling  in  the  tiny  square. 

Often  have  I sighed  to  measure 
By  myself  a lonely  pleasure. 

Sighed  to  think,  I read  a book 
Only  read,  perhaps,  by  me ; 

Yet  I long  could  overlook 
Thy  bright  coronet  and  Thee, 

And  thy  arch  and  w'ily  ways. 

And  thy  store  of  other  praise. 

Blithe  of  heart  from  w’eek  to  week 
Thou  dost  play  at  hide-and-seek; 
While  the  patient  primrose  sits 
Like  a Beggar  in  the  cold. 

Thou,  a Flower  of  wiser  wits. 
Slip’s!  into  thy  sheltering  hold ; 
Liveliest  of  the  vernal  train 
When  ye  all  are  out  again. 

Drawn  by  vvlrat  peculiar  spell. 

By  what  charm  of  sight  or  smell. 
Does  the  dim-eyed  curious  Bee, 
Labouring  for  her  waxen  cells. 
Fondly  settle  upon  Thee, 

Prized  above  all  buds  and  bells 

Prophet  of  delight  and  mirth. 
Ill-requited  upon  earth ; 

Herald  of  a mighty  band. 

Of  a joyous  train  ensuing. 

Serving  at  my  heart’s  command. 
Tasks  that  are  no  tasks  renewing, 
I will  sing  as  doth  behove. 

Hymns  in  praise  of  what  I love! 

Opening  daily  at  thy  side. 

By  the  season  multiplied? 

Thou  art  not  beyond  the  moon. 

But  a thing  “beneath  our  shoon:” 
Let  the  bold  Discoverer  thrid 
In  his  bark  the  polar  sea; 

Rear  who  will  a pyramid; 

Praise  it  is  enough  for  me. 

If  there  be  but  three  or  four 
Who  will  love  my  little  Flower. 

TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 



Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet 
When  they  lie  about  our  feet: 
February  last,  my  heart 
First  at  sight  of  thee  was  glad ; 

All  unheard  of  as  thou  art. 

Thou  must  needs,  I think,  have  had. 

the  waterfall  AND  THE  EGLANTINM 

“Begone,  thou  fond  presumptuous  Elf,” 
Exclaimed  an  angry  Voice, 

“ Nor  dare  to  trust  thy  foolish  self 
Between  me  and  my  choice.” 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


141 


A small  Cascade  fresh  swoln  with  snows 
Thus  threatened  a poor  Briar-rose, 

That,  all  bespattered  with  his  foam. 

And  dancing  liigh  and  dancing  low, 

Was  living,  as  a child  might  know, 

In  an  unhappy  home. 

“ Dost  thou  presume  my  course  to  block  1 
Off,  off!  or,  puny  Thing! 

I’ll  hurl  thee  headlong  with  the  rock 
To  which  thy  fibres  cling.” 

The  Flood  was  tyrannous  and  strong ; 

The  patient  Briar  suffered  long. 

Nor  did  ho  utter  groan  or  sigh. 

Hoping  the  danger  would  be  past: 

But,  seeing  no  relief,  at  last 
He  ventured  to  reply. 

“ Ah  !”  said  tlie  Briar,  “ blame  me  not ; 

M’hy  should  we  dwell  in  strife  1 
We  who  in  this  sequestered  spot 
Once  lived  a happy  life! 

You  stirred  me  on  my  rocky  bed  — 

What  pleasure  through  my  veins  you  spread ! 
The  Summer  long,  from  day  to  day, 

IMy  leaves  you  freshened  and  bedewed; 

Nor  was  it  common  gratitude 
That  did  your  cares  repay. 

‘When  Spring  came  on  with  bud  and  bell, 
\mong  these  r.icks  did  I 
Before  vou  hang  my  wreaths,  to  tell 
That  gentle  days  were  nigh  ! 

And  in  the  sultry  summer  hours, 

I sheltered  you  with  leaves  and  flowers; 

And  in  iny  loaves — now  shed  and  gone, 

The  Linnet  lodged,  and  for  us  two 
Chanted  his  pretty  songs,  when  You 
Had  little  voice  or  none. 

“But  now  proud  thoughts  are  in  your  breast  — 
What  grief  is  mine  you  see. 

Ah ! w'ould  you  think,  even  yet  how  blest 
Together  vye  might  bo  ! 

Though  of  bvth  leaf  and  flower  bereft, 

Some  ornv.;^nts  to  me  are  left  — 

Rich  store,  cf  scarlet  hips  is  mine. 

With  which  I,  T.  my  humble  way. 

Would  deck  you  many  a winter’s  day, 

A happy  Eglantine  !” 

What  more  he  said  I cannot  tell. 

The  Torrent  thundered  down  the  doll 
With  aggravated  haste ; 

I listened,  nor  aught  else  could  hoar  ; 

The  Briar  quaked  — and  much  I fear 
'Those  accents  were  his  last. 


THE  OAK  AND  THE  BROOM. 

A P A .S  T O R A L. 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean 
Beside  the  babbling  rills ; 

A careful  student  he  had  been 
Among  the  woods  and  hills. 

One  winter’s  night,  when  through  the  trees 
The  wind  was  roaring,  on  his  knees 
His  youngest  born  did  Andrew  hold : 

And  while  the  rest,  a ruddy  quire. 

Were  seated  round  their  blazing  fire. 

This  Tale  the  Shepherd  told. 

“ I saw  a crag,  a lofty  stone 
As  ever  tempest  beat ! 

Out  of  its  head  an  Oak  had  grown, 

A Broom  out  of  its  feet. 

The  time  was  March,  a cheerful  noon  — 

The  thaw-wind,  with  the  breath  of  June, 
Breathed  gently  from  the  warm  south-west: 
When,  in  a voice  sedate  with  age. 

This  Oak,  a giant  and  a sage. 

His  neighbour  thus  addressed  : — 

‘ Eight  weary  weeks,  through  rock  and  clay. 
Along  this  mountain’s  edge. 

The  Frost  hath  wrought  both  night  and  day. 
Wedge  driving  after  wedge. 
liOok  up!  and  think,  above  your  head 
What  trouble,  surely,  will  be  bred  ; 

Last  night  I heard  a crash  — ’tis  true. 

The  splinters  took  another  road- 
j I see  them  yonder  — what  a load 
I For  such  a Thing  as  you  ! 

You  are  preparing,  as  before. 

To  deck  your  slender  shape ; 

And  yet,  just  three  years  hack  — no  more  — 
You  had  a strange  escape. 

Down  from  yon  cliff  a fragment  broke ; 

It  thundered  down,  with  fire  and  smoke, 

And  hitherward  pursued  its  way  : 

This  ponderous  Block  was  caught  by  me. 

And  o’er  your  head,  as  you  may  see, 

’Tis  hanging  to  this  day! 

The  Thing  had  better  been  asleep, 

Whatever  thing  it  were. 

Or  Breeze,  or  Bird,  or  Dog,  or  Slieep, 

That  first  did  plant  you  there. 

For  you  and  your  greeti  twigs  decoy 

The  little  witless  Shepherd-boy 

'To  come  and  slumber  in  your  bower; 

And,  trust  me,  on  some  sultry  noon. 

Both  you  and  he.  Heaven  knows  how  soon  ! 
Will  perish  in  one  hour. 


14-2 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


From  me  tliis  friendly  warning  lake’ — 

The  Broom  began  to  doze, 

And  thus,  to  keep  herself  awake, 

Did  gently  interpose : 

‘ My  thanks  for  your  discourse  are  due  ; 
That  more  than  what  you  say  is  true, 

I know,  and  I have  known  it  long ; 

Frail  is  the  bond  by  which  we  hold 
Our  being,  whether  young  or  old. 

Wise,  foolish,  weak,  or  strong. 

Disasters,  do  the  best  we  can. 

Will  reach  both  great  and  small 
And  he  is  oft  the  wisest  man. 

Who  is  not  wise  at  all. 

For  me,  why  should  I wish  to  roam  1 
This  spot  is  my  paternal  home. 

It  is  my  pleasant  heritage; 

My  Father,  many  a happy  year. 

Here  spread  his  careless  blossoms,  here 
Attained  a good  old  age. 

Even  such  as  his  may  be  my  lot. 

What  cause  have  I to  haunt 
My  heart  with  terrors?  Am  I not 
In  truth  a favoured  plant! 

On  me  such  bounty  Summer  pours. 

That  I am  covered  o’er  with  flowers ; 

And,  when  the  Frost  is  in  the  sky. 

My  branches  are  so  fresh  and  gay 
That  you  might  look  at  me,  and  say 
This  plant  can  never  die. 

The  Butterfly,  all  green  and  gold. 

To  me  hath  often  flown. 

Here  in  my  Blossoms  to  behold 
Wings  lovely  as  his  own. 

When  grass  is  chill  with  rain  or  dew. 
Beneath  my  shade,  the  mother  Ewe 
Lies  with  her  infant  Lamb;  I see 
The  love  they  to  each  other  make, 

And  the  sweet  joy,  which  they  partake. 

It  is  a joy  to  me.’ 

Her  voice  was  blithe,  her  heart  was  light; 
Tlie  Broom  might  have  pursued 
Her  speech,  until  the  stars  of  night 
Their  journey  had  renewed  ; 

But  in  the  branches  of  the  Oak 
Two  Ravens  now  began  to  croak 
Their  nuptial  song,  a gladsome  air; 

And  to  her  own  green  bower  the  breeze 
That  instant  brought  two  stripling  Bees 
To  rest,  or  murmur  there. 

One  night,  my  Children ! from  the  North 
There  came  a furious  blast ; 

At  break  of  day  I ventured  forth. 

And  near  the  Cliff  I passed. 


The  storm  had  fallen  upon  the  Oak, 

And  struck  him  with  a mighty  stroke. 

And  whirled,  and  whirled  him  far  away  ; 

And,  in  one  hospitable  cleft. 

The  little  careless  Broom  was  left 
To  live  for  many  a day.” 

SONG  FOR  THE  SPINNING  WHEEL. 

Founded  upon  a Belief  prevalent  among  tlie  Pastoral  Vales  of 
Westmoreland. 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 

Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour,^ 

When  the  weary  fingers  feel 
Help,  as  if  from  faery  power ; 

Dewy  night  o’ershades  the  ground: 

Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round ! 

Now,  beneath  the  starry  sky. 

Couch  the  widely-scattered  sheep ; — 

Ply  the  pleasant  labour,  ply  ! 

For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep. 

Runs  with  speed  more  smooth  and  fine. 
Gathering  up  a trustier  line. 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 
By  a glance  from  fickle  eyes; 

But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 
Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies. 

When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest 
Sleeping  on  the  mountain’s  breast. 

THE  REDBREAST  AND  BUTTERFLY. 

Art  thou  the  Bird  whom  Man  loves  best, 

The  pious  Bird  with  the  scarlet  breast. 

Our  little  English  Robin ; 

The  Bird  that  comes  about  our  doors 
When  Autumn  winds  are  sobbing" 

Art  thou  the  Peter  of  Norway  Boors  1 
Their  Thomas  in  Finland, 

And  Russia  far  inland  ? 

The  Bird,  who  by  some  name  or  other 
All  men  who  know  thee  call  their  Brother, 

The  Darling  of  Children  and  men ! 

Could  Father  Adam*  open  his  eyes 
And  see  this  sight  beneath  the  skies. 

He’d  wish  to  close  them  again. 

If  the  Butterfly  knew  but  his  friend. 

Hither  his  flight  he  would  bend; 

And  find  his  way  to  me. 

Under  the  branches  of  the  tree  : 


* See  Paradise  I^st,  Book  XI.,  where  Adam  points  out  to  Eve 
the  ominous  sign  of  the  Eagle  chasing  "two  Birds  of  gayesi 
plume,’'  and  the  gentle  Hart  and  Hind  pursued  by  their  enemy 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


143 


In  and  out,  he  darts  about; 

Can  this  be  the  Bird,  to  man  so  good, 

That,  after  their  bewildering, 

Covered  with  leaves  the  little  children. 

So  painfully  in  the  wood  1 

What  ailed  thee,  Robin,  that  thou  could’st  pursue 
A beautiful  Creature, 

That  is  gentle  by  nature! 

Beneath  the  summer  sky 

From  flower  to  flower  let  him  fly; 

’T  is  all  that  he  wishes  to  do. 

The  Cheerer  Thou  of  our  in-door  sadness. 

He  is  the  Friend  of  our  summer  gladness: 
What  hinders,  then,  that  ye  should  be 
Playmates  in  the  sunny  weather. 

And  fly  about  in  the  air  together! 

HlS  beautiful  wings  in  crimson  are  drest, 

A crimson  as  bright  as  thine  own: 

If  thou  would’st  be  happy  in  thy  nest, 

O pious  Bird  I whom  man  loves  best. 

Love  him  or  leave  him  alone ! 


THE  KITTEN 

AND 

TIIK  FALLING  LEAVES. 

That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo  ! 

What  a pretty  baby  show  ! 

See  the  Kitten  on  the  Wall, 

Sporting  with  the  leaves  that  fall. 

Withered  leaves — one  — two  — and  three  — 
From  the  lofty  Elder-tree! 

Through  the  calm  and  frosty  air, 

Of  this  morning  bright  and  fair. 

Eddying  round  and  round  they  sink 
Softly,  slowly:  one  might  think, 

From  the  motions  that  are  made. 

Every  little  leaf  conveyed 
Sylph  or  Faery  hither  tending,  — 

To  this  lower  world  descending. 

Each  invisible  and  mute. 

In  his  wavering  parachute. 

But  the  Kitten,  how  she  starts. 

Crouches,  stretches,  paws,  and  darts! 

First  at  one,  and  then  its  fellow 
Just  as  light  and  just  as  yellow; 

There  are  many  now  — now  one  — 

Now  they  stop  and  there  are  none; 

What  intenseness  of  desire 
In  her  upward  eye  of  fire! 

With  a tiger-leap  half  way 
Now  she  meets  the  coming  prey. 

Lets  it  go  as  fast,  and  then 
Has  it  in  her  power  again: 


Now  she  works  with  three  or  four, 

Like  an  Indian  Conjuror; 

Quick  as  he  in  feats  of  art. 

Far  beyond  in  joy  of  heart. 

Were  her  antics  played  in  the  eye 
Of  a thousand  Standers-by, 

Clapping  hands  with  shout  and  stare. 
What  would  little  Tabby  care 
For  the  plaudits  of  the  Crowd? 

Over  happy  to  be  proud. 

Over  wealthy  in  the  treasure 
Of  her  own  e.xceeding  pleasure ! 

’T  is  a pretty  Baby-treat ; 

Nor,  I deem,  for  me  unmeet; 

Here,  for  neither  Babe  nor  me, 

Other  Play-mate  can  I see. 

Of  the  countless  living  things. 

That  with  stir  of  feet  and  wings 
(In  the  sun  or  under  shade. 

Upon  bough  or  grassy  blade) 

And  with  busy  revellings, 

Chirp  and  song,  and  murmurings, 

Made  this  Orchard’s  narrow  space, 

And  this  Vale  so  blithe  a place; 
Multitudes  are  swept  away. 

Never  more  to  breathe  the  day: 

Some  are  sleeping;  some  in  Bands 
Travelled  into  distant  Lands; 

Others  slunk  to  moor  and  wood. 

Far  from  human  neighbourhood; 

And,  among  the  Kinds  that  keep 
With  us  closer  fellowship. 

With  us  openly  abide. 

All  have  laid  their  mirth  aside. 

— Where  is  he  tnat  giddy  Sprue, 

Blue  cap,  with  his  colours  bright, 

Who  was  blest  as  bird  could  be. 

Feeding  in  the  apple-tree; 

Made  such  wanton  spoil  and  roiit. 
Turning  blossoms  inside  out; 

Hung  with  head  towards  the  ground. 
Fluttered,  perched,  into  a round 
Bound  himself,  and  then  unbound; 
Lithest,  gaudiest  Harlequin ! 

Prettiest  Tumbler  ever  seen ! 

Light  of  heart  and  light  of  limb; 

What  is  now  become  of  Him? 

Lambs,  that  through  the  mountains  went 
Frisking,  bleating  merriment. 

When  the  year  was  in  its  prime, 

They  are  sobered  by  this  time. 

If  you  look  to  vale  or  hill. 

If  you  listen,  al.  Is  still. 

Save  a little  neighbouring  Rill, 

That  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
Strikes  a solitary  sound. 


144 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Vainly  glitter  hill  and  plain, 

And  the  air  is  calm  in  vain ; 

Vainly  Morning  spreads  the  lure 
Of  a sky  serene  and  pure ; 

Creature  none  can  slie  decoy 
Into  open  sign  of  joy  ; 

Is  it  that  they  liave  a fear 
Of  the  dreary  season  near '! 

Or  that  other  pleasures  be 
Sweeter  even  than  gaiety  1 

Yet,  whate’er  enjoyments  dwell 
In  the  impenetrable  cell 
Of  the  silent  heart  which  Nature 
Furnishes  to  every  Creature; 
Whatsoe’er  we  feel  and  know 
Too  sedate  for  outward  show. 

Such  a light  of  gladness  breaks. 

Pretty  Kitten ! from  thy  freaks,  — 
Spreads  with  such  a living  grace 
O’er  iny  little  Laura’s  face; 

Yes,  the  sight  so  stirs  and  charms 
Thee,  Baby,  laughing  in  my  arms. 
That  almost  I could  repine 
That  your  transports  are  not  mine. 
That  I do  not  wholly  fare 
Even  as  ye  do,  thoughtless  Pair ! 

And  I will  have  my  careless  season 
Spite  of  melancholy  reason. 

Will  walk  through  life  in  such  a way 
That,  when  time  brings  on  deca}'. 

Now  and  then  I may  possess 
Hours  of  perfect  gladsomeness. 

— Pleased  by  any  random  toy  ; 

By  a Kitten’s  busy  joy. 

Or  an  Infant’s  laughing  eye 
Sharing  in  the  ecstasy ; 

I would  fare  like  that  or  this. 

Find  my  wisdom  in  my  bliss; 

Keep  the  sprightly  soul  awake. 

And  have  faculties  to  take, 

Even  from  things  by  sorrow  wrouglit, 
I^Iatter  for  a jocund  thought. 

Spite  of  care,  and  spite  of  grief. 

To  gambol  with  Life’s  falling  Leaf. 


A FLOWER  GARDEN. 

Tell  me,  ye  Zephyrs  ! tliat  unfold. 

While  fluttering  o’er  this  gay  Recess, 
Pinions  that  fanned  the  teeming  mould 
Of  Eden’s  blissful  wilderness, 

Did  only  softly-stealing  Hours 

There  close  the  peaceful  lives  of  flowers'? 


Say,  when  the  moving  Creatures  saw 
All  kinds  commingled  without  fear, 
Prevailed  a like  indulgent  law 
For  the  still  Growths  that  prosper  here’ 
Did  wanton  Fawn  and  Kid  forbear 
The  half-blown  Rose,  the  Lily  spare  ? 

Or  peeped  they  often  from  their  beds 
And  prematurely  disappeared, 

Devoured  like  pleasure  ere  it  spreads 
A bosom  to  the  Sun  endeared  ? 

If  such  their  harsh  untimely  doom, 

It  falls  not  here  on  bud  or  bloom. 

All  Summer  long  tlie  liappy  Eve  > 

Of  this  fair  Spot  her  flowers  may  bind. 
Nor  e’er,  with  ruffled  fancy,  grieve. 

From  the  next  glance  she  casts,  to  find 
That  love  for  little  Things  by  Fate 
Is  rendered  vain  as  love  for  great. 

Yet,  where  the  guardian  Fence  is  wouiiri. 
So  subtly  is  the  eye  beguiled 
It  sees  not  nor  suspects  a Bound, 

No  more  than  in  some  forest  wild ; 

Free  as  the  light  in  semblance  — cros- 
Only  by  art  in  nature  lost. 

And,  though  the  jealous  turf  refuse 
By  random  footsteps  to  be  prest. 

And  feeds  on  never-sullied  dew's. 

Ye,  gentle  breezes  from  tlie  West, 

With  all  the  ministers  of  Hope, 

Are  tempted  to  this  sunny  slope ! 

And  hither  throngs  of  birds  resort ; 
feorne,  inmates  lodged  in  shady  nests. 
Some,  perched  on  stems  of  stately  port 
That  nod  to  welcome  transient  guests ; 
While  Hare  and  Leveret,  seen  at  play, 
Appear  not  more  shut  out  than  they. 

Apt  emblem  (for  reproof  of  pride) 

This  delicate  Enclosure  shows 
Of  modest  kindness,  that  would  hide 
The  firm  protection  she  bestows; 

Of  manners,  like  its  viewless  fence, 
Ensuring  peace  to  innocence. 

Thus  spake  tlie  moral  Muse  — her  wing 
Abruptly  spreading  to  depart, 

She  left,  that  farewell  offering, 

Memento  for  some  docile  Iicart ; 

That  may  respect  the  good  old  age 
When  Fancy  was  Truth’s  willing  Page; 
And  Truth  would  skim  the  flowery  glade 
Though  entering  but  as  Fancy’s  Shade. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY 


115 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 
Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  he, 
Sweet  Daisy  ! oft  I talk  to  thee, 

For  thou  art  worthy. 

Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face. 

And  yet  with  som. thing  of  a grace, 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee! 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 
I sit,  and  play  with  similies. 

Loose  types  of  Things  through  all  degrees. 
Thoughts  of  thy  raising : 

And  many  a fond  and  idle  name 
I give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame. 

As  is  the  humour  of  the  game. 

While  I am  gazing. 

A Nun  demure,  of  lowly  port; 

Or  sprightly  Maiden,  of  Love’s  Court, 

In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 
Of  all  temptations ; 

A Queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest; 

A Starveling  in  a scanty  vest; 

Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best. 

Thy  appellations. 

A little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 

Tliat  thought  comes  next  — and  instantly 
The  freak  is  over. 

The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold 
A silver  Shield  with  boss  of  gold, 

That  Spreads  itself,  some  Faery  bold 
In  fight  to  cover  ! 

I see  thee  glittering  from  afar;  — 

And  then  thou  art  a pretty  Star; 

Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 
In  heaven  above  thee! 

Yet  like  a star,  with  glittering  crest. 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem’st  to  rest;  — 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest, 

Who  shall  reprove  thee ' 

Sweet  Flower!  for  by  that  name  at  last, 
When  all  my  reveries  aro  past, 

I call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast. 

Sweet  silent  Creature ! 

That  breath’st  with  me  in  sun  and  air. 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a share 
Of  thy  meek  nature! 

T 


TO  THE  SAME  FLOWER. 

Bright  flower,  whose  home  is  everywhere  ! 
A Pilgrim  bold  in  Nature’s  care. 

And  oft,  the  long  year  through,  the  heir 
Of  joy  or  sorrow, 

Methinks  that  there  abides  in  thee 
Some  concord  with  humanity. 

Given  to  no  other  Flower  I see 
The  forest  through  ! 

And  wherefore  1 Man  is  soon  deprest; 

A thoughtless  Thing ! who,  once  unblest. 
Does  little  on  his  memory  rest. 

Or  on  his  reason ; 

But  Thou  wouldst  teach  him  how  to  find 
A shelter  under  every  wind, 

A hope  for  times  that  are  unkind 
And  every  season. 

Thou  wander’st  this  wide  world  about, 
Uncheck’d  by  pride  or  scrupulous  doubt, 
WitI)  friends  to  greet  thee,  or  without. 

Yet  pleased  and  willing; 

Meek,  yielding  to  the  occasion’s  call. 

And  all  things  suffering  from  all. 

Thy  function  apostolical 
In  peace  fulfilling. 

TO  A SKY-LARK. 

Up  with  me  ! up  with  me  into  the  clouds ! 

For  thy  song.  Lark,  is  strong ; 

Up  with  me,  up  with  me  into  the  clouds! 
Singing,  singing. 

With  clouds  and  sky  about  thee  ringing. 

Lift  me,  guide  me  till  I find 
That  spot  which  seems  so  to  thy  mind ! 

I have  walked  through  wildernesses  dreary. 
And  to-day  my  heart  is  weary ; 

Had  I now  the  wings  of  a Faery, 

Up  to  thee  would  I fly. 

There ’s  madness  about  thee,  and  joy  divine 
In  that  song  of  thine  ; 

Lift  me,  guide  me  high  and  high 
To  thy  banqueting-place  in  the  sky. 

Joyous  as  morning. 

Thou  art  laughing  and  scorning; 

Thou  hast  a nest  for  thy  love  and  thy  rest. 
And,  though  little  troubled  with  sloth. 
Drunken  I, ark ! thou  wouldst  bo  loth 
To  be  such  a Traveller  as  I. 

Happy,  happy  I.iver, 

With  a soul  as  strong  as  a mountain  River, 
Pouring  out  praise  to  the  Almighty  Giver, 
Joy  and  jollity  be  with  us  both ! 

13 


146 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Alas ! my  journey,  ruf^o-ed  and  uneven, 

Throug-h  prickly  moors  or  dusty  ways  must  wind  ; 
But  hearing  thee,  or  others  of  thy  kind. 

As  full  of  gladness  and  as  free  of  heaven, 

I,  with  my  fate  contented,  will  plod  on, 

And  hope  for  higher  raptures  when  Life’s  day  is  done. 


TO  A SEXTON. 

Let  thy  wheel-barrow  alone  — 

Wherefore,  Sexton,  piling  still 
In  thy  Bone-house  bone  on  bone 
’T  is  already  like  a hill 
In  a field  of  battle  made, 

Wliere  three  thousand  skulls  are  laid ; 

These  died  in  peace  each  with  the  other, — 
Father,  Sister,  Friend,  and  Brother. 

Mark  the  spot  to  which  I point! 

From  this  platform,  eight  feet  square, 

Take  not  even  a finger-joint; 

Andrew’s  whole  fire-side  is  there. 

Here,  alone,  before  thine  eyes, 

Simon's  sickly  daughter  lies. 

From  weakness  now,  and  pain  defended, 
Whom  he  twenty  winters  tended. 

Look  but  at  the  gardener’s  pride  — 

How  he  glories,  when  he  sees 
Roses,  Lilies,  side  by  side, 

Violets  in  families! 

By  the  heart  of  Man,  his  tears. 

By  his  hopes  and  by  his  fears. 

Thou,  old  Gray-beard ! art  the  Warden 
Of  a far  superior  garden. 

Thus  then,  each  to  other  dear, 

Let  them  all  in  quiet  lie, 

Andrew  there,  and  Susan  here. 

Neighbours  in  mortality. 

And,  should  I live  through  sun  and  rain 
Seven  widowed  years  without  my  Jane, 

O Sexton,  do  not  then  remove  her. 

Let  one  grave  hold  the  Loved  and  Lover ! 


Who  fancied  what  a pretty  sight 
This  Rock  would  be  if  edged  around 
With  living  Snow-drops  1 circlet  bright! 
How  glorious  to  this  Orchard-ground  ! 
Wlio  loved  the  little  Rock,  and  set 
Upon  its  head  tliis  Coronet  1 

Was  it  the  humour  of  a Child  1 
Or  rather  of  some  love-sick  Maid, 

Whose  brows,  the  day  that  she  was  styled 
The  Shepiierd-queen,  were  thus  arrayed  I 


Of  Man  mature,  or  Matron  sage  1 
Or  Old-man  toying  with  his  age  I 

I asked — ’twas  whispered.  The  ievici 
To  each  and  all  might  well  be'ong  : 

It  is  the  Spirit  of  Paradise 
That  prompts  such  work,  a Spirit  stro:ig, 
That  gives  to  all  the  self-same  bent 
Where  life  is  wise  and  innocent. 


SONG 

FOR  TIIF  WANDERING  JEW. 

Though  the  torrents  from  their  fountains 
Roar  down  many  a craggy  steep. 

Yet  they  find  among  the  mountains 
Resting-places  calm  and  deep. 

Clouds  that  love  through  air  to  hasten, 
Ere  the  storm  its  fury  stills. 
Helmet-like  themselves  will  fasten 
On  the  heads  of  towering  hills. 

What,  if  through  the  frozen  centre 
Of  the  Alps  the  Chamois  bound. 

Yet  he  has  a home  to  enter 
In  some  nook  of  chosen  ground. 

If  on  windy  days  the  Raven 
Gambol  like  a dancing  skiff. 

Not  the  less  she  loves  her  haven 
In  the  bosom  of  the  cliff. 

Though  the  Sea-horse  in  the  Ocean 
Own  no  dear  domestic  cave. 

Yet  he  slumbers  — by  the  motion 
Rocked  of  many  a gentle  wave. 

The  fleet  Ostrich,  till  day  closes. 
Vagrant  over  Desert  sands. 

Brooding  on  her  eggs  reposes 
When  chill  night  that  care  demands. 

Day  and  night  my  toils  redouble. 
Never  nearer  to  the  goal ; 

Night  and  day,  I feel  the  trouble 
Of  the  Wanderer  in  my  soul. 


THE  SEVEN  SISTERS; 

OR, 

THE  SOLITUDE  OF  BINNORIE 

Seven  Daughters  had  I.ord  Archibald. 
All  Children  of  one  Mother: 

I could  not  say  in  one  short  day 
What  love  they  bore  each  other. 

A Garland  of  Seven  Lilies  wrought 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


147 


Seven  Sisters  that  tog-ether  dwell ; 

But  he,  bold  Knight  as  ever  fought, 
Their  Father,  took  of  them  no  thought, 
He  loved  the  Wars  so  well. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh ! mournfully. 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie ! 

Seven  little  Islands,  green  and  bare. 
Have  risen  from  out  the  deep: 

The  Fishers  say,  those  Sisters  fair. 
By  Faeries  all  are  buried  there. 

And  there  together  sleep. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  I mournfully, 

Fresh  blows  the  wind,  a w’estern  wind. 
And  from  the  shores  of  Erin, 

Across  the  wave,  a Rover  bravo 
To  Binnorie  is  steering ; 

Right  onward  to  the  Scottish  strand 
The  gallant  ship  is  borne; 

The  Warriors  leap  upon  the  land, 

And  hark!  the  Leader  of  the  Band 
Hath  blown  his  bugle  horn. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  ! mournfully, 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie. 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie. 

THE  DANISH  BOY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

Thesk  Slan-zas  were  designed  to  introduce  a Ballad  U[«)n  the 
Story  of  a Danish  Prince  who  had  fled  from  Battle,  and  fiir  the 
sake  of  the  valuables  about  him,  was  murdered  by  the  Inhabit- 
ant of  a Cottage  in  which  he  had  taken  refuge.  The  House 
fell  under  a curse,  and  tlie  Spirit  of  the  Youth,  it  was  believed, 
haunted  the  Valley  where  the  crime  had  been  committe<i. 

Beside  a Grotto  of  their  own. 

With  boughs  above  them  closing. 

The  Seven  are  laid,  and  in  the  shade 
They  lie  like  Fawns  reposing. 

But  now,  upstarting  with  aflright 
At  noise  of  man  and  steed. 

Away  they  fly  to  left,  to  right  — 

Of  your  fair  household.  Father  Knight, 
Methinks  you  take  small  heed  ! 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh ! mournfully. 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie. 

Between  tw'o  sister  moorland  rills 
There  is  a spot  that  seems  to  lie 
Sacred  to  flowerets  of  the  hills. 
And  sacred  to  the  sky. 

And  in  this  smooth  and  ojK?n  dell 
There  is  a tempest-stricken  tree; 

A corner-stone  by  lightning  cut. 
The  last  stone  of  a cottage  hut; 
And  in  this  dell  you  see 
A thing  no  storm  can  e'er  destroy. 
The  Shadow  of  a Danish  Boy. 

Away  the  seven  fair  Campbells  fly. 

And,  over  Hill  and  Hollow, 

W''ith  menace  proud,  and  insult  lo'ud. 

The  youthful  Rovers  follow'. 

Cried  they,  “ Your  Father  loves  to  roam : 
Enough  for  him  to  find 
The  empty  House  when  he  comes  home; 
For  us  your  yellow  ringlets  comb, 

For  us  be  fair  and  kind !” 

Sing,  mournfully,  on ! mournfulh’. 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie. 

In  clouds  above,  the  I.ark  is  heard, 

But  drops  not  here  to  earth  for  rest ; 
Within  this  lonesome  nook  the  Bird 
Did  never  build  her  nest. 

No  Beast,  no  Bird  hath  here  his  home. 
Bees,  wafted  on  the  breezy  air. 

Pass  high  above  tliose  fragrant  bells 
To  other  flowers ; — to  other  dells 
Their  burthens  do  they  bear  ; 

The  Danish  Boy  walks  here  alone: 

The  lovely  dell  is  all  his  own. 

Some  close  behind,  some  side  by  side. 
Like  clouds  in  stormy  weather; 

They  run,  and  cry,  “Nay,  let  us  die. 
And  let  us  die  together.” 

A Lake  was  near ; the  shore  was  steep ; 
There  never  foot  had  been; 

They  ran,  and  with  a desperate  leap 
Together  plunged  into  the  deep. 

Nor  ever  more  were  seen. 

Sing,  mournfully,  oh  ! mournfullj'. 

The  Solitude  of  Binnorie. 

A Spirit  of  noon-day  is  he  ; 

He  seems  a form  of  flesh  and  blood ; 
Nor  piping  Shepherd  shall  he  be. 
Nor  Herd-boy  of  the  wood. 

A regal  vest  of  fur  he  wears, 

In  colour  like  a raven’s  wing; 

It  fears  not  rain,  nor  wind,  nor  dew  ; 
But  in  the  storm  ’tis  fresh  and  blue 
As  budding  pines  in  Spring ; 

His  helmet  has  a vernal  grace, 

Fresh  as  the  bloom  upon  his  face. 

The  Stream  that  flows  out  of  the  Lake, 
As  through  the  glen  it  rambles. 

Repeats  a moan  o’er  moss  and  stone. 
For  those  seven  lovely  Campbells. 

A harp  is  from  his  shoulder  slung; 
He  rests  the  harp  upon  his  knee; 
And  there,  in  a forgotten  tongue, 
He  warbles  melody. 

148 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  flocks  upon  the  neighbouring  liill 
He  is  the  darling  and  the  joy; 

And  often,  when  no  cause  appears, 

The  mountain  ponies  prick  their  ears, 

— Tliey  hear  the  Danish  Boy, 

While  in  the  dell  he  sings  alone 
Beside  the  tree  and  corner-stone. 

There  sits  he:  in  his  face  you  spy 
No  trace  of  a ferocious  air. 

Nor  ever  was  a cloudless  sky 
So  steady  or  so  fair. 

The  lovely  Danish  Boy  is  blest 
And  happy  in  his  flowery  cove; 

From  bloody  deeds  his  thoughts  are  far; 
And  yet  he  warbles  songs  of  war. 

That  seem  like  songs  of  love. 

For  calm  and  gentle  is  his  mien ; 

Like  a dead  Boy  he  is  serene. 


TO  A LADY, 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A REQUEST  THAT  1 WOULD  WRITE  HER  A POEM 
UPON  SOME  DRAWINGS  THAT  SHE  HAD  MADE  OF  FLOWERS 
IN  THE  ISLAND  OF  MADEIRA. 

Fair  Lady ! can  I sing  of  flowers 
That  in  Madeira  bloom  and  fade, 

I who  ne’er  sate  within  their  bowers. 

Nor  through  their  sunny  lawns  have  strayed! 
How  they  in  sprightly  dance  are  worn 
By  Shepherd-groom  or  May-day  queen, 

Or  holy  festal  pomps  adorn. 

These  eyes  have  never  seen. 

Yet  tho’  to  me  the  pencil’s  ark 
No  like  remembrances  can  give. 

Your  portraits  still  may  reach  the  heart 
And  there  for  gentle  pleasure  live ; 

While  Fancy  ranging  with  free  scope 
Shall  on  some  lovely  Alien  set 
A name  with  us  endeared  to  hope. 

To  peace,  or  fond  regret. 

Still  as,we  look  with  nicer  care. 

Some  new  resemblance  we  may  trace: 

A Ileart's-ease  will  perhaps  be  there, 

A Speedwell  may  not  want  its  place. 

And  so  may  we,  with  charmed  mind 
Beholding  what  your  skill  has  wrought, 

Another  Star-of-Belhlehem  find, 

A new  Forget-me-not. 

From  earth  to  heaven  with  motion  fleet 

From  heaven  to  earth  our  thoughts  will  pass, 

A Holy-thistle  here  we  meet 
And  there  a Shepherd's  weather-glass ; 


And  haply  some  familiar  name 

Shall  grace  the  fairest,  sweetest,  plant 
Whose  presence  cheers  the  drooping  frame 
Of  English  Emigrant. 

Gazing  she  feels  its  power  beguile 

Sad  thoughts,  and  breathes  with  easier  breath; 
Alas!  that  meek,  that  tender  smile 
Is  but  a harbinger  of  death  : 

And  pointing  with  a feeble  hand 

She  says,  in  faint  words  by  sighs  broken, 

Bear  tor  me  to  my  native  land 

This  precious  flower,  true  love’s  last  token. 


Glad  sight  wherever  new  with  old 
Is  joined  through  some  dear  homeborn  tie ; 

The  life  of  all  that  we  behold 
Depends  upon  that  mystery. 

Vain  is  the  glory  of  the  sky. 

The  beauty  vain  of  field  and  grove 
Unless,  while  with  admiring  eye 
We  gaze,  we  also  learn  to  love. 

THE  PILGRIM’S  DREAM; 

OR,  THE  STAR  AND  THE  GLOW-WORM. 

A Pilgrim,  when  the  summer  day 
Had  closed  upon  his  weary  way, 

A lodging  begged  beneath  a castle’s  roof; 

But  him  the  haughty  Warder  spurned; 

And  from  the  gate  the  Pilgrim  turned. 

To  seek  such  covert  as  the  field 
Or  heath-besprinkled  copse  might  yield. 

Or  lofty  wood,  shower-proof. 

He  paced  along;  and,  pensively. 

Halting  beneath  a shady  tree. 

Whose  moss-grown  root  might  serve  for  coucli  or  seat. 
Fixed  on  a Star  his  upward  eye; 

Then,  from  the  tenant  of  the  sky 
He  turned,  and  watched  with  kindred  look, 

A Glow-worm  in  a dusky  nook. 

Apparent  at  his  feet. 

The  murmur  of  a neighbouring  stream 
Induced  a soft  and  slumbrous  dream, 

A pregnant  dream,  within  whose  shadowy  bounds 
He  recognised  the  earth-born  Star, 

And  That  which  glittered  from  afar; 

And  (strange  to  witness !)  from  the  frame 
Of  the  ethereal  Orb,  there  came 
Intelligible  sonnds. 

Much  did  it  taunt  the  humble  Light 
j That  now,  when  day  was  fled,  and  night 
1 Hushed  the  dark  earth  — fast  closing  weary  eyes. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


149 


A very  Reptile  could  presume 
To  show  her  taper  in  the  gloom, 

As  if  in  rivalship  with  One 
Who  sate  a Ruler  on  his  throne 
Erected  in  the  skies. 

“ Exalted  Star  !”  the  Worm  replied, 

“Abate  this  unbecoming  pride, 

Or  with  a less  uneasy  lustre  shine ; 

Thou  shrink’st  as  momently  thy  rays 
Are  mastered  by  the  breathing  haze; 

While  neither  mist,  nor  thickest  cloud 
That  shapes  in  Heaven  its  murky  shroud, 

Hath  power  to  injure  mine. 

But  not  for  this  do  I aspire 
To  match  the  spark  of  local  fire. 

That  at  my  will  burns  on  the  dewy  lawn. 

With  thy  acknowledged  glories; — No! 

Yet,  thus  upbraided,  I may  show 
What  favours  do  attend  me  here, 

Till,  like  thyself,  I disappear 
Before  the  purple  dawn.” 

VVhhen  this  in  modest  guise  was  said. 

Across  the  welkin  seemed  to  spread 
A boding  sound  — for  aught  but  sleep  unfit! 

Hills  quaked  — the  rivers  backward  ran  — 

That  Star,  so  proud  of  late,  looked  wan ; 

And  reeled  with  visionary  stir 
In  the  blue  depth,  like  Lucifer 
Cast  headlong  to  the  pit ! 

Fire  raged,  — and,  when  the  spangled  floor 
Of  ancient  ether  was  no  more, 

New  heavens  succeeded,  by  the  dream  brought  forth 
And  all  the  happy  Souls  that  rode 
Transfigured  through  that  fresh  abode, 

Had  heretofore,  in  humble  trust. 

Shone  meekly  ’mid  their  native  dust. 

The  Glow-worms  of  the  earth  ! 

This  knowledge,  from  an  Angel’s  voice 
Proceeding,  made  the  heart  rejoice 
Of  Him  who  slept  upon  the  open  lea: 

Waking  at  morn  he  murmured  not ; 

And,  till  life’s  journey  closed,  the  spot 
Was  to  the  Pilgrim’s  soul  endeared. 

Where  by  that  dream  he  had  been  cheered 
Beneath  the  shady  tree. 


HINT  FROM  THE  MOUNTAINS 

FOR  CERTAI.N  POLITICAI.  PRETE.XDERS. 

“Who  but  hails  the  sight  with  pleasure 
When  the  wings  of  genius  rise. 

Their  ability  to  measure 
With  great  enterprise; 


But  in  man  was  ne’er  such  daring 
As  yon  Hawk  exhibits,  pairing 
His  brave  spirit  with  the  war  in 
The  stormy  skies ! 

Mark  him,  how  his  power  he  uses, 
Lays  it  by,  at  will  resumes! 

Mark,  ere  for  his  haunt  he  chooses 
Clouds  and  utter  glooms  ! 

There,  he  wheels  in  downward  mazes ; 
Sunward  now  his  flight  he  raises. 
Catches  fire,  as  seems,  and  blazes 
With  uninjured  plumes!” — 

ANSWER. 

“ Stranger,  ’t  is  no  act  of  courage 
Which  aloft  thou  dost  discern ; 

No  bold  bird  gone  forth  to  forage 
Mid  the  tempest  stern ; 

But  such  mockery  as  the  Nations 
See,  when  public  perturbations 
Lift  men  from  their  native  stations. 

Like  yon  Tuft  of  Fern; 

Such  it  is ; — the  aspiring  Creature 
Soaring  on  undaunted  wing, 

(So  you  fancied)  is  by  nature 
A dull  helpless  Thing, 

Dry  and  withered,  light  and  yellow; — 
That  to  be  the  tempest’s  fellow ! 

Wait  — and  you  shall  see  how  hollow 
Its  endeavouring!” 


STRAY  PLEASURES. 


“ Pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find.” 


By  their  floating  Mill, 

That  lies  dead  and  still. 

Behold  yon  Prisoners  three. 

The  Miller  with  two  Dames,  on  the  breast  of  the 
Thames ! 

The  platform  is  small,  but  gives  room  for  them  all ; 
And  they’re  dancing  merrily. 

From  the  shore  come  the  notes 
To  their  Mill  where  it  floats. 

To  their  House  and  their  Mill  tethered  fa.st ; 

To  the  small  wooden  Isle  where,  their  work  to  beguile. 
They  from  morning  to  even  take  whatever  is  given  ; — 
.\nd  many  a blithe  day  they  have  past. 

In  sight  of  the  Spires, 

All  alive  with  the  fires 
Of  the  Sun  going  down  to  his  rest, 
i:i* 


150 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


la  the  broad  open  eye  of  the  solitary  sky, 

They  dance,  — there  are  three,  as  jocund  as  free 
Wliile  they  dance  on  the  calm  river’s  breast, 

]\Ian  and  Maidens  wheel. 

They  themselves  make  the  Reel, 

And  their  Music’s  a prey  wliich  they  seize; 

It  plays  not  for  them, — wliat  matter?  ’tis  theirs; 

And  if  they  had  care,  it  has  scattered  their  cares. 
While  they  dance,  crying,  “ Long  as  ye  please !” 

Tliey  dance  not  for  me. 

Yet  mine  is  their  glee  ! 

Thus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find  ; 
Thus  a rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind. 

Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth. 

The  Showers  of  the  Spring 
Rouse  the  Birds,  and  they  sing  ; 

If  the  Wind  do  but  stir  for  his  proper  delight, 

Each  Leaf,  that  and  this,  his  neighbour  will  kiss; 

Each  Wave,  one  and  t’  other,  speeds  after  his  brother ; 
They  are  happy,  for  that  is  their  right ! 


ON  SEEING  A 

NEEDLECASE  IN  THE  FORM  OF  A HARP. 

THE  WORK  OF  E.  M.  S. 

Fnowns  are  on  every  Muse’s  face, 

Reproaches  from  their  lips  are  sent. 

That  mimicry  should  thus  disgrace 
The  noble  Instrument. 

A very  Harp  in  all  but  size ! 

Pleedles  for  strings  in  apt  gradation ! 

Minerva’s  self  would  stigmatize 
The  unclassic  profanation. 

Even  her  own  Needle  that  subdued 
Arachne’s  rival  spirit. 

Though  wrought  in  Vulcan’s  happiest  mood. 
Like  station  could  not  merit. 

And  this,  too,  from  the  Laureate’s  child, 

A living  Lord  of  melody ! 

How  will  her  Sire  be  reconciled 
To  the  refined  indignity? 

I spake,  when  whispered  a low  voice, 

“Bard!  moderate  your  ire; 

“ Spirits  of  all  degrees  rejoice 
“ In  presence  of  the  Lyre. 

“The  Minstrels  of  Pygmean  bands, 

“ Dwarf  Genii,  moonlight-loving  Fays, 

“ Have  shells  to  fit  their  tiny  hands 
“ And  suit  their  slender  lays. 


Some,  still  more  delicate  of  ear, 

“Have  lutes  (believe  my  words) 

“ Whose  framework  is  of  gossamer, 

“ While  sunbeams  are  the  chords. 

“Gay  Sylphs  this  Miniature  will  court, 
“Made  vocal  by  their  brushing  wings, 

“And  sullen  Gnomes  will  learn  to  sport 
“ Around  its  polished  strings : 

“ Whence  strains  to  love-sick  Maiden  dear, 

“ While  in  her  lonely  bower  she  tries 

“To  cheat  the  thought  she  cannot  cheer, 

“ By  fanciful  embroideries. 

“Trust,  angry  Bard!  a knowing  Sprite, 

“Nor  think  the  Harp  her  lot  deplores; 

“Though  ’mid  the  stars  the  Lyie  shine  bright, 
“ Love  stoops  as  fondly  as  he  soars.” 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CAGED  TURTLEDOVF* 

As  often  as  I murmur  here 
My  half-formed  melodies. 

Straight  from  her  osier  mansion  near, 

The  Turtledove  replies: 

Though  silent  as  a leaf  before. 

The  captive  promptly  coos; 

Is  it  to  teach  her  own  soft  lore. 

Or  second  my  weak  Muse? 

I rather  think,  the  gentle  Dove 
Is  murmuring  a reproof. 

Displeased  that  I from  lays  of  love 
Have  dared  to  keep  aloof. 

That  I,  a bard  of  hill  and  dale. 

Have  caroll’d,  fancy  free. 

As  if  nor  dove,  nor  nightingale. 

Had  heart  or  voice  for  me. 

If  such  thy  meaning,  O forbear. 

Sweet  Bird  ! to  do  me  wrong ; 

Love,  blessed  Love,  is  everywhere 
The  spirit  of  my  song: 

’Mid  grove,  and  by  the  calm  fireside. 

Love  animates  my  lyre; 

That  coo  again  ! — ’t  is  not  to  chide, 

I feel,  but  to  inspire. 

A WREN’S  NEST. 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds 
In  field  or  forest  with  nice  care. 

Is  none  that  with  the  little  Wren’s 
In  snugness  may  compare. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


151 


No  door  the  tenement  requires, 

And  seldom  needs  a laboured  roof'; 

Yet  is  it  to  the  fiercest  sun 
Impervious  and  storm-proof. 

So  warm,  so  beautiful  witlial. 

In  perfect  fitness  for  its  aim. 

That  to  the  Kind  by  special  gra^e 
Their  instinct  surely  came. 

And  when  for  their  abodes  they  seek 
An  opportune  recess, 

Tlie  Hermit  has  no  finer  eye 
For  sliadowy  quietness. 

These  find,  ’mid  ivied  Abbey  walls, 

A canopy  in  some  still  nook ; 

Others  are  pent-housed  by  a brae 
That  overhangs  a brook. 

There  to  the  brooding  Bird  her  Mate 
Warbles  by  fits  his  low  clear  song ; 

And  by  the  busy  Streamlet  both 
Are  sung  to  all  day  long. 

Or  in  sequestered  lanes  they  build. 

Where,  till  the  flitting  Bird’s  return. 

Her  eggs  within  the  nest  repose. 

Like  relics  in  an  urn. 

But  still,  where  general  choice  is  good, 
There  is  a better  and  a best; 

And,  among  fairest  objects,  some 
Are  fairer  than  the  rest; 

Tliis,  one  of  those  small  builders  prove 
In  a green  covert,  where,  from  out 
The  forehead  of  a pollard  oalc. 

The  leafy  antlers  sprout; 

For  She  who  planned  the  mossy  Lodge, 
Mistrusting  her  evasive  skill, 

Had  to  a Primrose  looked  for  aid 
Her  wishes  to  fulfil. 

High  on  the  trunk’s  projecting  brow, 

And  fixed  an  infant's  span  above 
The  budding  flowers,  peeped  forth  the  nest 
The  prettiest  of  the  grove! 

The  treasure  proudly  did  I show 

To  some  whose  minds  without  disdain 
Can  turn  to  little  things,  but  once 
Looked  up  for  it  in  vain: 

'T  is  gone  — a ruthless  Spoiler’s  prey. 

Who  heeds  not  beauty,  love,  or  song, 

'T  is  gone ! (so  seemed  it)  and  we  grieved 
Indignant  at  the  wrong. 


Just  three  days  after,  passing  by 
In  clearer  light  the  moss-built  cell 

I saw,  espied  its  shaded  mouth. 

And  felt  that  all  was  well. 

The  Primrose  for  a veil  had  spread 
The  largest  of  her  upright  leaves; 

And  thus,  for  purposes  benign, 

A simple  Flower  deceives. 

Concealed  from  friends  who  might  disturb 
Thy  quiet  with  no  ill  intent. 

Secure  from  evil  eyes  and  hands 
On  barbarous  plunder  bent, 

Rest,  mother  bird  ! and  when  thy  young 
Take  flight,  and  thou  art  free  to  roam. 

When  withered  is  the  guardian  flower, 
And  empty  thy  late  home. 

Think  how  ye  prospered,  thou  and  thine. 
Amid  the  unviolated  grove 

Housed  near  the  growing  primrose  tuft. 

In  foresight  or  in  love. 


LOVE  LIES  BLEEDING. 

You  call  it,  “Love  lies  bleeding,”  — so  you  may. 
Though  the  red  flower,  not  prostrate,  only  droops. 

As  we  have  seen  it  here  from  day  to  day. 

From  month  to  month,  life  passing  not  away: 

A flower  how  rich  in  sadness!  Even  thus  stoops, 
(Sentient  by  Grecian  sculpture’s  marvellous  power) 
Thus  leans,  with  hanging  brow  and  body  bent 
Earthward  in  uncomplaining  languishment. 

The  dying  Gladiator.  So,  sad  flower! 

(’T  is  Fancy  guides  me  willing  to  be  led, 

Though  by  a slender  thread,) 

So  drooped  Adonis  bathed  in  sanguine  dew 
^ Of  his  death-wound,  when  he  from  innocent  air 
I The  gentlest  breath  of  resignation  drew; 

While  Venus  in  a passion  of  despair 
I Rent,  weeping  over  him,  her  golden  hair 
I Spangled  with  drops  of  that  celestial  shower. 

I She  suffered,  as  immortals  sometimes  do; 

* But  pangs  more  lasting  far,  that  Lover  knew 
I Who  first,  weighed  down  by  scorn,  in  some  lone 
I bower 

Did  press  this  semblance  of  unpitied  smart 
Into  the  service  of  his  constant  heart. 

His  own  dejection,  downcast  flower!  could  share 
With  thine,  and  gave  the  mournful  name  which  thou 
wilt  ever  bear. 


152 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


COMPANION  TO  THE  FOREGOING. 

NEvnu  enlivenefl  with  the  liveliest  ray 
Tliat  fosters  growth  or  checks  or  cheers  decay, 

Nor  by  the  heaviest  rain-drops  more  deprest, 

Tiiis  flower,  that  first  appeared  as  summer’s  guest. 
Preserves  her  beauty  mid  autumnal  leaves 
And  to  her  mournful  habits  fondly  cleaves. 

When  files  of  stateliest  plants  have  ceased  to  bloom. 
One  after  one  submitting  to  their  doom. 

When  her  coevals  each  and  all  are  fled, 

W’hat  keeps  her  thus  reclined  upon  her  lonesome  bed? 

The  old  inythologists,  more  impress’d  than  we 
Of  this  late  day  by  character  in  tree 
Or  herb,  that  claimed  peculiar  sympathy. 

Or  by  the  silent  lapse  of  fountain  clear, 

Or  with  the  language  of  the  viewless  air 
By  bird  or  beast  made  vocal,  sought  a cause 
To  solve  the  mystery,  not  in  nature’s  law's 
But  in  man’s  fortunes.  Hence  a thousand  tales 
Sung  to  the  plaintive  lyre  in  Grecian  vales. 

Nor  doubt  that  something  of  their  spirit  swayed 
The  fancy-stricken  youth  or  heart-sick  maid, 

Who,  while  each  stood  companionless  and  eyed 
This  undeparting  flower  in  crimson  dyed. 

Thought  of  a wound  which  death  is  slow  to  cure, 

A fate  that  has  endured  and  will  endure. 

And,  patience  coveting  yet  passion  feeding 
Called  the  dejected  Lingerer,  Love  lies  bleeding. 


RURAL  ILLUSIONS. 

Sylph  was  iff  or  a bird  more  bright 
Than  those  of  fabulous  stock  1 
A second  darted  by ; — and  lo ! 

Another  of  the  flock. 

Through  sunshine  flitting  from  the  bough 
To  nestle  in  the  rock. 

Transient  deception  ! a gay  freak 
Of  April’s  mimicries ! 

Those  brilliant  strangers,  hailed  with  joy 
Among  the  budding  trees. 

Proved  last  year’s  leaves,  pushed  from  the  spray 
To  frolic  on  the  breeze. 

Maternal  Flora  ! show  thy  face. 

And  let  thy  hand  be  seen. 

Thy  hand  here  sprinkling  tiny  flowers. 

That,  as  they  touch  the  green. 

Take  root  (so  seems  it)  and  look  up 
In  honour  of  their  queen. 

Yet,  sooth,  those  little  starry  specks 
That  not  in  vain  aspired 
To  be  confounded  with  live  growths. 

Most  dainty,  most  admired, 

W’ere  only  blossoms  drop])od  from  twigs 
Of  their  own  offspring  tired. 


Not  such  the  world’s  illusive  shows; 

Her  wingless  flutterings, 

Her  blossoms  which,  though  shed,  outbrave 
The  floweret  as  it  springs, 

For  the  undeceived,  smile  as  they  may. 

Are  melancholy  things: 

But  gentle  nature  plays  her  part 
With  evej-varying  wiles. 

And  transient  feignings  with  plain  truth 
So  well  she  reconciles. 

That  those  fond  idlers  most  are  pleased 
Whom  oftenest  she  beguiles. 

ADDRESS  TO  MY  INFANT  DAUGHTER,  DOR.A, 

ON  BEING  REMINDED  THAT  SHE  WAS  A MONTH  OLD  ON  THAT  DAV 
(SEPTEMBER  16tH  ) 

Hast  thon  then  survived  — 

Mild  offspring  of  infirm  humanity. 

Meek  infant ! among  all  forlornest  things 
I The  most  forlorn  — one  life  of  that  bright  star, 

I The  second  glory  of  the  Heavens? — Thou  hast; 
Already  hast  survived  that  great  decay. 

That  transformation  through  the  wide  earth  felt. 

And  by  all  nations.  In  that  Being’s  sight 
From  whom  the  Race  of  human  kind  proceed, 

A thousand  years  are  but  as  yesterday ; 

And  one  day’s  narrow  circuit  is  to  Him 
Not  less  capacious  than  a thousand  years. 

But  what  is  time  ? What  outward  glory  ? neither 
A measure  is  of  Thee,  whose  claims  extend 
Through  “Heaven’s  eternal  year.” — Yet  hail  to  Thee, 
Frail,  feeble,  monthling!  — by  that  name,  metlnnks, 
Thy  scanty  breathing-time  is  portioned  out 
Not  idly. — H«dst  thou  been  of  Indian  birth. 

Couched  on  a casual  bed  of  moss  and  leaves. 

And  rudely  canopieil  by  leafy  boughs. 

Or  to  the  churlish  elements  exposed 

On  the  blank  plains,  — the  coldness  of  the  night, 

Or  the  night’s  darkness,  or  its  cheerful  Lee 
Of  beauty,  by  the  changing  moon  adorned. 

Would,  with  imperious  admonition,  then 
Have  scored  thine  age,  and  punctually  timed 
Thine  infant  history,  on  the  minds  of  those 
Who  might  have  wandered  with  thee. — Mother’s  love, 
Nor  le.ss  than  mother's  love  in  other  breasts. 

Will,  among  us  warm-clad  and  warmly  housed. 

Do  for  thee  what  the  finger  of  the  heavens 
Doth  all  too  often  harshly  execute 
For  thy  unblest  coevals,  amid  wilds 
Where  flincy  hath  small  liberty  to  grace 
The  afTections,  to  exalt  them  or  refine ; 

And  the  maternal  sympathy  itself. 

Though  strong,  is,  in  the  main,  a joyless  tie 
Of  naked  instinct,  wound  about  the  heart. 

Happier,  far  happier  is  thy  lot  and  ours ! 

Even  now  — to  solemnise  thy  helpless  state, 

And  to  enliven  in  the  mind’s  regard 
Thy  passive  beauty  — parallels  have  risen. 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


153 


Resemblances,  or  contrasts,  that  connect. 

Within  the  region  of  a father's  thoughts. 

Thee  and  thy  mate  and  sister  of  tlie  sky. 

And  first;  — thy  sinless  progress,  through  a world 
By  sorrow  darkened  and  by  care  disturbed. 

Apt  likeness  bears  to  hers,  through  gatliered  clouds. 
Moving  untouched  in  silver  purity. 

And  cheering  ofttimes  tlieir  reluctant  gloom. 

Fair  are  ye  both,  and  botii  are  free  from  stain: 

But  thou,  how  leisurely  thou  fill’st  thy  horn 
With  brightness  ! leaving  her  to  post  along. 

And  range  about,  disquieted  in  change. 

And  still  impatient  of  the  shape  she  wears. 

Once  up,  once  down  the  hill,  one  journey,  babe 
That  will  suffice  thee;  and  it  seems  that  now 
Thou  hast  fore-knowledge  that  such  task  is  thine ; 
Thou  travellest  so  contentedly,  and  sleep’st 
In  such  a heedless  peace.  Alas!  full  soon 
Hath  this  conception,  grateful  to  behold. 

Changed  countenance,  like  an  object  sullied  o’er 
By  breathing  mist;  and  thine  appears  to  be 
A mournful  labour,  while  to  her  is  given 
Mope  and  a renovation  without  end. 

— That  smile  forbids  the  thought ; for  on  thy  face 
Smiles  are  beginning,  like  the  beams  of  dawn. 

To  shoot  and  circulate ; smiles  have  there  been  seen ; 
Tranquil  assurances  that  Heaven  supports 
The  feeble  motions  of  thy  life,  and  cheers 
Thy  loneliness : or  shall  those  smiles  be  called 
Feelers  of  love,  put  forth  as  if  to  explore 
This  untried  world,  and  to  prepare  thy  way 
Through  a strait  passage  intricate  and  dim  1 
Such  are  they ; and  the  same  are  tokens,  signs. 
Which,  when  the  appointed  season  hath  arrived, 

Joy,  as  her  holiest  language,  shall  adopt ; 

And  reason’s  godlike  power  be  proud  to  own. 


THE  WAGGONER.* 

In  Cairo’s  crowded  streets 
The  impatient  Merchant  wondering  waits  in  vain, 

And  Mecca  saddens  at  the  long  delay.  Tuomso.n. 


TO  CHARLES  LAMB,  Esq. 

My  dear  Friend, 

When  I sent  you,  a few  weeks  ago,  the  Tale  of 
Peter  Bell,  you  asked  *•  why  The  W.agconer  was  not 


* Several  years  after  the  event  that  forms  the  subject  of 
the  poem,  in  company  with  my  friend,  the  late  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge, I happened  to  fall  in  with  the  person  to  whom  tho 
name  of  Benjamin  is  given.  Upon  our  e.xpressing  regret 
that  we  had  not,  for  a long  time,  seen  upon  the  road  either 
him  or  his  waggon,  he  said:  — “They  could  not  do 
without  me ; and  as  to  the  man  who  was  put  in  my  place, 
no  good  could  come  out  of  him  ; he  was  a man  of  no 
ideas.” 


added  1”  — To  say  the  truth,  — from  the  higher  tone  of 
imagination,  and  the  deeper  touches  of  passion  aimed 
at  in  the  former,  I apprehend,  this  little  Piece  could 
not  accompany  it  without  disadvantage.  In  the  year 


The  fact  of  my  discarded  hero’s  getting  the  horses  out 
of  a great  difficulty  with  a word,  as  related  in  the  poem, 
was  told  me  by  an  eye-witness. 

[“Due  honour  is  done  to  Peter  Bell,  at  this  time,  by 
students  of  poetry  in  general ; but  some,  even  of  I\Ir. 
Wordsworth’s  greatest  admirers,  do  not  quite  satisfy  me 
m their  admiration  of  The  Waggoner,  a poem  which  my 
dear  uncle,  Mr.  Southey,  preferred  even  to  the  former. 
Ich  will  meine  Denkungsa rt  hierin  viemanden  aufdrhigcn, 
as  Lessing  says;  I will  force  my  way  of  thinking  on  no- 
body, but  take  the  liberty,  for  my  own  gratification,  to 
express  it.  The  sketches  of  hill  and  valley  in  this  poem 
have  a lightness  and  spirit,  — an  allegro  touch, — distin- 
guishing them  from  the  grave  and  elevated  splendour  which 
characterizes  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  representations  of  nature 
in  general,  and  from  the  pensive  tenderness  of  those  in 
The  White  Doe,  while  it  harmonizes  well  with  the  human 
interest  of  the  piece  ; indeed,  it  is  the  harmonious  sweet- 
ness of  the  composition  which  is  most  dwelt  upon  by  its 
special  admirers.  In  its  course  it  describes,  with  bold 
brief  touches,  the  striking  mountain  tract  from  Grasmere 
to  Keswick;  it  commences  with  an  evening  storm  among 
the  mountains,  presents  a lively  interior  of  a country  inn 
during  midnight,  and  concludes  after  bringing  us  in  sight 
of  St.  John’s  Vale  and  the  Vale  of  Keswick  seen  by  day 
break.  — ‘Skiddaw  touched  with  rosy  light,’  and  the  proa 
peel  from  Nathdale  Fell,  ‘ hoar  with  the  frost-like  dews  ol 
dawn:’  thus  giving  a beautiful  and  well  contrasteo 
panorama,  produced  by  the  most  delicate  and  masterly 
strokes  of  the  pencil.  Well  may  Mr.  Ruskin,  a fine 
observer  and  eloquent  describer  of  various  classes  of 
natural  appearances,  speak  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  as  the 
great  poetic  landscape  painter  of  the  age.  But  Mr.  B uskin 
has  found  how  seldom  the  great  landscape  painters  are 
powerful  in  expressing  human  passions  and  afi'ections  on 
canvass,  or  even  successful  in  the  introduction  of  human 
figures  into  their  foregrounds  ; whereas  in  the  poetic  paint- 
ings of  Mr.  Wordsworth,  the  landscape  is  always  subordi- 
nate to  a higher  interest ; certainly,  in  ’Lire  Waggoner,  tho 
little  sketch  of  human  nature  which  occupies,  as  it  were, 
the  front  of  that  encircling  background,  the  picture  of 
Benjamin  and  his  temptations,  his  humble  friends  and  the 
mute  companions  of  his  way,  has  a character  of  its  own, 
combining  with  sportiveness,  a homely  pathos,  which  must 
ever  be  delightful  to  some  of  those  who  are  thoroughly 
conversant  with  the  spirit  of  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  poetry. 
It  may  be  compared  with  tho  ale-house  scene  in  Tam 
O’Shanter,  parts  of  Voss’s  Luise,  or  Ovid’s  Baucis  and 
Philemon  ; though  it  differs  from  each  of  them  as  much  as 
they  differ  from  each  other.  The  Epilogue  carries  on  tho 
feeling  of  the  piece  very  beautifully.’’ — S.  C. 

This  fine  criticism  — worthy  of  the  Sire  — is  from  the 
pen  of  the  daughter  of  Coleridge,  the  widow  of  Henry 
Nelson  Coleridge;  it  is  part  of  a note  in  Coleridge’s 
” Biographia  Literaria.’  Edition  of  1847.  Vol.  II.  p.  183. 

See  also  a letter  from  Coleridge  to  Southey,  April  13, 
1801,  in  which  an  account  is  given  of  the  “master’’  in 
this  poem.  His  name  was  Jaekson.  Southey’s  Life  and 
Correspondence,  Vol.  II.  p.  148,  Chap,  viii.,  where  in  a 
note  it  is  added  that  the  circumstances  of  the  poem  aro 
accurately  correct. — II.  R.j 


U 


154 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


1806,  il  I am  not  mistaken,  The  Waggoner  was  read 
to  you  in  manuscript;  and,  as  you  have  remembered  it 
for  so  long  a time,  I am  the  more  encouraged  to  hope, 
that,  since  the  localities  on  which  it  partly  depends  did 
not  prevent  its  being  interesting  to  you,  it  may  prove 
acceptable  to  others.  Being  therefore  in  some  measure 
the  cause  of  its  present  appearance,  you  must  allow  me 
the  gratification  of  inscribing  it  to  you : in  acknowledg- 
ment of  the  pleasure  I have  derived  from  your  Writings, 
and  of  the  high  esteem  with  which  I am 

Very  truly  yours, 
William  Wordsworth. 

Kydal  Mount,  May  20,  1819. 


CANTO  FIRST. 

Tis  spent  — this  burning  day  of  June! 

Soft  darkness  o’er  its  latest  gleams  is  stealing ; 
The  dor-hawk,  solitary  bird. 

Round  the  dim  crags  on  heavy  pinions  wheeling. 
Buzzes  incessantly,  a tiresome  tune; 

That  constant  voice  is  all  that  can  be  heard 
In  silence  deeper  far  than  that  of  deepest  noon ! 

Confiding  Glow-worms!  ’tis  a night 
Propitious  to  your  earth-born  light; 

But  where  the  scattered  stars  are  seen 
In  hazy  straits  the  clouds  between. 

Each,  in  his  station  twinkling  not 
Seems  changed  into  a pallid  spot. 

The  air,  as  in  a lion’s  den. 

Is  close  and  hot ; — and  now  and  then 
Comes  a tired  and  sultry  breeze 
With  a haunting  and  a panting. 

Like  the  stifling  of  disease; 

The  mountains  rise  to  wondrous  height, 

And  in  the  heavens  there  hangs  a weight ; 
But  the  dews  allay  the  heat. 

And  the  silence  makes  it  sweet. 

Hush,  there  is  some  one  on  the  stir! 

’T  is  Benjamin  the  Waggoner ; 

Who  long  hath  trod  this  toilsome  way. 
Companion  of  the  night  and  day. 

That  far-off  tinkling’s  drowsy  cheer, 

Mixed  with  a faint  yet  grating  sound 
In  a moment  lost  and  found. 

The  Wain  announces  — by  whose  side. 

Along  the  banks  of  Rydal  Mere, 

He  paces  on,  a trusty  Guide,  — 

Listen  ! you  can  scarcely  hear ! 

Hither  he  his  course  is  bending;  — 

Now  he  leaves  the  lower  ground. 

And  up  the  craggy  hill  ascending 
Many  a stop  and  stay  he  makes. 

Many  a breathing-fit  he  takes;  — 

Steep  the  way  and  wearisome. 

Vet  all  the  while  his  whip  is  dumb ! 


The  Horses  have  worked  with  right  good-will, 
And  now  have  gained  the  top  of  the  hill. 

He  was  patient  — they  were  strong  — 

And  now  they  smoothly  glide  along. 

Gathering  breath,  and  pleased  to  win 
The  praises  of  mild  Benjamin. 

Heaven  shield  him  from  mishap  and  snare ! 
But  why  so  early  with  this  prayer  1 — 

Is  it  for  threatenings  in  the  sky  1 — 

Or  for  some  other  danger  nigh  1 
No,  none  is  near  him  yet,  though  he 
Be  one  of  much  infirmity; 

For  at  the  bottom  of  the  Brow, 

Where  once  the  Dove  and  Olive-bough 
Offered  a greeting  of  good  ale  ■ 

To  all  who  entered  Grasmere  Vale ; 

And  called  on  him  who  must  depart 
To  leave  it  with  a jovial  heart ; — 

There,  where  the  Dove  and  Olive-bough 
Once  hung,  a Poet  harbours  now, — 

A simple  water-drinking  Bard  ; 

Why  need  our  Hero  then  (though  frail 
His  best  resolves)  be  on  his  guard!  — 

He  marches  by,  secure  and  bold, — 

Yet  while  he  thinks  on  times  of  old. 

It  seems  that  all  looks  wondrous  cold ; 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders  — shakes  his  head  — 
And,  for  the  honest  folk  within. 

It  IS  a doubt  with  Benjamin 
Whether  they  be  alive  or  dead! 

Here  is  no  danger,  — none  at  all ! 

• Beyond  his  wish  is  he  secure; 

But  pass  a mile  — and  then  for  trial,  — 

Then  for  the  pride  of  self-denial; 

If  he  resist  that  tempting  door. 

Which  with  such  friendly  voice  will  call, 

If  he  resist  those  casement  panes. 

And  that  bright  gleam  which  thence  will  fall 
Upon  his  Leaders’  bells  and  manes, 

Inviting  him  with  cheerful  lure : 

For  still,  though  all  be  dark  elsewhere, 

Some  shining  notice  will  be  there. 

Of  open  house  and  ready  fare. 

The  place  to  Benjamin  full  well 
Is  known,  and  by  as  strong  a spell 
As  used  to  be  that  sign  of  love 
And  hope  — the  Olive-bough  and  Dove  , 

He  knows  it  to  his  cost,  good  Man! 

Who  does  not  know  the  famous  Swan  1 
Uncouth  although  the  object  be. 

An  image  of  perplexity ; 

Yet  not  the  less  it  is  our  boast. 

For  it  was  painted  by  the  Host ; 

His  own  conceit  the  figure  planned, 

’T  was  coloured  all  by  his  own  hand ; 


POEMS  OF  TUB  FANCY. 


155 


And  that  frail  Child  of  thirsty  clay, 

Of  whom  I sing  this  rustic  lay, 

Could  tell  with  self-dissatisfaction 
Quaint  stories  of  the  Bird’s  attraction 

\V ell ! that  is  past  — and  in  despite 
Of  open  door  and  shining  light. 

And  now  the  Conqueror  essays 
The  long  ascent  of  Dunmail-raise ; 

And  with  his  Team  is  gentle  here 
As  when  he  clomb  from  Rydal  Mere ; 

His  whip  they  do  not  dread — his  voice 
They  only  hear  it  to  rejoice. 

To  stand  or  go  is  at  their  pleasure 
Their  efforts  and  their  time  they  measure 
By  generous  pride  within  the  breast ; 

And,  while  they  strain,  and  while  tliey  rest. 

He  thus  pursues  his  thoughts  at  leisure. 

Now  am  I fairly  safe  to-night  — 

And  never  was  my  heart  more  light. 

I trespassed  lately  worse  than  ever  — 

But  Heaven  will  bless  a good  endeavour; 

And,  to  my  soul’s  delight,  I find 
The  Evil  One  is  left  behind. 

Yes,  let  my  master  fume  and  fret. 

Here  am  I — with  my  Horses  yet! 

My  jolly  Team,  he  finds  that  ye 
Will  work  for  nobody  but  me  ! 

Good  proof  of  this  the  Country  gained. 

One  day,  when  ye  were  vexed  and  strained  — 
Entrusted  to  another’s  care. 

And  forced  unworthy  stripes  to  bear. 

Here  was  it  — on  this  rugged  spot 
Which  now,  contented  with  our  lot. 

We  climb  — that,  piteously  abused. 

Ye  plunged  in  anger  and  confused; 

As  chance  would  have  it,  passing  by 
I saw  you  in  your  jeopardy  : 

A word  from  me  was  like  a charm  — 

The  ranks  were  taken  with  one  mind ; 

And  your  huge  burthen,  safe  from  harm. 

Moved  like  a vessel  in  the  wind  ! 

— Yes,  without  me,  up  hills  so  high 
’T  is  vain  to  strive  for  mastery. 

Then  grieve  not,  jolly  Team ! though  tough 
The  road  we  travel,  steep  and  rough. 

Though  Rydal-heights  and  Dunmail-raise, 

And  ail  their  fellow  Banks  and  Braes, 

Full  often  make  you  stretch  and  strain, 

And  halt  for  breath  and  halt  again, 

Yet  to  their  sturdiness  ’t  is  owing 
That  side  by  side  we  still  are  going  I 

While  Benjamin  in  earnest  mood 
His  meditations  thus  pursued, 

* Tliis  rude  piece  of  self-taught  art  (such  is  the  progress  of 
refinement)  has  been  supplanted  by  a professional  production. 


A storm,  which  had  been  smothered  long 
Was  growing  inwardly  more  strong; 

And,  in  its  struggles  to  get  free. 

Was  busily  employed  as  he. 

The  thunder  had  begun  to  growl  — 

He  heard  not,  too  intent  of  soul ; 

The  air  was  now  without  a breath  — 

He  marked  not  that  ’t  was  still  as  death. 

But  soon  large  drops  upon  his  head 
Fell  with  the  weight  of  drops  of  lead ; — 

He  starts  — and,  at  the  admonition. 

Takes  a survey  of  his  condition. 

The  road  is  black  before  his  eyes, 

Glimmering  faintly  where  it  lies; 

Black  is  the  sky  — and  every  hill. 

Up  to  the  sky,  is  blacker  still  — 

A huge  and  melancholy  room. 

Hung  round  and  overhung  with  gloom ; 

Save  that  above  a single  height 
Is  to  be  seen  a lurid  light. 

Above  Helm-crag^ — a streak  half  dead, 

A burning  of  portentous  red  ; 

And  near  that  lurid  light,  full  well 
The  Astrologer,  sage  Sidrophel, 

Where  at  his  desk  and  book  he  sits, 

Puzzling  on  high  his  curious  wits; 

He  whose  domain  is  held  in  common 
With  no  one  but  the  ancient  w'oman, 

Cowering  beside  her  rifted  cell ; 

As  if  intent  on  magic  spell ; — 

Dread  pair,  that,  spite  of  wind  and  weath:r, 

Still  sit  upon  Helm-crag  together! 

The  Astrologer  was  not  unseen 
By  solitary  Benjamin ; 

But  total  darkness  came  anon, 

And  he  and  every  thing  was  gone. 

And  suddenly  a ruffling  breeze, 

(That  would  have  sounded  through  the  trees 
Had  aught  of  sylvan  growth  been  there) 

Was  felt  throughout  the  region  bare: 

The  rain  rushed  down  — the  road  was  battered, 

As  with  the  force  of  billows  shattered ; 

The  horses  are  dismayed,  nor  know 
Whether  they  should  stand  or  go; 

And  Benjamin  is  groping  near  them. 

Sees  nothing,  and  can  scarely  hear  them. 

He  is  astounded,  — wonder  not, — 

With  such  a charge  in  such  a spot; 

Astounded  in  the  mountain  gap 
By  peals  of  thunder,  clap  on  clap ! 

And  many  a terror-striking  flash ; — 

And  somewhere,  as  it  seems,  a crash. 

Among  the  rocks ; with  weight  of  rain, 

* A moiinlain  of  Grasmere,  the  broken  summit  of  which  pre- 
sents two  figures,  full  ns  <listinctly  shaped  as  that  of  the  famous 
Cobbler,  near  Arrociuhar  tti  Scotland. 


153 


IV'ORDSWORTli’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  sullen  motions  Ions'  and  slo’.v, 

Ti;at  to  a dreary  distance  go  — 

Till,  breaking  in  upon  the  dying  strain, 

A rending  o’er  his  head  begins  the  fray  again. 
Meanwhile,  uncertain  what  to  do, 

And  oftentimes  compelled  to  halt, 

The  horses  cautiously  pursue 
Tlieir  way,  without  misliap  or  fault! 

And  !iow^  have  reached  that  pile  of  stones. 
Heaped  over  brave  King  Dunmail’s  bones; 
He  who  had  once  supreme  command, 

Last  king  of  rocky  Cumberland  ; 

His  bones,  and  those  of  all  his  Power, 

Slain  here  in  a disastrous  hour ! 

When,  passing  through  this  narrow  strait. 
Stony,  and  dark,  and  desolate, 

Benjamin  can  faintly  hear 
A voice  that  comes  from  some  one  near, 

A female  voice;  — “Whoe’er  you  be. 

Stop,”  it  exclaimed,  “and  pity  me.” 

And,  less  in  pity  than  in  wonder. 

Amid  the  darkness  and  the  thunder. 

The  Waggoner  with  prompt  command. 
Summons  his  horses  to  a stand. 

The  voice,  to  move  commiseration, 
Prolonged  its  earnest  supplication  — 

“ This  storm  that  beats  so  furiously  — 

This  dreadful  place!  oh  pity  me!” 

While  this  was  said,  with  sobs  between, 
And  many  tears,  by  one  unseen ; 

There  came  a flash  — a startling  glare. 

And  all  Seat-Sandal  was  laid  bare  ! 

’T  is  not  a time  for  nice  suggestion, 

And  Benjamin,  without  furtlier  question. 
Taking  her  for  some  way-worn  rover. 

Said,  “ Mount,  and  get  you  under  cover !” 

Another  voice,  in  tone  as  hoarse 
As  a swoln  brook  with  rugged  course. 

Cried  out,  “ Good  brother,  why  so  fast  1 
I’ve  had  a glimpse  of  you  — avast! 

Or,  since  it  suits  you  to  be  civil. 

Take  her  at  once  — for  good  and  evil !” 

“ It  is  my  Husband,”  softly  said 
The  Woman,  as  if  half  afraid : 

By  this  time  she  was  snug  witliin. 

Through  help  of  honest  Benjamin  ; 

She  and  her  Babe,  which  to  her  breast 
With  thankfulness  the  Mother  pressed  ; 

And  now  the  same  strong  voice  more  near 
Said  cordially,  “My  Friend,  wdiat  cheer  1 
Rough  doings  these ! as  God ’s  my  judge. 

The  sky  owes  somebody  a grudge ! 

We've  had  in  half  an  hour  or  less 
A twelvemonth’s  terror  and  distress !” 


Then  Benjamin  entreats  tlie  Man 
Would  mount,  too,  quickly  as  he  can : 

The  Sailor,  Sailor  now  no  more. 

But  such  he  had  been  heretofore. 

To  courteous  Benjamin  replied, 

“Go  you  your  way,  and  mind  not  me; 

For  I must  have,  whate’er  betide, 

Jly  Ass  and  fifty  things  beside, — 

Go,  and  I ’ll  follow  speedily  !” 

The  Waggon  moves — and  with  its  load 
Descends  along  the  sloping  road : 

And  to  a little  tent  hard  by 
Turns  the  sailor  instantly; 

For  when,  at  closing-in  of  day,  > 

The  family  had  come  that  way. 

Green  pasture  and  the  sotl  warm  air 
Had  tempted  them  to  settle  there.  — 

Green  is  the  grass  for  beast  to  graze. 
Around  the  stones  of  Dunmail-raise  ! 

The  Sailor  gathers  up  his  bed. 

Takes  down  the  canvas  overhead ; 

And,  after  farewell  to  the  place, 

A parting  word  — though  not  of  grace. 
Pursues,  with  Ass  and  all  his  store, 

The  way  the  Waggon  went  before. 


CANTO  SECOND. 

If  Wytheburn’s  modest  House  of  Prayer, 

As  lowly  as  the  lowliest  Dwelling, 

Had,  with  its  belfry’s  humble  stock, 

A little  pair  that  hang  in  air. 

Been  mistress  also  of  a Clock, 

(And  one,  too,  not  in  crazy  plight) 

Twelve  strokes  that  Clock  would  have  been  tehing 
Under  the  brow  of  old  Helvellyn  — 

Its  bead-roll  of  midnight. 

Then,  when  the  Hero  of  my  tale 
Was  passing  by,  and  down  the  vale 
(The  vale  now  silent,  hushed  I ween 
As  if  a storm  had  never  been) 

Proceeding  with  an  easy  mind ; 

While  he,  who  had  been  left  behind. 

Intent  to  use  his  utmost  haste. 

Gained  ground  upon  the  Waggon  fast. 

And  gives  another  lusty  cheer ; 

For  spite  of  rumbling  of  the  wheels, 

A welcome  greeting  he  can  hear;  — 

It  is  a fiddle  in  its  glee 
Dinning  from  the  Cherrv  Tree  ! 

Thence  the  sound  — the  light  is  tliere  — 

As  Benjamin  is  now  aware. 

Who,  to  his  inward  thoughts  confined, 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


157 


Had  almost  reached  the  festive  door, 

When,  startled  by  the  Sailor’s  roar. 

He  hears  a sound  and  sees  the  light. 

And  in  a moment  calls  to  mind 
That  ’t  is  the  village  Merry-.mght 

Although  before  in  no  dejection. 

At  this  insidious  recollection 

His  heart  with  sudden  joy  is  filled,  — 

His  ears  are  by  the  music  thrilled. 

His  eyes  take  pleasure  in  the  road  . 

Glittering  before  him  bright  and  broad ; 

And  Benjamin  is  wet  and  cold. 

And  there  are  reasons  manifold 

That  make  the  good,  tow’rds  which  he’s  yearning. 

Look  fairly  like  a lawful  earning. 

Nor  has  thought  time  to  come  and  go. 

To  vibrate  between  yes  and  no; 

“For,”  cries  the  sailor,  “Glorious  chance 
That  blew  us  hither!  let  him  dance 
Who  can  or  will; — my  honest  soul, 

Our  treat  shall  be  a friendly  Bowl !” 

He  draws  him  to  the  door — “Come  in. 

Come,  come,”  cries  he  to  Benjamin  ; 

And  Benjamin  — ah,  woe  is  mo  ! 

Gave  the  word,  — the  horses  heard 
And  halted,  though  reluctantly. 

“Blithe  souls  and  lightsome  hearts  have  we. 
Feasting  at  the  Cherry  Tree  !” 

This  was  the  outside  proclamation. 

This  was  the  inside  salutation ; 

What  bustling  — jostling  — high  and  low! 

A universal  overflow  ! 

What  tankards  foaming  from  the  tap ! 

What  store  of  cakes  in  every  lap ! 

What  thumping  — stumping  — overhead  ! 

The  thunder  had  not  been  more  busy: 

With  such  a stir,  you  would  have  said. 

This  little  place  may  well  be  dizzy! 

’T is  who  can  dance  with  greate.st  vigour  — 

’T  is  what  can  be  most  prompt  and  eager ; — 

As  if  it  heard  the  fiddle’s  call. 

The  pewter  clatters  on  the  wall; 

The  very  bacon  shows  its  feeling. 

Swinging  from  the  smoky  ceiling! 

A streaming  Bowl  — a blazing  fire  — 

^Vhat  greater  good  can  heart  desire  ? 

’T  were  worth  a wise  man’s  while  to  try 
The  utmost  anger  of  the  sky; 

To  seek  fi^r  thoughts  of  painful  cast. 

If  such  be  the  amends  at  last. 

Now  should  you  think  I judge  amiss. 

The  Cherry  Tree  shows  proof  of  this  ; 

* A term  well  known  in  the  North  of  Knglaml,  ami  applied 
to  rural  Festivals  vvhere  voting  persons  meet  in  the  evening  lor 
the  pnrixtse  of  dancing 


For,  soon  of  all  the  happy  there. 

Our  Travellers  are  the  happiest  pair. 

All  care  with  Benjamin  is  gone  — 

A Csesar  past  the  Rubicon ! 

He  thinks  not  of  his  long,  long  strife;  — 

The  Sailor,  Man  by  nature  gay. 

Hath  no  resolves  to  throw  away  ; 

And  he  hath  now  forgot  his  Wife, 

Hath  quite  forgotten  her  — or  may  be 
Deems  that  she  is  happier,  laid 
Within  that  warm  and  peaceful  bed ; 

Under  cover. 

Terror  over. 

Sleeping  by  her  sleeping  Baby. 

With  bowl  in  hand, 

(It  may  not  stand) 

Gladdest  of  the  gladsome  band. 

Amid  their  own  delight  and  fun, 

I’hey  hear  — when  every  dance  is  done  — 

They  hear  — when  every  fit  is  o’er  — 

The  fiddle’s  squeak*  — that  call  to  bliss. 

Ever  followed  by  a kiss; 

They  envy  not  the  happy  lot. 

But  enjoy  their  own  the  more ! 

While  thus  our  jocund  Travellers  fare, 

Up  springs  the  Sailor  from  his  Chair  — 

Limps  (for  I might  have  told  before 
That  he  was  lame)  acro.ss  the  floor  — 

Is  gone  — returns  — and  with  a prize  ; 

With  what?  — a Sliip  of  lusty  size; 

A gallant  stately  Man  of  War. 

Fixed  on  a smoothly-sliding  car. 

Surprise  to  all,  but  most  surprise 
To  Benjamin,  who  rubs  his  eyes. 

Not  knowing  that  he  had  befriended 
A Man  so  gloriously  attended  ! 

“This,”  cries  the  Sailor,  “a  Third-rate  is  — 

Stand  back,  and  you  shall  see  her  gratis! 

This  was  the  Flag-Ship  at  the  Nile, 

The  Vanguard — you  may  smirk  and  smile. 

But,  pretty  Maid,  if  you  look  near. 

You’ll  find  you’ve  much  in  little  here! 

A nobler  Ship  did  never  swim. 

And  you  shall  see  her  in  full  trim  : 

I’ll  set,  my  Friends,  to  do  you  honour. 

Set  every  inch  of  sail  upon  her.” 

So  said,  so  done ; and  masts,  sails,  yards. 

He  names  them  all ; and  interlards 
His  speech  with  uncouth  terms  of  art. 

Accomplished  in  the  Showman’s  part ; 

And  then  as  from  a sudden  check, 

Cries  out  — “’Tis  there,  the  Quarter-deck 

* At  the  close  of  each  strathspey,  or  jig,  a particular  note  from 
the  lidille  summons  the  Rustic  to  tlie  agreeable  duly  of  saluting 
his  I’urincr  i i 


158 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  which  brave  Admiral  Nelson  stood  — 

A sijrlit  that  wo  lid  have  roused  your  blood! 
One  eye  ho  had  which,  bright  as  ten. 

Burnt  like  a fiie  among  his  men; 

Let  this  be  Land,  and  that  be  Sea, 

Here  lay  the  French  — and  thus  came  we !” 

Hushed  was  by  this  ♦he  fiddle’s  sound, 
The  Dancers  1'  were  gathered  round. 

And,  such  the  stillness  of  the  house. 

You  might  have  heard  a nibbling  mouse; 
While,  borrowing  helps  where'er  he  may. 
The  Sailor  tlirough  the  story  runs 
Of  Ships  to  Ships  and  guns  to  guns ; 

And  does  his  utmost  to  display 
The  dismal  conflict,  and  the  might 
And  terror  of  that  wondrous  night ! 

“ A Bowl,  a Bowl  of  double  measure,” 

Cries  Benjamin,  “ a draught  of  length. 

To  Nelson,  England’s  pride  and  treasure. 
Her  bulwark  and  her  tower  of  strength  ! 
When  Benjamin  had  seized  the  bow’. 

The  MastilT,  from  beneath  the  Waggcn, 
Where  he  lay,  watchful  as  a dragor, 
Rattled  his  cliain — ’twas  all  in  vain. 

For  Benjamin,  triumphant  soul ! 

He  heard  the  monitory  growl ; 

Heard  — and  in  opposition  quaffed 
A deep,  determined,  desperate  draught! 

Nor  did  tlm  battered  Tar  forget, 

Or  flinch  from  what  he  deemed  his  debt: 
Then,  like  a hero  crowned  with  laurel. 
Back  to  her  place  the  ship  he  led; 
Wheeled  her  back  in  full  apparel; 

And  so,  flag  flying  at  mast-head. 

Re-yoked  her  to  the  Ass ; — anon. 

Cries  Benjamin,  '‘We  must  be  gone.” 
Thus,  after  two  hours’  hearty  stay. 

Again  behold  them  on  their  way ! 


CANTO  THIRD. 

Right  gladly  had  the  horses  stirred. 
When  they  the  wished-for  greeting  heard. 
The  whip’s  loud  notice  from  the  door. 
That  they  were  free  to  move  once  more. 
You  think,  ti.ese  doings  must  have  bred 
(n  them  disheartening  doubts  and  dread; 
No,  not  a horse  of  all  the  eight. 
Although  it  be  a moonless  night. 

Fears  citlicr  lor  himself  or  freight; 

For  this  they  know  (and  let  it  hide. 

In  part,  the  offences  of  their  Guide) 

That  Benjamin,  with  clouded  brains, 
fs  worth  the  best  with  all  their  pains ; 
And,  if  they  had  a prayer  to  make. 

The  prayer  would  be  that  they  may  take 


With  him  whatever  comes  in  course, 

The  better  fortune  or  the  worse ; 

That  no  one  else  may  have  business  near  them, 
And,  drunk  or  sober,  he  may  steer  them. 

So,  forth  in  dauntless  mood  they  fare. 

And  with  them  goes  the  guardian  pair. 

Now,  heroes,  for  the  true  commotion, 

The  triumph  of  your  late  devotion ! 

Can  aught  on  earth  impede  delight. 

Still  mounting  to  a higher  height; 

And  higher  still  — a greedy  flight! 

Can  any  low-born  care  pursue  her. 

Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her!  ■ 

No  notion  have  they  — not  a thought. 

That  is  from  joyless  regions  brought! 

And,  while  they  coast  the  silent  lake. 

Their  inspiration  I partake ; 

Share  their  empyreal  spirits  — yea. 

With  their  enraptured  vision,  see  — 

O fancy  — what  a jubilee! 

What  shifting  pictures  — clad  in  gleams 
Of  colour  bright  as  feverish  dreams! 

Earth,  spangled  sky,  and  lake  serene. 

Involved  and  restless  all  — a scene 
Pregnant  with  mutual  exaltation. 

Rich  change,  and  multiplied  creation! 

This  sight  to  me  the  Muse  imparts; 

And  then,  what  kindness  in  their  hearts! 

What  tears  of  rapture,  what  vow-making. 
Profound  entreaties,  and  hand-shaking! 

What  solemn,  vacant,  interlacing. 

As  if  they ’d  fall  ardeep  embracing ! 

Then,  in  the  turbulence  of  glee. 

And  in  the  excess  of  amity. 

Says  Benjamin,  “ That  ass  of  thine. 

He  spoils  thy  sport,  and  hinders  mine: 

If  he  were  tethered  to  the  Waggon, 

He ’d  drag  as  well  what  he  is  dragging ; 

And  we,  as  brother  should  with  brother. 

Might  trudge  it  alongside  each  other !” 

Forthwith,  obedient  to  command. 

The  horses  made  a quiet  stand; 

And  to  the  Waggon’s  skirts  was  tied 
The  Creature,  by  the  Mastiffs  side, 

(The  Mastiff  not  well  pleased  to  be 
So  very  near  such  company.) 

This  new  arrangement  made,  the  Wain 
Through  the  still  night  proceeds  again; 

No  Moon  hath  risen  her  light  to  lend ; 

But  indistinctly  may  be  kenned 

The  Vanguakd,  following  close  behind. 

Sails  spread,  as  if  to  catch  the  wind ! 

“ Thy  Wife  and  Child  are  snug  and  warm. 
Thy  Ship  will  travel  without  harm ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


159 


I like,”  said  Benjamin,  “her  shape  and  stature: 
And  this  of  mine  — this  bulky  Creature 
Of  which  I have  the  steering  — this. 

Seen  fairly,  is  not  much  amiss! 

We  want  yonr  streamers.  Friend,  you  know  ; 
But,  altogether,  as  we  go. 

We  make  a kind  of  handsome  show  I 
Among  these  hills,  from  first  to  last. 

We  Ve  weathered  many  a furious  blast ; 

Hard  passage  forcing  on,  with  head 
Against  the  storm,  and  canvas  spread. 

I hate  a boaster  — but  to  thee 

Will  say ’t,  who  knowest  both  land  and  sea. 

The  unluckiest  Hulk  that  sails  the  brine 
Is  hardly  worse  beset  than  mine. 

When  cross  winds  on  her  quarter  beat ; 

And,  fairly  lifted  from  my  feet, 

I stagger  onward  — Heaven  knows  how — 

But  not  so  pleasantly  as  now 

Poor  Pilot  I,  by  snow’s  confounded, 

And  many  a foundrous  pit  surrounded ! 

Yet  here  we  are,  by  night  and  day 
Grinding  through  rough  and  smooth  our  way. 
Through  foul  and  fair  our  task  fulfilling; 

And  long  shall  be  so  yet  — God  willing!’ 

“Ay,”  said  the  Tar,  “through  fair  and  foul  — 
But  save  us  from  yon  screeching  Owl !” 

That  instant  was  begun  a fray 

Which  called  their  thoughts  another  way : 

The  Mastiff,  ill-conditioned  carl ! 

What  must  he  do  but  growl  and  snarl, 

Still  more  and  more  dissatisfied 
With  the  meek  comrade  at  his  side  ! 

Till,  not  incensed  though  put  to  proof. 

The  Ass,  uplifting  a hind  hoof. 

Salutes  the  Mastiff  on  the  head  ; 

And  so  were  better  manners  bred, 

And  all  was  calmed  and  quieted. 

“Yon  Screech-Owl,”  says  the  Sailor,  turning 
Back  to  his  former  cause  of  mourning, 

“Yon  Owl!  — pray  God  that  all  be  well! 

T is  worse  than  any  funeral  bell; 

As  sure  as  I ’ve  the  gift  of  sight. 

We  shall  be  meeting  Ghosts  to-night!” 

— Said  Benjamin,  “This  whip  shall  lay 
A thousand,  if  they  cross  our  way. 

I know  that  Wanton’s  noisy  station, 

I know  him  and  his  occupation  ; 

The  jolly  Bird  hath  learned  his  cheer 
On  the  banks  of  Windermere  ; 

Where  a tribe  of  them  make  merry. 

Mocking  the  Man  that  keeps  the  Ferry; 

Hallooing  from  an  open  throat. 

Like  Travellers  shouting  for  a Boat. 

- The  tricks  he  learned  at  Windermere 
Fhis  vagrant  Owl  is  playing  here  — 


That  is  the  worst  of  his  employment : 

He  s in  the  height  of  his  enjoyment: 

This  explanation  stilled  the  alarm. 

Cured  the  foreboder  like  a charm  ; 

This,  and  the  manner,  and  the  voice. 
Summoned  the  Sailor  to  rejoice; 

His  heart  is  up  — he  fears  no  evil 
From  life  or  death,  from  man  or  devil  ; 

He  wheeled  — and,  making  many  stops. 
Brandished  his  crutch  against  the  mountain  tops  ; 
And,  while  he  talked  of  blows  and  scars, 
Benjamin,  among  the  stars. 

Beheld  a dancing  — and  a glancing ; 

Such  retreating  and  advancing 

As,  I ween,  was  never  seen 

In  bloodiest  battle  since  the  days  of  Mars ! 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

Thus  they,  with  freaks  of  proud  delight. 
Beguile  the  remnant  of  the  night ; 

And  many  a snatch  of  jovial  song 
Regales  them  as  they  wind  along  • 

While  to  the-inlsic,  from  on  high. 

The  echoes  make  a glad  reply. 

But  the  sage  Muse  the  revel  heeds 
No  farther  than  her  story  needs ; 

Nor  will  she  servilely  attend 
The  loitering  journey  to  its  end. 

— Blithe  Spirits  of  her  own  impel 
The  Muse,  who  scents  the  morning  air, 

To  take  of  this  transported  Pair 

A brief  and  unreproved  farewell  ; 

To  quit  the  slow-paced  Waggon’s  side. 

And  wander  down  yon  hawthorn  dell. 

With  murmuring  Greta  for  her  guide. 

— There  doth  she  ken  the  awful  form 
Of  Raven-crag— black  as  the  storm  — 
Glimmering  through  the  twilight  pale  ; 

And  Gimmer-crag*,  his  tall  twin  brother. 
Each  peering  forth  to  meet  the  other:  — 

And,  while  she  roves  through  St.  John’s  Vale, 
Along  the  smooth  unpathwayed  plain. 

By  sheep-track  or  through  cottage  lane. 
Where  no  disturbance  comes  to  intrude 
Upon  the  pensive  solitude. 

Her  unsuspecting  eye,  perchance. 

With  the  rude  Shepherd’s  favoured  glance. 
Beholds  the  Faeries  in  array. 

Whose  party-coloured  garments  gay 
The  silent  company  betray  ; 

Red,  green,  and  blue ; a moment’s  sight ! 

For  Skiddaw-top  with  rosy-light 
Is  touched— and  all  the  band  take  flight. 


The  crag  of  iho  ewe  lamb. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IGO 

Fly  also,  Muse!  and  from  the  dell 

Mount  to  the  ridge  of  Nathdale  Fell ; 
Thence,  look  thou  forth  o’er  wood  and  lawn 
Hoar  with  the  frost-like  dews  of  dawn; 
Across  yon  meadowy  bottom  look 
Where  close  fogs  hide  their  parent  brook; 
And  see,  beyond  that  hamlet  small. 

The  ruined  towers  of  Threlkeld-hall, 

Lurl  hig  in  a double  shade, 

By  tiees  and  lingering  twilight  made: 

There,  at  Blencathra’s  rugged  feet. 

Sir  Laimcelot  gave  a safe  retreat 
To  noble  Clifford  ; from  annoy 
Concealed  the  persecuted  Boy, 

Well  pleased  in  rustic  garb  to  feed 
His  flock,  and  pipe  on  Shepherd’s  reed; 
Among  this  multitude  of  hills. 

Crags,  woodlands,  w’ater-falls,  and  rills; 
Which  soon  the  morning  shall  enfold, 

From  east  to  west,  in  ample  vest 
Of  massy  gloom  and  radiance  bold. 

The  mists,  that  o’er  the  Streamlet’s  bed 
Hung  low,  begin  to  rise  and  spread  ; 

Even  while  I speak,  their  skirts  of ^ray 
Are  smiCen  by  a silver  ray , 

And  lo!  — up  Castrigg’s  naked  steep 
(Where,  smoothly  urged,  the  vapours  sweep 
Along  — and  scatter  and  divide. 

Like  fleecy  clouds  self-multiplied) 

The  stalely  Waggon  is  ascending, 

With  faithful  Benjamin  attending. 

Apparent  now  beside  his  team  — 

Now  lost  amid  a glittering  steam. — 

And  with  him  goes  his  Sailor  Friend, 

By  this  time  near  their  journey’s  end, 

And,  after  their  high-minded  riot. 

Sickening  into  thoughtful  quiet  ; 

As  if  the  morning’s  pleasant  hour 
Had  for  their  joys  a killing  power. 

They  are  drooping,  weak,  and  dull; 

But  the  horses  stretch  and  pull; 

With  increasing  vigour  climb, 

Eager  to  repair  lost  time ; 

Whether,  by  their  own  desert. 

Knowing  there  is  cause  for  shame. 

They  are  labouring  to  avert 
At  least  a portion  of  the  blame, 

Which  full  surely  will  alight 
Upon  his  head,  whom,  in  despite 
Of  all  his  faults,  they  love  the  best ; 
Whether  for  him  they  are  distrest; 

Or,  by  length  of  fasting  roused. 

Are  impatient  to  be  housed; 

Up  against  the  hill  they  strain 
Tugging  at  the  iron  chain  — 

Tugging  ah  vith  might  and  mam  — 


Last  and  foremost,  every  horse 
To  the  utmost  of  his  force ! 

And  the  smoke  and  respiration 
Rising  like  an  exhalation. 

Blends  with  the  mist— a moving  shroud. 

To  form  — an  undissolving  cloud; 

Which,  with  slant  ray,  the  merry  sun 
Takes  delight  to  play  upon. 

Never  Venus  or  Apollo, 

Pleased  a favourite  chief  to  follow 
Through  accidents  of  peace  or  war, 

In  a time  of  peril  threw’. 

Round  the  object  of  his  care. 

Veil  of  such  celestial  hue ; , 

Interposed  so  bright  a screen 
Him  .and  his  enemies  between! 

Alas  ! what  boots  it  1 — who  can  hide 
When  the  malicious  Fates  are  bent 
On  w'orking  out  an  ill  intent  1 
Can  destiny  be  turned  aside  1 
]\jo  — sad  progress  of  my  story  ! 

Benjamin,  this  outward  glory 
Cannot  shield  thee  from  thy  Master, 

Who  from  Keswick  has  pricked  forth, 

Sour  and  surly  as  the  north ; 

And,  in  fear  of  some  disaster. 

Comes  to  give  what  help  he  may. 

Or  to  hear  what  thou  canst  say ; 

If,  as  needs  he  must  forebode. 

Thou  hast  loitered  on  the  road! 

His  doubts  — his  fears  may  now  take  flight 
The  wished-for  object  is  in  sight; 

Yet,  trust  the  Muse,  it  rather  hath 
Stirred  him  up  to  livelier  wrath  ; 

Which  he  stifles,  moody  man! 

With  all  the  patience  that  he  can; 

To  the  end  that,  at  your  meeting. 

He  may  give  thee  decent  greeting. 

There  he  is  — resolved  to  stop. 

Till  the  Waggon  gains  the  top; 

But  stop  he  cannot — must  advance: 

Him  Benjamin,  with  lucky  glance. 

Espies  — and  instantly  is  ready, 
Self-collected,  poised,  and  steady; 

And,  to  be  the  better  seen. 

Issues  from  his  radiant  shroud, 

From  his  close-attending  cloud, 

With  careless  air  and  open  mien. 

Erect  his  port,  and  firm  his  going; 

So  struts  yon  Cock  that  now  is  crowing; 
And  the  morning  light  in  grace 
Strikes  upon  his  lifted  face. 

Hurrying  the  pallid  hue  aw’ay 
That  might  his  trespasses  betray.  ^ 

But  what  can  all  avail  to  clear  him, 


POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY 


Or  what  need  of  explanation, 

Parley  or  interrogation] 

For  the  Master  sees,  alas ! 

That  unhappy  Figure  near  him, 

Limping  o’er  the  dewy  grass, 

\\  here  the  road  it  fringes,  sweet. 

Soft  and  cool  to  wayw'orn  feet; 

And,  O indignity ! an  Ass, 

By  his  noble  Mastiff’s  side. 

Tethered  to  the  Waggon’s  tail ; 

And  the  Ship,  in  all  her  pride. 

Folk  wing  after  in  full  sail  ! 

Not  to  speak  of  Babe  and  Mother, 

Who,  contented  w'ith  each  other. 

And  snug  as  birds  in  leafy  arbour. 

Find,  within,  a blessed  harbour ! 

With  eager  eyes  the  Master  pries; 

Looks  in  and  out  — and  through  and  through; 
Says  nothing  — till  at  last  he  spies 
A wound  upon  the  Mastiff's  head, 

A wound  — where  plainly  might  be  read 
What  feats  an  Ass’s  hoof  can  do ! 

But  drop  the  rest; — this  aggravation. 

This  complicated  provocation, 

A hoard  of  grievances  unsealed; 

All  past  forgiveness  it  repealed;  — 

And  thus,  and  through  distempered  blood 
On  both  sides,  Benjamin  the  good. 

The  patient,  and  the  tender-hearted. 

Was  from  his  Team  and  Waggon  parted: 
When  duty  of  that  day  was  o’er. 

Laid  down  his  whip  — and  served  no  more. 

IN  or  could  the  Waggon  long  survive 
Which  Benjamin  had  ceased  to  drive: 

It  lingered  on  ; — Guide  after  Guide 
Ambitiously  the  office  tried; 

But  each  unmanageable  hill 

Called  for  his  patience  and  his  skill; — 

And  sure  it  is,  that  through  this  night. 

And  w’hat  the  morning  brought  to  light. 

Two  losses  had  we  to  sustain. 

We  lost  both  Waggoxer  and  Wain! 


Accept,  O Friend,  for  praise  or  blame. 
The  gift  of  this  adventurous  song ; 

A record  which  I dared  to  frame. 

Though  timid  scruples  checked  me  long; 
They  checked  me  — and  I left  the  theme 
Untouched  — in  spite  of  many  a gleam 
Of  fancy  which  thereon  was  shed. 

Like  pleasant  sunbeams  shifting  still 
Upon  the  side  of  a distant  hill : 

But  Nature  might  not  be  gainsaid ; 
lor  what  T have  and  what  I miss 
I sing  of  those  — it  makes  my  bliss  ! 


IGl 

Nor  is  it  I who  play  the  part. 

But  a shy  spirit  in  my  heart, 

That  comes  and  goes  — will  sometimes  leap 
From  hiding-places  ten  years  deep; 

Or  haunts  me  with  familiar  face  — 

Returning,  like  a ghost  unlaid. 

Until  the  debt  I owe  be  paid. 

Forgive  me,  then;  for  I had  been 
On  friendly  terms  with  this  Machine  . 

In  him,  while  he  was  wont  to  trace 

Our  roads,  through  many  a long  year’s  space, 

A living  Almanack  had  we  ; 

We  had  a speaking  Diary, 

That,  in  this  uneventful  place, 

Gave  to  the  days  a mark  and  name 
By  which  we  knew  them  when  they  came. 

Yes,  I,  and  all  about  me  here. 

Through  all  the  changes  of  the  j^ear. 

Had  seen  him  through  the  mountains  go. 

In  pomp  of  mist  or  pomp  of  snow. 

Majestically  huge  and  slow: 

Or,  with  milder  grace  adorning 
The  Landscape  of  a summer’s  morning; 

While  Grasmere  smoothed  her  liquid  plain 
The  moving  image  to  detain ; 

And  mighty  Fairfield,  with  a chime 
Of  echoes,  to  his  march  kept  time; 

When  little  other  business  stirred. 

And  little  othei  sound  was  heard; 

In  that  delicious  hour  of  balm. 

Stillness,  solitude,  and  calm, 

. While  yet  the  Valley  is  arrayed. 

On  this  side  with  a sober  shade ; 

On  that  is  prodigally  brio-ht  — 

Crag,  lawn,  and  wood  — w'ith  rosy  ligJit. 

But  most  of  all,  thou  lordly  Wain! 

I wish  to  have  thee  here  again. 

When  windows  flap  and  chimney  roars. 

And  all  is  dismal  out  of  doors ; 

And,  sitting  by  my  fire,  I see 
Eight  sorry  Carts,  no  less  a tram ! 

Unworthy  Successors  of  thee. 

Come  straggling  through  the  wind  and  rain; 

And  oft,  as  they  passed  slowly  on. 

Beneath  my  window  — one  by  one 

See,  perched  upon  the  naked  height. 

The  summit  of  a cumbrous  freight, 

A single  Traveller —and  there 
Another  — then  perhaps  a Pair  — 

The  lame,  the  sickly,  and  the  old; 

Men,  Women,  heartless  with  the  cold  ■ 

And  Babes  in  wet  and  starveling  plight 
Which  once,  bo  weather  as  it  might. 

Had  still  a nest  within  a nest, 

Thy  shelter  — and  their  mother’s  breast! 

Then  most  of  all,  then  far  the  most. 

Do  I regret  what  we  have  lost; 


162 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Am  grieved  for  Uiat  unhappy  sin  ] And  of  his  stately  Charge,  which  none 

Which  robbed  us  of  good  Benjamin; — Could  keep  alive  when  he  was  gone! 


NOTES 

TO 

POEMS  OF  THE  FANCY. 


Page  145. 

‘To  the  Daisy.' 

This  poem,  and  two  others  to  the  same  Flower,  were 
written  in  the  year  1802;  which  is  mentioned,  because 
in  some  of  the  ideas,  tliough  not  in  the  manner  in  which 
tliose  ideas  are  connected,  and  likewise  even  in  some 
of  the  e.xpressions,  there  is  a resemblance  to  passages 
in  a Poem  (lately  published)  of  Mr.  Montgomery’s,  en- 
titled, a Field  Flower.  This  being  said,  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery will  not  tliink  any  apology  due  to  him;  I can- 
not, however,  help  addressing  him  in  the  words  of  the 
Father  of  English  Poets. 

“ Though  it  happe  me  to  rehersin  — 

That  ye  han  in  your  freshe  songis  saied, 
Forberith  me,  and  beth  not  ill  apaied, 

Sith  that  ye  se  I doe  it  in  the  honour 
Of  Love,  and  eke  in  service  of  the  Flour.” 

1807. 

Page  146. 


‘T/te  Seven  Sisters' 

The  Story  of  this  Poem  is  from  the  German  of 
Frederica  Brun. 


Page  154. 

'The  buzzing  Dor-hawk  round  and  round,  is  wheel- 
ing,— 

When  the  Poem  was  first  written  the  note  of  the  bird 
was  thus  described  : — 

‘The  night-hawk  is  singing  his  frog-like  tune. 
Twirling  his  watchman’s  rattle  about — ’ 
but  from  unwillingness  to  startle  the  reader  at  the  out- 
set by  so  bold  a mode  of  expression,  the  passage  was 
altered  as  it  now  stands. 

Page  158. 

After  this  line,  ‘ Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her,' 
followed  in  the  MS.  an  incident  which  has  been  kept 
back.  Part  of  the  suppressed  verses  shall  here  be  given 
as  a gratification  of  private  feeling,  which  the  well- 
disposed  reader  will  find  no  difficulty  in  excusing. 
They  are  now  printed  for  the  first  time. 

‘Can  any  mortal  clog  come  to  her! 

It  can:  * * * • 

*♦*### 


But  Benjamin  in  his  vexation. 

Possesses  inward  consolation ; 

He  knows  his  ground,  and  hopes  to  find 
A spot  with  all  things  to  his  mind. 

An  upright  mural  block  of  stone. 

Moist  with  pure  water  trickling  down. 

A slender  spring;  but  kind  to  man 
It  is  a true  Samaritan  ; 

Close  to  the  highway,  pouring  out 
Its  offering  from  a chink  or  spout; 

Whence  all,  howe’er  athirst,  or  drooping 
With  toil,  may  drink,  and  without  stooping. 


Cries  Benjamin  “ Where  is  it,  where  1 
Voice  it  hath  none,  but  must  be  near.” 

— A star  declining  towards  the  west. 

Upon  the  watery  surface  threw 
Its  image  tremulously  imprest. 

That  just  marked  out  the  object  and  withdrew : 
Right  welcome  service ! * * 

****** 
Rock  of  Names  ! 

Light  is  the  strain,  but  not  unjust 
To  Thee  and  thy  memorial-trust 
That  once  seemed  only  to  express 
Love  that  was  love  in  idleness ; 

Tokens,  as  year  hath  followed  year 
How  changed,  alas,  in  character ! 

For  they  were  graven  on  thy  smooth  breast 
By  hands  of  those  my  soul  loved  best ; 

Meek  women,  men  as  true  and  brave 
As  ever  went  to  a hopeful  grave  : 

Their  hands  and  mine,  when  side  by  side 
With  kindred  zeal  and  mutual  pride. 

We  worked  until  the  Initials  took 
Shapes  that  defied  a scornful  look. — 

Long  as  for  us  a genial  feeling 
Survives,  or  one  in  need  of  healing. 

The  power,  dear  Rock,  around  thee  east, 

Thy  monumental  power,  shall  last 
For  me  and  mine  ! O thought  of  pain, 

That  would  impair  it  or  profane ! 

Take  all  in  kindness  then,  as  said 
With  a staid  heart  but  playful  head ; 

And  fail  not  Thou,  loved  Rock ! to  keep 
Thy  charge  when  we  are  laid  asleep.’ 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


There  was  a Boy  ; ye  knew  him  well,  ye  Cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander ! — many  a time, 

At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
Tc  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills. 

Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone. 

Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  glimmering  lake ; 

And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm  and  to  his  mouth 
Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument. 

Blew  mimic  hootings  to  the  silent  owls. 

That  they  might  answer  him.  — And  they  would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again. 

Responsive  to  his  call,  — with  quivering  peals. 

And  long  halloos,  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud 
Redoubled  and  redoubled ; concourse  wild 
Of  mirth  and  jocund  din  ! And,  when  it  chanced 
That  pauses  of  deep  silence  mocked  his  skill. 

Then,  sometimes,  in  that  silence,  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks. 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
Into  tlie  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

This  Boy  was  taken  from  his  Mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  twelve  years  old. 

Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  Vale 

Where  he  was  born  : the  grassy  Church-yard  hangs 

Upon  a slope  above  the  village-school ; 

And,  through  that  Church-yard  w’hen  my  way  has  led 
At  evening,  I believe,  that  oftentimes 
A long  half-hour  together  I have  stood 
Mute  — looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies! 


Potent  was  the  spell  that  bound  thee, 
Not  unwilling  to  obey  ; 

For  blue  Ether’s  arms,  flung  round  thee 
Stilled  the  pantings  of  dismay. 

Lo ! the  dwindled  woods  and  meadows ! 
What  a vast  abyss  is  there! 

Lo!  the  clouds,  the  solemn  shadows. 
And  the  glistenings  — heavenly  fair! 

And  a record  of  commotion 
Which  a thousand  ridges  yield  ; 

Ridge,  and  gulf,  and  distant  ocean 
Gleaming  like  a silver  shield ! 

— Take  thy  flight;  — possess,  inherit 
Alps  or  Andes — they  are  thine! 

With  the  morning’s  roseate  Spirit, 
Sweep  their  length  of  snowy  line; 

Or  survey  the  bright  dominions 
In  the  gorgeous  colours  drest 
Flung  from  off  the  purple  pinions. 
Evening  spreads  throughout  the  west! 

Thine  are  all  the  coral  fountains 
Warbling  in  each  sparry  vault 
Of  the  untrodden  lunar  mountains; 
Listen  to  their  songs! — or  halt. 

To  Niphate’s  top  invited,* 

Whither  spiteful  Satan  steered ; 

Or  descend  where  the  ark  alighted. 
When  the  green  earth  re-appeared ; 

For  the  power  of  hills  is  on  tliee. 

As  was  witnessed  through  thine  eye 
Then,  when  old  Ilelvellyn  won  thee 
To  confess  their  majesty! 


TO  , 

ON  HER  FIRST  ASCENT  TO  THE  SUMMIT  OP 
HELVELLYN. 

Inmate  of  a mountain  Dwelling, 

Thou  hast  clomb  aloft,  and  gazed. 

From  the  watch-towers  of  Ilelvellyn ; 
Awed,  delighted,  and  amazed! 


TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

0 BLITHE  New-comer  ! I have  heard, 

1 hear  thee  and  rejoice. 

O Cuckoo!  shall  I call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a wandering  Voice? 


164 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


While  I am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I hear. 

That  seems  to  fill  the  whole  air’s  space, 
As  loud  far  off’  as  near. 

Though  babbling  only,  to  the  Vale, 

Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers. 

Thou  bringest  unto  me  a tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring ! 
Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 
No  Bird  : but  an  invisible  Thing, 

A voice,  a mystery ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  School-boy  days 
I listened  to ; that  Cry 
Which  made  me  look  a thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green ; 

And  thou  wert  still  a hope,  a love ; 

Still  longed  for,  never  seen. 

And  I can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 

Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 

O blessed  Bird ! the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place; 

That  is  fit  home  for  Thee! 


A NIGHT-PIECE. 

The  sky  is  overcast 

With  a continuous  cloud  of  texture  close. 

Heavy  and  wan,  all  whitened  by  the  Moon, 

Which  through  that  veil  is  indistinctly  seen, 

A dull,  contracted  circle,  yielding  light 
So  feebly  spread,  that  not  a shadow  falls. 

Checkering  the  ground  — from  rock,  plant,  tree,  or 
tower. 

At  length  a pleasant  instantaneous  gleam 

Startles  the  pensive  traveller  while  he  treads 

His  lonesome  path,  with  unobserving  eye 

Bent  earthwards  ; he  looks  up  — the  clouds  are  split 

Asunder,  — and  above  his  head  he  sees 

The  clear  Moon,  and  the  glory  of  the  heavens. 

'Phere,  in  a black  blue  vault  she  sails  along. 

Followed  by  multitudes  of  stars,  that,  small 
And  sharp,  and  bright,  along  the  dark  abyss 
Drive  as  she  drives ; — how  fast  they  wheel  away. 

Vet  vanish  not ! — the  wind  is  in  the  tree. 

But  they  are  silent ; — still  they  roll  along 
Immeasurably  distant ; — and  the  vault, 


Built  round  by  those  white  clouds,  enormous  clouds. 
Still  deepens  its  unfathomable  depth. 

At  length  the  Vision  closes;  and  the  mind. 

Not  undisturbed  by  the  delight  it  feels. 

Which  slowly  settles  into  peaceful  calm. 

Is  left  to  muse  upon  the  solemn  scene. 


WATER-FOWL. 


“ Let  me  be  allowed  the  aid  of  verse  to  describe  the  evolu- 
tions which  these  visitants  sometimes  perform,  on  a fine  day 
towards  the  close  of  winter.” — Extract  from  the  Author’s  Book 
on  the  Lakes. 


Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood, 
With  grace  of  motion  that  might  scarcely  seem 
Inferior  to  angelical,  prolong 
Tlieir  curious  pastime  1 shaping  in  mid  air 
(And  sometimes  with  ambitious  wing  that  soars 
High  as  the  level  of  the  mountain  tops) 

A circuit  ampler  than  the  lake  beneath. 

Their  own  domain;  — but  ever,  while  intent 
On  tracing  and  retracing  that  large  round, 

Their  jubilant  activity  evolves 
Hundreds  of  curves  and  circlets,  to  and  fro. 
Upward  and  downward,  progress  intricate 
Yet  unperplexed,  as  if  one  spirit  swayed 
Their  indefatigable  flight.  — ’Tis  done  — 

Ten  times,  or  more,  I fancied  it  had  ceased  ; 

But  lo  1 the  vanished  company  again 

Ascending ; — they  approach  — I hear  their  wings 

Faint,  faint  at  first;  and  then  an  eager  sound 

Past  in  a moment  — and  as  faint  again  1 

They  tempt  the  sun  to  sport  amid  their  plumes; 

They  tempt  the  w'ater,  or  the  gleaming  ice. 

To  show  tliem  a fair  image;  — ’tis  themselves. 
Their  own  fair  forms,  upon  the  glimmering  plain. 
Painted  more  soft  and  fair  as  they  descend 
Almost  to  touch  ; — then  up  again  aloft. 

Up  with  a sally  and  a flash  of  speed, 

As  if  they  scorned  both  resting-place  and  rest ! 


YEW-TREES. 

There  is  a Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale, 

Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the  midst 
Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore. 

Not  loth  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  Bands 
Of  Umfraville  or  Percy  ere  they  marched 
To  Scotland’s  Heaths;  or  those  that  crossed  the  Sea 
And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Azincour, 

Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  Poictiers. 

Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 
This  solitary  Tree ! — a living  thing 
Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 

To  be  destroyed.  But  worthier  still  of  note 

Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale, 

Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove ; 

Huge  trunks !— and  each  particular  trunk  a growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine 
Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved, — 

Nor  uninformed  with  Phantasy,  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane ; — a pillared  shade. 

Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red-brown  hue. 

By  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged 
Perennially  — beneath  whose  sable  roof 
Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose,  decked 
With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  Shapes 
May  meet  at  noontide  — Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 
Silence  and  Foresight  — Death  the  Skeleton 
And  Time  the  Shadow,  —there  to  celebrate, 

As  in  a natural  temple  scattered  o’er 
With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 

United  worship;  or  in  mute  repose 
To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 
Murmuring  from  Glaramara’s  inmost  caves. 


VIEW  FROM  THE  TOP  OF  BLACK  COMB*. 

This  Height  a ministering  Angel  might  select: 

For  from  the  summit  of  Black  Comb  (dread  name 
Derived  from  clouds  and  storms !)  the  amplest  range 
Of  unobstructed  prospect  may  be  seen 
That  British  ground  commands : — low  dusky  tracts. 
Where  Trent  is  nursed,  far  southward ! Cambrian 
Hills 

To  the  south-west,  a multitudinous  show; 

And,  in  a line  of  eye-sight  linked  with  these. 

The  hoary  Peaks  of  Scotland  that  give  birth 
To  Tiviot’s  Stream,  to  Annan,  Tweed,  and  Clyde;  — 
Crowding  the  quarter  whence  the  sun  comes  forth 
Gigantic  Mountains  rough  with  crags;  beneath, 

Right  at  the  imperial  Station’s  western  base. 

Mam  Ocean,  breaking  audibly,  and  stretched 
Far  into  silent  regions  blue  and  pale ; — 

And  visibly  engirding  Mona’s  Isle 
That,  as  we  left  the  Plain,  before  our  sight 
Stood  like  a lofty  Mount,  uplifting  slowly 
(Above  the  convex  of  the  watery  globe) 

Into  clear  view  the  cultured  fields  that  streak 
Her  habitable  shores;  hut  now  appears 
A dwindled  object,  and  submits  to  lie 
At  the  Spectator’s  feet.  — Yon  azure  Ridge, 

Is  it  a perishable  cloud  ? Or,  there 
Do  we  behold  the  line  of  Erin’s  Coast? 

* Black  Comb  stands  at  llie  southern  c.'ttremity  of  Cumber- 
land: Its  base  covers  a much  greater  extent  of  ground  than  any 
other  mountain  in  tliese  parts;  and,  from  its  situation,  the  sum- 
mit commands  a more  extensive  view  than  any  other  point  in 
Britain. 


Land  sometimes  by  the  roving  shepherd-swain 
(Like  the  bright  confines  of  another  world) 

Not  doubtfully  perceived.  — Look  homeward  now 
In  depth,  in  height,  in  circuit,  how  serene 
The  spectacle,  how  pure!  — Of  Nature’s  works. 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  earth-embracing  sea, 

A revelation  infinite  it  seems; 

Display  august  of  man’s  inheritance. 

Of  Britain’s  calm  felicity  and  power! 


NUTTING. 

^It  seems  a day 

(I  speak  of  one  from  many  singled  out) 

One  of  those  heavenly  days  which  cannot  die; 
When,  in  the  eagerness  of  boyish  hope, 

I left  our  Cottage-threshold,  sallying  forth 
With  a huge  wallet  o’er  my  shoulders  slung, 

A nutting-crook  in  hand,  and  turned  my  steps 
loward  the  distant  woods,  a Figure  quaint. 

Tricked  out  in  proud  disguise  of  cast-off  weeds 
Which  for  that  service  had  been  husbanded. 

By  exhortation  of  my  frugal  Dame  ; 

IHotley  accoutrement,  of  power  to  smile 
At  thorns,  and  brakes,  and  brambles, — and,  in  truth 
More  ragged  than  need  was  ! Among  the  woods, 
And  o’er  the  pathless  rocks,  I forced  my  way 
Until,  at  length,  I came  to  one  dear  nook 
Un  visited,  where  not  a broken  bough 
Drooped  with  its  withered  leaves,  ungracious  sign 
Of  devastation,  but  the  hazels  rose 
Tall  and  erect,  with  milk-white  clusters  hung, 

A virgin  scene ! — A little  while  I stood. 

Breathing  with  such  suppression  of  the  heart 
As  joy  delights  in ; and,  with  wise  restraint 
Voluptuous,  fearless  of  a rival,  eyed 
The  banquet,  — or  beneath  the  trees  I sate 
Among  the  flowers,  and  with  the  flowers  I played, 

A temper  known  to  those,  who,  after  long 
And  weary  expectation,  have  been  blest 

With  sudden  happiness  beyond  all  hope. 

Perhaps  it  was  a bower  beneath  whose  leaves 
The  violets  of  five  seasons  re-appear 
And  fade,  unseen  by  any  human  eye; 

Where  fairy  water-breaks  do  murmur  on 
For  ever,  — and  I saw  the  sparkling  foam. 

And  with  my  cheek  on  one  of  tliose  green  stones 
That,  fleeced  with  moss,  beneath  the  shady  trees. 

Lay  round  me,  scattered  like  a flock  of  sheep, 

I heaid  the  murmur  and  tiie  murmuring  sound. 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 
Tribute  to  ease ; and,  of  its  joy  secure, 

Tlie  heart  luxuriates  witii  indifferent  things. 

Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones. 

And  on  the  vacant  air.  Then  up  I rose. 

And  dragged  to  earth  both  branch  and  bough,  with  crash 


166 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  merciless  ravage ; and  the  shady  nook 
Of  hazels,  and  the  green  and  mossy  bower, 
Deformed  and  sullied,  patiently  gave  up 
Their  quiet  being:  and,  unless  I now 
Confound  my  present  feelings  with  the  past. 
Even  then,  when  from  the  bower  I turned  away 
Exulting,  rich  beyond  the  wealth  of  kings, 

I felt  a sense  of  pain  when  I beheld 
The  silent  trees  and  the  intruding  sky.  — 

Then,  dearest  Maiden  ! move  along  these  shades 
In  gentleness  of  heart ; with  gentle  hand 
Touch  — for  there  is  a spirit  in  the  woods. 


She  was  a Phantom  of  delight 
Wlien  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 

A lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a moment’s  ornament; 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  Twiliglit  fair; 

Like  Twilight’s,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 

But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn ; 

A dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay. 

To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A Spirit,  yet  a Woman  too!  * 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty; 

A countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 

A Creature,  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrow.s,  simple  wiles. 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ; 

A Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A Traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 

A perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned. 

To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 

And  yet  a Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel  light. 


A song  in  mockery  and  despite 
Of  shades,  and  dews,  and  silent  Night; 
And  steady  bliss,  and  all  the  loves 
Now  sleeping  in  these  peaceful  Groves. 

I heard  a Stock-dove  sing  or  say 
Ilis  homely  tale,  this  very  day  ; 

His  voice  was  buried  among  trees. 

Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze : 

He  did  not  cease  ; but  cooed  — and  cooed  , 
And  somewhat  pensively  he  wooed  : 

He  sang  of  love  with  quiet  blending. 

Slow  to  begin,  and  never  ending  ; 

Of  serious  faith  and  inward  glee  ; 

That  was  the  Song  — the  Song  for  me  ! 


Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower 
Then  Nature  said,  “ A lovelier  flower 
On  earth  was  never  sown ; 

This  Child  I to  myself  will  take ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I will  make 
A Lady  of  my  own. 

Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 
Both  law  and  impulse:  and  with  me 
The  Girl,  in  rock  and  plain. 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bowei, 
Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 
To  kindle  or  restrain. 

She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  Fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs; 

And  her’s  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  hers  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 

The  Floating  Clouds  their  state  shall  lend 
To  her;  for  her  the  willow  bend: 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 
Even  in  the  motions  of  the  Storm 
Grace  that  shall  mould  the  Maiden’s  form 
By  silent  sympathy. 

The  Stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 
To  her;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 
In  many  a secret  place 
Where  Rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round 
And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 
Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

And  vital  feelings  of  delight 
Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I will  give 
While  she  and  I together  live 
Here  in  this  happy  Dell.” 


O Nightingale  ! thou  surely  art 
A Creature  of  a fiery  heart:  — 

These  notes  of  thine  — they  pierce  and  pierce; 
Tumultuous  harmony  and  fierce  ! 

Thou  sing’st  as  if  the  God  of  wine 
Had  helped  thee  to  a Valentine; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


IGT 


Thus  Nature  spake  — The  work  was  done  — 
How  soon  my  Lucy’s  race  was  run ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath,  this  calm,  and  quiet  scene; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  bo. 


A SLUMBER  did  my  spirit  seal , 

I had  no  human  fears: 

She  seemed  a thing  that  could  not  feel 
The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees. 

Rolled  round  in  eartli’s  diurnal  course 
\Vith  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees ! 


THE  HORN  OF  EGREMONT  CASTLE. 

When  the  Brothers  reached  the  gateway, 

Eustace  pointed  with  his  lance 

To  the  Horn  which  there  was  hanging; 

Horn  of  the  inheritance. 

Horn  it  was  which  none  could  sound. 

No  one  upon  living  ground. 

Save  He  who  came  as  rightful  Heir 
To  Egremont’s  Domains  and  Castle  fair. 

Heirs  from  ages  without  record 
Had  the  House  of  Lucie  born. 

Who  of  right  had  claimed  the  Lordship 
By  the  proof  upon  the  Horn: 

Each  at  the  appointed  hour 

Tried  the  Horn,  — it  owned  his  power; 

He  was  acknowledged : and  the  blast. 

Which  good  Sir  Eustace  sounded,  w'as  the  last. 

With  his  lance  Sir  Eustace  pointed, 

And  to  Hubert  thus  said  he, 

“ What  I speak  this  Horn  shall  witness 
For  thy  better  memory. 

Hear,  then,  and  neglect  me  not! 

At  this  time,  and  on  this  spot. 

The  words  are  uttered  from  my  heart. 

As  my  last  earnest  prayer  ere  we  depart. 

On  good  service  we  are  going 
Life  to  risk  by  sea  and  land, 

In  which  course  if  Christ  our  Saviour 
Do  my  sinful  soul  demand. 

Hither  come  thou  back  straightway, 

Hubert,  if  alive  that  day; 

Return,  and  sound  the  Horn,  that  we 
May  have  a living  House  still  left  in  thee !” 


“Fear  not,”  quickly  answered  Hubert; 

“ As  I am  thy  Father’s  son, 

What  thou  askest,  noble  Brother, 

With  God’s  favour  shall  be  done.” 

So  were  both  right  well  content: 

From  the  Castle  forth  they  went. 

And  at  the  head  of  their  Array 
To  Palestine  the  Brothers  took  their  way. 

Side  by  side  they  fought  (the  Lucies 
Were  a line  for  valour  famed) 

And  where’er  their  strokes  alighted, 

There  the  Saracens  were  tamed. 

Whence,  then,  could  it  come  — the  thought  — 

By  what  evil  spirit  brought  I 

Oh ! can  a brave  Man  wish  to  take 

His  Brother’s  life,  for  Lands’  and  Castle’s  sake* 

“Sir!”  the  Ruffians  said  to  Hubert, 

“Deep  he  lies  in  Jordan  flood.” 

Stricken  by  this  ill  assurance. 

Pale  and  trembling  Hubert  stood. 

“ Take  your  earnings.”  — Oh  ! that  I 
Could  have  seen  my  Brother  die ! 

It  was  a pang  that  vexed  him  then; 

And  oft  returned,  again,  and  yet  again. 

Months  passed  on,  and  no  Sir  Eustace! 

Nor  of  him  were  tidings  heard. 

Wherefore,  bold  as  day,  the  Murderer 
Back  again  to  England  steered. 

To  his  Castle  Hubert  sped; 

He  has  nothing  now  to  dread. 

But  silent  and  by  stealth  he  came. 

And  at  an  hour  which  nobody  could  name. 

None  could  tell  if  it  were  night-time, 

Night  or  day,  at  even  or  morn; 

For  the  sound  was  heard  by  no  one 
Of  the  proclamation-horn. 

But  bold  Hubert  lives  in  glee: 

Months  and  years  went  smilingly ; 

With  plenty  was  his  table  spread  ; 

And  bright  the  Lady  is  who  shares  his  bet. 

Likewise  he  had  Sons  and  Daughters; 

And,  as  good  men  do,  he  sate 
At  his  board  by  these  surrounded, 

Flourishing  in  fair  estate. 

And  while  thus  in  open  day 
Once  he  sate,  as  old  books  say, 

A blast  was  uttered  from  the  Horn, 

Where  by  the  Castle-gate  it  hung  forlorn, 

’T  is  the  breath  of  good  Sir  Eustace ! 

He  is  come  to  claim  his  right: 

Ancient  Castle,  Woods,  and  Mountains 
Hear  the  challenge  with  delight 


IG8 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Hubert ! though  the  blast  be  blown, 

He  is  helpless  and  alone: 

Thou  hast  a dungeon,  speak  the  word ! 

And  there  he  may  be  lodged,  and  thou  be  Lord. 

Speak  ! — astounded  Hubert  cannot ; 

And,  if  power  to  speak  he  had, 

All  are  daunted,  all  the  household 
Smitten  to  tlie  heart,  and  sad. 

’T  is  Sir  Eustace  ; if  it  be 
Living  Man,  it  must  be  he  I 
Thus  Hubert  thought  in  his  dismay. 

And  by  a Postern-gate  he  slunk  away. 

Long,  and  long  was  he  unheard  of: 

To  his  Brother  then  he  came. 

Made  confession,  asked  forgiveness. 

Asked  it  by  a brother’s  name, 

.\nd  by  all  the  saints  in  heaven  ; 

And  of  Eustace  was  forgiven : 

Then  in  a Convent  went  to  hide 

His  melancholy  head,  and  there  he  died. 

But  Sir  Eustace,  whom  good  angels 
Had  preserved  from  Murderers’  hands. 

And  from  Pagan  chains  had  rescued. 

Lived  with  honour  on  his  lands. 

Sons  he  had,  saw  Sons  of  theirs: 

.And  through  ages.  Heirs  of  Heirs, 

A long  posterity  renowned. 

Sounded  tlie  Horn  which  tb.ey  alone  could  sound. 


GOODY  BLAKE  AND  HARRY  GILL. 
A TRUE  STORY. 

Oh  ! what’s  the  matter?  what’s  the  matter? 
What  is’t  that  ails  young  Harry  Gill? 
That  evermore  his  teeth  they  chatter, 
Chatter,  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Of  waistcoats  Harry  has  no  lack. 

Good  duffle  gray,  and  flannel  fine ; 

He  has  a blanket  on  his  back. 

And  coats  enough  to  smother  nine. 

In  March,  December,  and  in  July, 

’Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill; 

The  neighbours  tell,  and  tell  you  truly. 
His  teetli  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 

At  night,  at  morning,  and  at  noon, 

’Tis  all  the  same  with  Harry  Gill; 
Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  moon. 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still ! 

Young  Harry  w'as  a lusty  drover. 

And  who  so  stout  of  limb  as  he? 

His  cheeks  were  red  as  ruddy  clover; 

His  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  three. 


Old  Goody  Blake  was  old  and  poor; 

111  fed  she  was,  and  thinly  clad; 

And  any  man  who  passed  her  door 
Might  see  how  poor  a hut  she  had. 

All  day  she  spun  in  her  poor  dwelling; 
And  then  her  three  hours’  work  at  night, 
Alas!  ’twas  hardly  worth  the  telling. 

It  would  not  pay  for  candle-light. 

Remote  from  sheltering  village  green. 

On  a hill’s  northern  side  she  dwelt. 
Where  from  sea-blasts  the  hawthorns  lean 
And  hoary  dews  are  slow  to  melt. 

By  the  same  fire  to  boil  their  pottage,  , 
Two  poor  old  Dames,  as  I have  known. 
Will  often  live  in  one  small  cottage; 

But  she,  poor  Woman ! housed  alone. 
’Twas  well  enough  when  summer  came, 
The  long,  warm,  lightsome  summer-day. 
Then  at  her  door  the  canly  Dame 
V/ould  sit,  as  any  linnet  gay. 

But  when  the  ice  oor  streams  did  fetter. 
Oh ! then  how  her  old  bones  would  shake, 
You  would  have  said,  if  you  had  met  her, 
’T  was  a hard  time  for  Goody  Blake. 

Her  evenings  then  were  dull  and  dead! 
Sad  case  it  was,  as  you  may  think, 

For  very  cold  to  go  to  bed ; 

And  then  for  cold  not  sleep  a wink. 

O joy  for  her!  whene’er  in  winter 
The  winds  at  night  had  made  a rout; 

And  scattered  many  a lusty  splinter 
And  many  a rotten  bough  about. 

Yet  never  had  she,  well  or  sick. 

As  every  man  who  knew  her  says, 

A pile  beforehand,  turf  or  stick. 

Enough  to  warm  her  for  three  days. 

Now,  when  the  frost  was  past  enduring. 
And  made  her  poor  old  bones  to  ache. 

Could  any  thing  be  more  alluring 
Than  an  old  hedge  to  Goody  Blake  1 
And,  now  and  then,  it  must  be  said, 

When  her  old  bones  were  cold  and  chill, 
She  left  her  fire,  or  left  her  betl. 

To  seek  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill. 

Now  Harry  he  had  long  suspected 
This  trespass  of  old  Goody  Blake; 

And  vowed  that  she  should  be  detected. 
And  he  on  her  would  vengeance  take. 

And  oft  from  his  warm  fire  he ’d  go, 

And  to  the  fields  his  road  would  take ; 
And  there,  at  night,  in  frost  and  snow. 

He  watched  to  seize  old  Goody  Blake. 


POEMS  OF  THE  niAGTNATION. 


1G9 


And  once,  behind  a rick  of  barley, 

Thus  looking  out  did  Harry  stand: 

The  moon  was  full  and  shining  clearly, 

And  crisp  with  frost  the  stubble  land. 

— He  hears  a noise  — he’s  all  awake 
Again  1 — on  tip-toe  down  the  hill 
He  softly  creeps  — ’T  is  Goody  Blake, 

She ’s  at  the  hedge  of  Harry  Gill ! 

Right  glad  was  he  when  he  beheld  her: 
Stick  after  stick  did  Goody  pull : 

He  stood  behind  a bush  of  elder, 

Till  she  had  filled  her  apron  full. 

When  with  her  load  she  turned  about, 

The  by-way  back  again  to  take ; 

He  started  forward  with  a shout. 

And  sprang  upon  poor  Goody  Blake. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  took  her, 

And  by  the  arm  he  held  her  fast. 

And  fiercely  by  the  arm  he  shook  her. 

And  cried,  “I’ve  caught  you  then  at  last!’’ 
Then  Goody  who  had  nothing  said, 

Her  bundle  from  her  lap  let  fall; 

And,  kneeling  on  the  sticks,  she  prayed, 

To  God  that  is  the  judge  of  all. 

She  prayed,  her  withered  hand  uprearing. 
While  Harry  held  her  by  the  arm  — 

“ God ! who  art  never  out  of  hearing, 

O may  he  never  more  be  warm  I” 

T1i3  cold,  cold  moon  above  her  head, 

Thus  on  her  knees  did  Goody  pray, 

Young  Harry  heard  what  she  had  said : 

And  icy  cold  he  turned  away. 

He  went  complaining  all  the  morrow 
That  he  was  cold  and  very  chill : 

His  face  was  gloom,  his  heart  was  sorrow, 
Alas!  that  day  for  Harry  Gill  ! 

That  day  he  wore  a riding-coat. 

But  not  a whit  the  warmer  he : 

Another  was  on  Thursday  brought. 

And  ere  the  Sabbath  he  had  three. 

’Twas  all  in  vain,  a useless  matter. 

And  blankets  were  about  him  pinned; 

Yet  still  his  jaws  and  teeth  they  clatter. 
Like  a loose  casement  in  the  wind. 

And  Harry’s  flesh  it  fell  away ; 

And  all  who  see  him  say,  ’t  is  plain. 

That,  live  as  long  as  live  he  may. 

He  never  will  be  warm  again. 

No  word  to  any  man  he  utters, 

A-bed  or  up,  to  young  or  old ; 

But  ever  to  himself  he  mutters, 

“Poor  Harry  Gill  is  very  cold.” 

W 


A-bed  or  up,  by  night  or  day  ; 

His  teeth  they  chatter,  chatter  still. 
Now  think,  ye  farmers  all,  I pray. 
Of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill ! 


I WANDERED  lonely  as  a Cloud 
That  floats  on  high  o’er  Vales  and  Hills, 
When  all  at  once  I saw  a crowd, 

A host  of  golden  Daffodils ; 

Pes’de  the  Lake,  beneath  the  trees, 
Flu*te'‘ing  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Contiguous  as  the  stars  that  shine 
And  twLnk’e  on  the  milky  way. 

They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  o.'’  a bay : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I at  a glance. 

Tossing  their  heads  in  s.pi'ght!y  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danaed,  but  they 
Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  iv  glee;  — 
A poet  could  not  but  be  gay. 

In  such  a jocund  company : 

I gazed  — and  gazed  — but  little  ih>  uoft 
What  wealth  the  show'  to  me  had  biough 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I lie 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood. 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude. 

And  then  my  heart  wuth  pleasure  fills. 
And  dances  with  the  Daffodils. 


THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN. 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  dayliglit  appear?. 
Hangs  a Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  three 
years : 

Poor  Susan  has  passed  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  Bird. 

’Tis  a note  of  enchantment;  what  ails  her?  She  sees 
A mountain  ascending,  a vision  of  trees; 

Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide. 

And  a river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  of  the  dale, 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripped  with  her  pail ; 
And  a single  small  Cottage,  a nest  like  a dove’s, 

The  one  only  Dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  Heart  is  in  heaven : but  they  fade 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade : 

The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise. 
And  the  colours  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes, 
15 


170 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

An  Orpheus!  an  Orpheus!  — yes,  Faith  may  grow 
bold, 

And  take  to  herself  all  the  wonders  of  old ; — 

Near  the  stately  Pantheon  you  ’ll  meet  with  the  same 
In  the  street  that  from  Oxford  hath  borrowed  its  name. 

His  station  is  there ; — and  he  works  on  the  crowd, 

He  sways  them  with  harmony  merry  and  loud ; 

He  fills  with  his  power  all  their  hearts  to  the  brim  — 
Was  aught  ever  heard  like  his  Fiddle  and  him  ? 

W'hat  an  eager  assembly  ! what  an  empire  is  this ! 
The  weary  have  life,  and  the  hungry  have  bliss ; 

The  mourner  is  cheered,  and  the  anxious  have  rest ; 
And  the  guilt-burthened  soul  is  no  longer  opprest. 

As  the  Moon  brightens  round  her  the  clouds  of  the 
night. 

So  he,  where  he  stands,  is  a centre  of  light; 

It  gleams  on  the  face,  there,  of  dusky-browed  Jack, 
And  the  pale-visaged  Baker’s,  with  basket  on  back. 

That  errand-bound  ’Prentice  was  passing  in  haste  — 
What  matter ! he ’s  caught  — and  his  time  runs  to 
waste  — 

The  Newsman  is  stopped,  though  he  stops  on  the  fret. 
And  the  half-b’'eathless  Lamplighter  — he ’s  in  the  net ! 

The  Porter  siis  down  on  the  weight  which  he  bore ; 
The  Lass  with  her  barrow  wheels  hither  her  store ; — 
If  a Thief  could  be  here,  ho  might  pilfer  at  ease ; 

She  sees  the  Musician,  ’tis  all  that  she  sees! 

He  stands,  backed  by  the  Wall;  — he  abates  not 
his  din ; 

His  hat  gives  him  vigour,  with  boons  dropping  in, 
From  the  Old  and  the  Young,  from  the  Poorest ; and 
there ! 

Tire  one-pennied  Boy  has  his  penny  to  spare. 

0 blest  are  the  Hearers,  and  proud  be  the  Hand 

Of  the  pleasure  it  spreads  through  so  thankful  a Band; 

1 am  glad  for  him,  blind  as  he  is ! — all  the  while 

If  they  speak  ’tis  to  praise,  and  they  praise  with  a 
smile. 

That  tall  Man,  a Giant  in  bulk  and  in  height. 

Not  an  inch  of  his  body  is  free  from  delight ; 

Can  he  keep  himself  still,  if  he  would  1 oh,  not  he ! 
The  music  stirs  in  him  like  wind  through  a tree. 

Mark  that  Cripple  who  leans  on  his  Crutch ; like  a 
Tower 

That  long  has  leaned  forward,  leans  hour  after  hour ! — 
That  Mother,  whose  Spirit  in  fetters  is  bound, 

IVhile  she  dandles  the  Babe  in  her  arms  to  the  sound. 


Now,  Coaches  and  Chariots  ! roar  on  like  a stream 
Here  are  twenty  souls  happy  as  souls  in  a dream : 
They  are  deaf  to  your  murmurs  — they  care  r.ot  for 
you  I 

Nor  what  ye  are  flying,  nor  what  you  pursue ! 


STAR-GAZERS. 

What  crowd  is  this?  what  have  we  here?  we  must 
not  pass  it  by; 

A Telescope  upon  its  frame,  and  pointed  to  the  sky : 

Long  is  it  as  a Barber’s  Pole,  or  Mast  of  little  Boat, 

Some  little  Pleasure-skiff,  that  doth  on  , Thames’s 
waters  float. 

The  Showman  chooses  well  his  place,  ’t  is  Leicester’s 
busy  square; 

And  is  as  happy  in  his  night,  for  the  heavens  are  blue 
and  fair; 

Calm,  though  impatient,  is  the  Crowd;  each  stands 
ready  with  the  fee. 

Impatient  till  his  moment  comes  — what  an  insight 
must  it  be ! 

Yet,  Showman,  where  can  lie  the  cause  ? Shall  thy 
Implement  have  blame, 

A Boaster,  that  when  he  is  tried,  fails,  and  is  put  to 
shame  ? 

Or  is  it  good  as  others  are,  and  be  their  eyes  in  fault? 

Their  eyes,  or  minds?  or,  finally,  is  yon  resplendent 
Vault? 

Is  nothing  of  that  radiant  pomp  so  good  as  we  have 
here  ? 

Or  gives  a thing  but  small  delight  that  never  can  be 
dear  ? 

The  silver  Moon,  with  all  her  Vales,  and  Hills  of 
mightiest  fame, 

Doth  she  betray  us  when  they  ’re  seen  ? or  are  they 
but  a name? 

Or  is  it  rather  that  Conceit  rapacious  is  and  strong, 

And  Bounty  never  yields  so  much  but  it  seems  to  do 
her  wrong? 

Or  is  it,  that  when  human  Souls  a journey  long  have 
had 

And  are  returned  into  themselves,  they  cannot  but 
be  sad? 

Or  must  we  be  constrained  to  think  that  these  Specta- 
tors rude. 

Poof  in  estate,  of  manners  base,  men  of  the  multitude, 

Have  souls  which  never  yet  have  risen,  and  therefore 
prostrate  lie? 

No,  no,  this  cannot  be  — Men  thirst  for  power  and 
majesty ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


171 


Does,  then,  a deep  and  earnest  thought  the  blissful 
mind  employ 

Of  him  who  gazes,  or  has  gazed '!  a grave  and  steady 

joy. 

That  doth  reject  all  show  of  pride,  admits  no  outward 
sign. 

Because  not  of  this  noisy  world,  but  silent  and  divine  ! 

Wlratever  be  the  cause,  ’t  is  sure  that  they  who  pry 
and  pore 

Seem  to  meet  with  little  gain,  seem  less  happy  than 
before : 

One  after  One  they  take  their  turn,  nor  have  I one 
espied 

That  doth  not  slackly  go  away,  as  if  dissatisfied. 


THE  HAUNTED  TREE. 

TO . 

Those  silver  clouds  collected  round  the  sun 
Ilis  mid-day  warmth  abate  not,  seeming  less 
To  overshade  than  multiply  his  beams 
By  soft  reflection  — grateful  to  the  sky. 

To  rocks,  fields,  woods.  Nor  doth  our  human  sense 
Ask,  for  its  pleasure,  screen  or  canopy 
More  ample  than  the  time-dismantled  Oak 
Spreads  o’er  this  tuft  of  heath,  which  now,  attired 
In  the  whole  fulness  of  its  bloom,  affords 
Couch  beautiful  as  e’er  for  earthly  use 
Was  fashioned  ; whether  by  the  hand  of  Art, 

That  Eastern  Sultan,  amid  flowers  enwrought 
On  silken  tissue,  might  diffuse  his  limbs 
In  languor ; or,  by  Nature,  for  repose 
Of  panting  Wood-nymph,  wearied  by  the  chase. 

O Lady ! fairer  in  thy  Poet’s  sight 
Than  fairest  spiritual  Creature  of  the  groves. 
Approach  — and,  thus  invited,  crown  with  rest 
The  noon-tide  hour : — though  truly  some  there  are 
Whose  footsteps  suporstitiously  avoid 
This  venerable  Tree;  for,  when  the  wind 
Blows  keenly,  it  sends  forth  a creaking  sound 
(Above  the  general  roar  of  woods  and  crags) 
Distinctly  heard  from  far  — a doleful  note! 

As  if  (so  Grecian  shepherds  would  have  deemed) 
The  Hamadryad,  pent  within,  bewailed 
Some  bitter  wrong.  Nor  is  it  unbelieved. 

By  ruder  fancy,  that  a troubled  Ghost 
Haunts  this  old  Trunk;  lamenting  deeds  of  which 
The  flowery  ground  is  conscious.  But  no  wind 
Sweeps  now  along  this  elevated  ridge  ; 

Not  even  a zephyr  stirs  ; — the  obnoxious  Tree 
Is  mute,  — and,  in  his  silence  would  look  down, 

O lovely  Wanderer  of  the  trackless  hills. 

On  thy  reclining  form  with  more  delight 
Than  his  Coevals,  in  the  sheltered  vale 


Seem  to  participate,  the  whilst  they  view 
Their  own  far-stretching  arms  and  leafy  heads 
Vividly  pictured  in  some  glassy  pool. 

That,  for  a brief  space,  checks  the  hurrying  stream ! 


WRITTEN  IN  MARCH, 

WHILE  RESTING  ON  THE  BRIDGE  AT  THE  FOOT  Of 
BROTHER'S  WATER. 

The  cock  is  crowing. 

The  stream  is  flowing. 

The  small  birds  twitter. 

The  lake  doth  glitter. 

The  green  field  sleeps  in  the  sun ; 

The  oldest  and  youngest 
Are  at  work  with  the  strongest ; 

The  cattle  are  grazing. 

Their  heads  never  raising; 

There  are  forty  feeding  like  one ! 

Like  an  army  defeated 
The  Snow  hath  retreated. 

And  now  doth  fare  ill 
On  the  top  of  the  bare  hill ; 

The  Ploughhoy  is  whooping — anon — anon : 
There’s  joy  in  the  mountains; 

There’s  life  in  the  fountains; 

Small  clouds  are  sailing. 

Blue  sky  prevailing ; 

The  rain  is  over  and  gone! 


GIPSIES. 

Yet  are  they  here  the  same  unbroken  knot 
Of  human  Beings,  in  the  self-same  spot ! 

Men,  Women,  Children,  yea  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  Spectacle  the  same  ! 

Only  their  fire  seems  bolder,  yielding  light. 

Now  deep  and  red,  the  colouring  of  night ; 

That  on  their  Gipsy-faces  falls. 

Their  bed  of  straw  and  blanket-walls. 

— Twelve  hours,  twelve  bounteous  hours,  are  gone 
while  I 

Have  been  a Traveller  under  open  sky. 

Much  witnessing  of  change  and  cheer. 

Yet  as  I left  I find  them  here! 

The  weary  Sun  betook  himself  to  rest. 

— Then  issued  Vesper  from  the  fulgent  West 
Outshining  like  a visible  God 
The  glorious  path  in  which  he  trod. 

And  now,  ascending,  after  one  dark  hour 
And  one  night’s  diminution  of  her  power. 

Behold  the  mighty  Moon ! this  way 
She  looks  as  if  at  them  — but  they 


172 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Regard  not  her:  — oh  better  wrong  and  strife, 
(By  nature  transient)  than  such  torpid  life; 

Life  which  the  very  stars  reprove 
As  on  their  silent  task  they  move  ! 

Yet,  witness  all  that  stirs  in  heaven  or  earth! 
In  scorn  I speak  not : — they  are  what  theii  birth 
And  breeding  suffers  them  to  be; 

Wild  outcasts  of  society  ! 


BEGGARS. 

Before  my  eyes  a Wanderer  stood; 

Her  face  from  summer’s  noon-day  heat 
Nor  bonnet  shaded,  nor  the  hood 
Of  that  blue  cloak  which  to  her  feet 
Depended  with  a graceful  flow ; 

Only  she  wore  a cap  as  white  as  new-fallen  snow. 

Her  skin  was  of  Egyptian  brown  ; 

Haughty  as  if  her  eye  had  seen 
Its  own  light  to  a distance  thrown. 

She  towered  — fit  person  for  a Queen, 

To  head  those  ancient  Amazonian  files: 

Or  ruling  Bandit’s  wife  among  the  Grecian  Isles. 

She  begged  an  alms  no  scruple  checked 
The  current  of  her  ready  plea, 

Words  that  could  challenge  no  respect 
But  from  a blind  credulity ; 

And  yet  a boon  I gave  her  ; for  the  Creature 
Was  beautiful  to  see  — a weed  of  glorious  feature  ! 

I left  her,  and  pursued  my  way ; 

And  soon  before  me  did  espy 
A pair  of  little  Boys  at  play, 

Chasing  a crimson  butterfly  ; 

The  Taller  followed  with  his  hat  in  hand. 

Wreathed  round  with  yellow  flowers  the  gayest  of  the 
land. 

The  Other  wore  a rimless  crown 
With  leaves  of  laurel  stuck  about ; 

And,  while  both  followed  up  and  down, 

Each  whooping  with  a merry  shout. 

In  their  fraternal  features  I could  trace 
Unquestionable  lines  of  that  wild  Suppliant’s  face. 

Yet  they,  so  blitne  of  heart,  seemed  fit 
For  finest  tasks  of  earth  or  air: 

Wings  let  them  have,  and  they  might  flit 
Precursors  of  Aurora’s  Car, 

Scattering  fresh  flowers ; though  happier  far,  I ween. 
To  hunt  their  fluttering  game  o’er  rock  and  level 
green. 


They  dart  across  my  path  — but  lo. 

Each  ready  with  a plaintive  whine ! 

Said  I,  “ not  half  an  hour  ago 
Your  Mother  has  had  alms  of  mine.” 

“ That  cannot  be,”  one  answered  — “ she  is  dead  :”  — 
I looked  reproof — they  saw  — but  neither  hung  his 
head. 

” She  has  been  dead.  Sir,  many  a day.”  — 

“Sweet  Boys!  Heaven  hears  that  rash  reply; 

It  was  your  Mother,  as  I say !” 

And,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 

“Come!  come!”  cried  one,  and  without  more  ado, 
Off  to  some  other  play  the  joyous  Vagrants  flew ! 


SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING, 

COMPOSED  MANY  YEARS  AFTER. 

Where  are  they  now,  those  v.-anton  Boys! 

For  whose  free  range  the  daedal  earth 
Was  filled  with  animated  toys. 

And  implements  of  fVolic  mirth ; 

With  tools  for  ready  wit  to  guide; 

And  ornaments  of  seemlier  pride. 

More  fresh,  more  bright,  than  Princes  w'ear. 
For  what  one  moment  flung  aside. 

Another  could  repair; 

What  good  or  evil  have  they  seen 
Since  I their  pastime  witnessed  here. 

Their  daring  wiles,  their  sportive  cheer? 

I ask — but  all  is  dark  between! 

Spirits  of  beauty  and  of  grace  ! 

Associates  in  that  eager  chase; 

Ye.  by  a course  lo  nature  true. 

The  sterner  judgment  can  subdue ; 

And  waken  a relenting  smile 
When  she  encounters  fraud  or  guile; 

And  sometimes  ye  can  charm  away 
The  inward  mischief,  or  allay. 

Ye,  who  within  the  blameless  mind 
Your  favourite  seat  of  empire  find! 

They  met  me  in  a genial  hour. 

When  universal  nature  breathed 

As  with  the  breath  of  one  sweet  flower,— 

A time  to  overrule  the  power 
Of  discontent,  and  check  the  birth 
Of  thoughts  with  better  thoughts  at  strife. 

The  most  familiar  bane  of  life 
Since  parting  Innocence  bequeathed 
ISIortality  to  Earth  ! 

Soft,  clouds,  the  whitest  of  the  year. 

Sailed  through  the  sky  — the  brooks  ran  clear; 
The  lambs  from  rock  to  rock  were  bounding* 
With  songs  the  budded  groves  resounding. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


173 


And  to  my  heart  is  still  endeared 
Tlie  faith  with  which  it  then  was  cheered ; 
The  faith  which  saw  that  gladsome  pair 
Walk  through  the  fire  with  unsinged  hair. 
Or,  if  such  thoughts  must  needs  deceive, 
Kind  Spirits ! may  we  not  believe 
That  they,  so  happy  and  so  fair. 

Through  your  sweet  influence  and  the  care 
Of  pitying  Heaven,  at  least  were  free 
From  touch  of  deadly  injury  7 
Destined,  whate’er  their  earthly  doom. 

For  mercy  and  immortal  bloom  ! 


RUTH. 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate. 

Her  Father  took  another  Mate ; 

And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 

A slighted  Child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill. 

In  thoughtless  freedom  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a Pipe  of  straw. 

And  from  that  oaten  Pipe  could  draw 
All  sounds  of  winds  and  floods ; 

Had  built  a bower  upon  the  green. 

As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  Father’s  roof,  alone 

She  seemed  to  live ; her  thoughts  her  own ; 

Herself  her  own  delight; 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad,  nor  gay ; 

And,  passing  tlius  the  live-long  day, 

She  grew  to  Woman’s  height. 

There  came  a Youth  from  Georgia’s  shore 
A military  Casque  he  wore. 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokces ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze. 

And  made  a gallant  crest. 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung: 
Ah  no!  he  spake  the  English  tongue. 

And  bore  a Soldier’s  name; 

And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy. 

He  ’cro.ss  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek 
In  finest  tones  the  Youth  could  speak: 

— While  he  was  yet  a Boy, 

The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

And  streams  that  murmur  as  liiey  run, 

Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 


He  was  a lovely  Youth ! I guess 
The  panther  in  the  Wilderness 
Was  not  so  fair  as  he ; 

And,  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play. 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 
Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear 
Such  tales  as  told  to  any  Maid 
By  such  a Youth,  in  the  green  shade. 

Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  Girls  — a happy  rout! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout. 
Their  pleasant  Indian  Town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long; 

Returning  witli  a choral  song 
When  dayliglit  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  divine  and  strange 
That  every  hour  their  blossoms  change, 

Ten  thousand  lovely  hues ! 

With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  Magnolia*,  spread 
High  as  a cloud,  high  over  head ! 

The  Cypress  and  her  spire; 

— Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire.f 

The  Youth  of  green  savannahs  spake. 

And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake. 

With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

And  then  he  said,  “How  sweet  it  were 
A fisher  or  a hunter  there, 

A gardener  in  the  shade. 

Still  wandering  with  an  easy  mind 
To  build  a household  fire,  and  find 
A home  in  every  glade ! 

“ What  days  and  what  sw’eet  years  ! Ah  me  ! 

Our  life  w'ere  life  indeed,  with  thee 
So  passed  in  quiet  bliss. 

And  all  the  while,’’  said  he,  “ to  know 
That  we  were  in  a w’orld  of  woe. 

On  such  an  earth  as  this  !’’ 

* Magnolia  grandinora. 

tTho  splendid  appearance  of  these  scarlet  flowers,  which  ar  > 
scattered  with  such  profusion  over  the  Hills  in  the  Southern 
p.arts  of  North  America,  is  frequently  mentioned  by  Bartram  in 
his  Travels. 


15 


174 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a Father’s  love : 

“For  there,”  said  lie,  “are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties. 

That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

“Sweet  Ruth!  and  could  you  go  with  me 
My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be. 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  Bride, 

A sylvan  Huntress  at  my  side. 

And  drive  the  flying  deer ! 

“Beloved  Ruth!”  — No  more  he  said. 

The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A solitary  tear: 

She  thought  again  — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea. 

And  drive  the  flying  deer. 

“And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right. 

We  in  the  Church  our  faith  will  plight, 

A Husband  and  a Wife.” 

Even  so  they  did ; and  I may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That  on  those  lonesome  floods. 

And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

But,  as  you  have  before  been  told. 

This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold. 
And  with  his  dancing  crest 
So  Beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roamed  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  w’ind,  the  tempest  roaring  high. 

The  tumult  of  a tropic  sky. 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 
For  him,  a Youth  to  whom  was  given 
So  much  of  earth  — so  much  of  Heaven, 
And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 
Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 
Did  to  his  mind  impart 
A kindred  impulse,  seemed  allied 
To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 
The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought. 

The  beauteous  forms  of  nature  wrought. 
Fair  trees  and  lovely  flowers; 


The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent; 

The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  gorgeous  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent : 

For  passions  linked  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw. 

With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known ; 

Deliberately,  and  undeceived. 

Those  wild  men’s  vices  he  received, 

And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impaired,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires : 

A Man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feigned  delight 
Had  wooed  the  Maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn  : 

What  could  he  less  than  love  a Maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  played  ? 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ! 

Sometimes,  most  earnestly,  he  said, 

“ O Ruth ! I have  been  worse  than  dead ; 
False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain. 
Encompassed  me  on  every  side 
When  first,  in  confidence  and  pride, 

I crossed  the  Atlantic  Main. 

“ It  was  a fresh  and  glorious  world, 

A banner  bright  that  was  unfurled 
Before  me  suddenly  : 

I looked  upon  those  hills  and  plains. 

And  seemed  as  if  let  loose  from  chains. 
To  live  at  liberty. 

“ But  wherefore  speak  of  this  I For  now. 
Sweet  Ruth ! with  thee,  I know  not  how, 
I feel  my  spirit  burn  — 

Even  as  the  east  when  day  comes  forth : 
And,  to  the  west,  and  south,  and  nr'tli, 
The  morning  doth  return.” 

Full  soon  that  purer  mind  w'as  gone 
No  hope,  no  wish  remained,  not  one, — 
They  stirred  him  now  no  more ; 

New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 

And  once  again  he  wished  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared, 

They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared. 

And  went  to  the  sea-shore  ; 

But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  Youth 
Deserted  his  poor  Bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

“God  help  thee,  Ruth Such  pains  she  had 
That  she  in  a half  a year  was  mad. 

And  in  a prison  housed  ; 

And  there  she  sang  tumultuous  songs. 

By  recollection  of  her  wrongs 
To  fearful  passion  roused 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew. 

Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew. 

Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 

—They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell  ; 

And  a wild  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o’er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain. 
There  came  a respite  to  her  pain; 

She  from  her  prison  fled; 

But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought; 

And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 


If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food. 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 
Repairs  to  a road-side ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place 
Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 
The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  Pipe  of  hers  is  mute. 

Or  thrown  away;  but  with  a flute 
Her  loneliness  she  cheers ; 

This  flute,  made  of  a hemlock  stalk. 

At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 
The  Quantock  Woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  passed  her  on  the  hills 
Setting  her  little  water-mills 
By  spouts  and  fountains  wild  — 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turned 
Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourned, 
A young  and  happy  Child  ! 

Farewell ! and  when  thy  days  are  toid, 
Ill-fated  Ruth  ! in  hallowed  mould 
Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be ; 

For  thee  a funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 
A Christian  psalm  for  thee. 


Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again: 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 

And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone* 
There  did  she  rest;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 
That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools. 
And  airs  that  gently  stir 
The  vernal  leaves,  she  loved  them  still. 
Nor  ever  taxed  them  with  the  ill 
Which  had  been  done  to  her. 


A Barn  her  winter  bed  supplies  ; 

But,  till  tlie  warmth  of  summer  skies 
And  summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree) 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 
And  other  home  hath  none. 


An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day. 

Be  broken  down  and  old  : 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have!  but  less 
Of  mind,  than  body’s  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 


‘ The  Tone  is  a River  of  Somerselshire,  at  no  great  distance 
from  the  Quantock  Hills.  These  Hills,  which  are  alluded  to  a 
few  Stanzas  below,  are  extremely  beautiful,  and  in  most  places 
nchly  covered  with  coppice  woods. 


laodamia. 

“ With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn 
Vows  have  I made  by  fruitless  hope  inspired ; 

And  from  the  infernal  Gods,  mid  shades  forlorn 
Of  night,  my  slaughtered  Lord  have  I required  : 
Celestial  pity  I again  implore;  — 

Restore  him  to  my  sight  — great  Jove,  restore  I” 

So  speaking,  and  by  fervent  love  endowed 

With  faith,  the  Suppliant  heavenward  lifts  her  hands, 

WTtle,  like  the  Sun  emerging  from  a Cloud, 

Her  countenance  brightens  — and  her  eye  expands; 
Her  bosom  heaves  and  spreads,  her  stature  grows;’ 
And  she  expects  the  issue  in  repose. 

O terror  ! what  hath  she  perceived  1 — O joy  ! 

W’hat  doth  she  look  on  ? — whom  doth  she  behold  i 
Her  hero  slain  upon  the  beach  of  Troy  1 
His  vital  pre.sence — his  corporeal  mould  ? 

It  is  — if  sense  deceive  her  not — ’tis  He! 

And  a God  leads  him  — winged  Mercury  ! 

Mild  Hermes  spake  — and  touched  her  with  his  wand 
That  calms  all  fear,  “ Such  grace  hath  crowned  thy 
prayer, 

Laodamfa  ! that  at  Jove’s  command 
I Thy  Husband  walks  the  paths  of  upper  air: 


176 


AVORDSWORTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  comes  to  tarry  with  thee  three  hours’  space ; 
Accept  the  gift,  behold  him  face  to  face  !” 

Forth  sprang  the  impassioned  Queen  her  Lord  to  clasp ; 
Again  that  consummation  she  essayed ; 

But  unsubstantial  Form  eludes  her  grasp 
As  often  as  that  eager  grasp  was  made. 

The  Pliantom  parts  — but  parts  to  re-unite, 

And  re-assume  his  place  before  her  sight. 

“ Protesilaus,  lo ! thy  guide  is  gone  ! 

Confirm,  I pray,  the  Vision  with  thy  voice  : 

This  is  our  Palace,  — yonder  is  thy  throne; 

Speak,  and  the  floor  thou  treadest  on  will  rejoice. 

Not  to  appal  me  have  the  Gods  bestowed 
Tliis  precious  boon,  — and  blest  a sad  Abode.” 

“Great  Jove,  Laodamia  ! doth  not  leave 
llis  gifts  impel  feet;  — Spectre  though  I be, 

I am  not  sent  to  scare  thee  or  deceive ; 

But  in  reward  of  thy  fidelity. 

And  something  also  did  my  worth  obtain  ; 

For  fearless  virtue  bringeth  boundless  gain. 

‘Thou  knowest,  the  Delphic  oracle  foretold 
That  the  first  Greek  who  touched  the  Trojan  strand 
Should  die  ; but  me  the  threat  could  not  withliold ; 

A generous  cause  a Victim  did  demand ; 

And  forth  I leapt  upon  the  sandy  plain ; 

A self-devoted  chief — by  Hector  slain.” 

“Supreme  of  Heroes  — bravest,  noblest,  best! 

Thy  matchless  courage  I bewail  no  more, 

Wliich  then,  when  tens  of  thousands  were  deprest 
By  doubt,  propelled  thee  to  the  flital  shore  ; 

Thou  found’st  — and  I forgive  thee  — here  thou  art  — 
A nobler  counsellor  than  my  poor  heart. 

“ But  thou,  though  capable  of  sternest  deed, 

Wert  kind  as  resolute,  and  good  as  brave; 

And  he,  whose  power  restores  thee,  hath  decreed 
That  thou  should’st  cheat  tlie  malice  of  the  grave ; 
Redundant  are  thy  locks,  thy  lips  as  fair 
As  when  their  breath  enriched  Thessalian  air. 

“ No  Spectre  greets  me,  — no  vain  Shadow  this ; 
Come,  blooming  Hero,  place  thee  by  my  side ! 

Give,  on  this  well  known  couch,  one  nuptial  kiss 
To  me,  this  day,  a second  time  thy  bride !” 

Jove  frowned  in  heaven : the  conscious  Parcae  threw 
Upon  those  roseate  lips  a Stygian  hue. 

“This  visage  tells  thee  that  my  doom  is  past: 

Know,  virtue  were  not  virtue  if  the  joys 
Of  sense  were  able  to  return  as  fast 
And  surely  as  they  vanish.  — Earth  destroys 
Those  raptures  duly  — Erebus  disdains: 

Calm  pleasures  there  abide  — majestic  pains. 


“ Be  taught,  O faithful  Consort,  to  control 
Rebellious  passion : for  the  Gods  approve 
The  depth,  and  not  the  tumult,  of  the  soul; 

A fervent,  not  ungovernable  love. 

Thy  transports  moderate ; and  meekly  mourn 
When  I depart,  for  brief  is  my  sojourn  — ” 

“ Ah,  wherefore  1 — Did  not  Hercules  by  force 
Wrest  from  the  guardian  Monster  of  the  tomb 
Alcestis,  a reanimated  Corse, 

Given  back  to  dwell  on  earth  in  vernal  bloom  1 
Medea’s  spells  dispersed  the  weight  of  years. 

And  ^son  stood  a Youth  ’mid  youthful  peers. 

“ The  Gods  to  us  are  merciful  — and  they  , 

Yet  further  may  relent:  for  mightier  far 
Than  strength  of  nerve  and  sinew,  or  the  sway 
Of  magic  potent  over  sun  and  star. 

Is  love,  though  oft  to  agony  distrest. 

And  though  his  favourite  seat  be  feeble  Woman’s  breast, 

“But  if  thou  gocst,  I follow — ” “Peace!”  he  said  — 
She  looked  upon  him  and  was  calmed  and  cheered. 
The  ghastly  colour  from  his  lips  had  fled  ; 

In  his  deportment,  shape,  and  mien,  appeared 
Elysian  beauty,  melancholy  grace. 

Brought  from  a pensive  though  a happy  place. 

He  spake  of  love,  such  love  as  Spirits  feel 
In  worlds  whose  course  is  equable  and  pure  ; 

No  fears  to  beat  away  — no  strife  to  heal  — 

The  past  unsighed  for,  and  the  future  sure ; 

Spake  of  heroic  arts  in  graver  mood 
Revived,  with  finer  harmony  pursued  ; 

Of  all  that  is  most  beauteous — imaged  there 
In  happier  beauty  : more  pellucid  streams. 

An  ampler  ether,  a diviner  air. 

And  fields  invested  with  purpureal  gleams; 

Climes  which  the  sun,  who  sheds  the  brightest  day 
Earth  knows,  is  all  unworthy  to  survey. 

Yet  there  the  Soul  shall  enter  which  hath  earned 
That  privilege  by  virtue. — “111,”  said  he, 

“The  end  of  man’s  e.xistence  I discerned. 

Who  from  ignoble  games  and  revelry 

Could  draw,  when  we  had  parted,  vain  delight 

While  tears  were  thy  best  pastime  — day  and  night: 

And  while  my  youthful  peers,  before  my  eyes 
(Each  Hero  following  his  peculiar  bent) 

Prepared  themselves  for  glorious  enterprise 
By  martial  sports,  — or,  seated  in  the  tent. 

Chieftains  and  kings  in  council  were  detained  ; 

What  time  the  fleet  at  Aulis  lay  enchained. 

The  wished-for  wind  was  given:  — I then  revolved 
The  oracle,  upon  the  silent  sea ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


171 


And,  if  no  worthier  led  the  way,  resolved 
That,  of  a thousand  vessels,  mine  should  be 
The  foremost  prow  in  pressing  to  the  strand,  — 

Mine  the  first  blood  that  tinged  the  IVajan  sand. 

Yet  bitter,  oft-times  bitter,  was  the  pang 
When  of  thy  loss  I thought,  beloved  Wife ! 

On  thee  too  fondly  did  my  memory  hang. 

And  on  the  joys  we  shared  in  mortal  life, — 

The  paths  which  we  had  trod  — these  fountains  - 
flowers ; 

My  new-planned  Cities,  and  unfinished  Towers. 

But  should  suspense  permit  the  Foe  to  cry, 

‘ Behold  they  tremble  ! — haughty  their  array, 

Yet  of  their  number  no  one  dares  to  die  1 
In  soul  I swept  the  indignity  away : 

Old  frailties  then  recurred : — but  lofly  thought. 

In  act  embodied,  my  deliverance  wrought. 

And  thou,  though  strong  in  love,  art  all  too  weak 
In  reason,  in  self-government  too  slow ; 

I counsel  thee  by  fortitude  to  seek 
Our  blest  re-union  in  the  shades  below. 

The  invisible  world  with  thee  hath  sympathised ; 

Be  thy  affections  raised  and  solemnised. 

Learn  by  a mortal  yearning  to  ascend 
Towards  a higher  object.  — Love  was  given. 
Encouraged,  sanctioned,  chiefly  for  that  end  ; 

For  this  the  passion  to  excess  was  driven  — 

That  self  might  be  annulled  ; her  bondage  prove 
Tlie  fetters  of  a dream,  opposed  to  love.” 

Aloud  she  shrieked  ! for  Hermes  re-appears  ! 

Round  the  dear  shade  she  would  have  clung  — ’t  is  vain 
The  hours  are  past  — too  brief  had  they  been  years ; 
And  him  no  mortal  effort  can  detain  : 

Swift,  toward  the  realms  that  know  not  earthly  day, 
He  through  the  portal  takes  his  silent  way. 

And  on  the  palace  floor  a lifeless  corse  she  lay. 

By  no  weak  pity  might  the  Gods  be  moved  ; 

She  who  thus  perished,  not  without  the  crime 
Of  Lovers  that  in  Reason’s  spite  have  loved. 

Was  doomed  to  wear  out  her  appointed  time. 

Apart  from  happy  Ghosts  — that  gather  flowers 
Of  bli.ssful  quiet  ’mid  unfading  bowers. 

Yet  tears  to  human  suffering  are  due ; 

And  mortal  hopes  defeated  and  o’erthrown 
Are  mourned  by  man,  and  not  by  man  alone. 

As  fondly  he  believes.  — Upon  the  side 
Of  Hellespont  (such  faith  was  entertained) 

A knot  of  spiry  trees  for  ages  grew 

From  out  the  tomb  of  him  for  whom  she  died ; 


And  ever,  when  such  stature  they  had  gained 
That  Ilium’s  walls  were  subject  to  their  view. 
The  trees’  tall  summits  withered  at  the  sight; 
A constant  interchange  of  growth  and  blight  !* 


THE  TRIAD. 

Show  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time 
Whose  trembling  fancy  would  to  love  give  birth; 
Some  God  or  Hero,  from  the  Olympian  clime 
Returned,  to  seek  a Consort  upon  earth ; 

Or,  in  no  doubtful  prospect,  let  me  see 
The  brightest  star  of  ages  yet  to  be. 

And  I will  mate  and  match  him  blissfully. 

I I will  not  fetch  a Naiad  from  a flood 
' Pure  as  herself — (song  lacks  not  mightier  power) 

! Nor  leaf-crowned  Dryad  from  a pathless  wood, 

I Nor  Sea-nymph  glistening  from  her  coral  bower; 
Mere  Mortals  bodied  forth  in  vision  still. 

Shall  with  Mount  Ida’s  triple  lustre  fill 
The  chaster  coverts  of  a British  hill. 

“Appear!  — obey  my  lyre’s  command! 

Come,  like  the  Graces,  hand  in  hand ! 

For  ye,  though  not  by  birth  allied. 

Are  Sisters  in  the  bond  of  love ; 

And  not  the  boldest  tongue  of  envious  pride 
In  you  those  intorweavings  could  reprove 
Which  They,  the  progeny  of  Jove, 

Learnt  from  the  tuneful  spheres  that  glide 
In  endless  union  earth  and  sea  above.”  — 

— I speak  in  vain,  — the  pines  have  hushed  their 
waving : 

A peerless  Youth  expectant  at  my  side. 

Breathless  as  they,  with  unabated  craving 
Looks  to  the  earth,  and  to  the  vacant  air ; 

And,  with  a wandering  eye  that  seems  to  chide. 

Asks  of  the  clouds  what  Occupants  they  hide:  — 

But  why  solicit  more  than  sight  could  bear. 

By  casting  on  a moment  all  we  dare  1 
Invoke  we  those  bright  Beings  one  by  one. 

And  what  was  boldly  promised,  truly  shall  be  done. 

“ Fear  not  this  constraining  measure ! 

Drawn  by  a poetic  spell, 

Lucida!  from  domes  of  pleasure. 

Or  from  cottage-sprinkled  dell, 

* For  Ihe  account  of  these  long-lived  trees,  see  Pliny's  Natu- 
ral History,  lib.  xvi.  cap.  44. ; and  for  the  features  in  the  charac 
ter  of  Prolcsilaus,  see  the  Iphigenia  in  Aulis  of  Euripides.  Virgil 
places  ihe  Shade  of  I.aodamia  in  a mournful  region,  among  un- 
liappy  Lovers, 

Ilis  Laodamia 

It  Cornea. 


178 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Come  to  regions  solitary, 

Where  the  eagle  builds  her  aery, 

Above  the  hermit’s  long-forsaken  cell !” 

— She  comes  ! — behold 

That  Figure,  like  a ship  with  silver  sail ! 

Nearer  she  draws  — a breeze  uplifts  her  veil  — 

Upon  her  coming  wait 

As  pure  a sunshine  and  as  soft  a gale 

As  e’er  on  herbage  covering  earthly  mould, 

Tempted  the  bird  of  Juno  to  unfold 

llis  richest  splendour,  when  his  veering  gait 

And  every  motion  of  his  starry  train 

Seem  governed  by  a strain 

Of  music,  audible  to  him  alone.  — 

O Lady,  worthy  of  earth’s  proudest  throne! 

Nor  less,  by  excellence  of  nature,  fit 
Beside  an  unambitious  hearth  to  sit 
Domestic  queen,  where  grandeur  is  unknown ; 
What  living  man  could  fear 
The  worst  of  Fortune’s  malice,  wert  thou  near. 
Humbling  that  lily  stem,  thy  sceptre  meek. 

That  its  fair  flowers  may  brush  from  off  his  cheek 
The  too,  too  happy  tearl 

Queen  and  handmaid  lowly  ! 

Whose  skill  can  speed  the  day  with  lively  cares. 

And  banish  melancholy 

By  all  that  mind  invents  or  hand  prepares; 

O thou,  against  whose  lip,  without  its  smile. 

And  in  its  silence  even,  no  heart  is  proof; 

Whose  goodness  sinking  deep,  would  reconcile 
The  softest  Nursling  of  a gorgeous  palace 
To  the  bare  life  beneath  the  hawthorn  roof 
Of  Sherwood’s  archer,  or  in  caves  of  Wallace  — 
Who  that  hath  seen  thy  beauty  could  content 
Ilis  soul  with  but  a glimpse  of  heavenly  day  1 
Who  that  hath  loved  thee,  but  would  lay 
Ilis  strong  hand  on  the  wind,  if  it  were  bent 
To  take  thee  in  thy  majesty  away  1 

— Pass  onward  (even  the  glancing  deer 
Till  we  depart  intrude  not  here;) 

That  mossy  slope,  o’er  which  the  woodbine  throws 
A canopy,  is  smoothed  for  thy  repose! 

Glad  moment  is  it  when  the  throng 
Of  warblers  in  full  concert  strong 
Strive,  and  not  vainly  strive,  to  rout 
The  lagging  shower,  and  force  coy  Phoebus  out. 
Met  by  the  rainbow’s  form  divine. 

Issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine ; — 

So  may  the  thrillings  of  the  lyre 
Prevail  to  further  our  desire. 

While  to  these  shades  a Nymph  I call. 

The  youngest  of  the  lovely  Three. — 

“ Come,  if  the  notes  thine  ear  may  pierce. 
Submissive  to  the  might  of  verse. 

By  none  more  deeply  felt  than  thee!” 

— I sang  ; and  lo ! from  pastimes  virginal 


j She  hastens  to  the  tents 
■ Of  nature,  and  the  lonely  elements. 

Air  sparkles  round  her  with  a dazzling  sheen. 
And  mark  her  glowing  cheek,  her  vesture  green 
And,  as  if  wishful  to  disarm 
Or  to  repay  the  potent  charm. 

She  bears  the  stringed  lute  of  old  romance, 

That  cheered  the  trellised  arbour’s  privacy. 

And  soothed  war-wearied  knights  in  raftered  hall. 
How  light  her  air  ! how  delicate  her  glee  ! 

So  tripped  the  Muse,  inventress  of  the  dance; 

So,  truant  in  waste  woods,  the  blithe  Euphrosyne ! 

But  the  ringlets  of  that  head 

Why  are  they  ungarlanded  ! ' 

Why  bedeck  her  temples  less 
Than  the  simplest  shepherdess'? 

Is  it  not  a brow  inviting 
Choicest  flowers  that  ever  breathed. 

Which  the  myrtle  would  delight  in 
With  Idalian  rose  enwreathed? 

But  her  humility  is  well  content 
With  one  wild  floweret  (call  it  not  forlorn) 
Flower  of  the  ^\'l^•DS,  beneath  her  bosom  worn , 
Yet  is  it  more  for  love  than  ornament. 

Open,  ye  thickets ! let  her  fly. 

Swift  as  a Thracian  Nymph  o’er  field  and  height ! 
For  She,  to  all  but  those  who  love  Her  shy. 

Would  gladly  vanish  from  a Stranger’s  sight ; 
Though  where  she  is  beloved,  and  loves,  as  free 
As  bird  that  rifles  blossoms  on  a tree, 

' Turning  them  inside  out  with  arch  audacity. 

Alas!  how  little  can  a moment  show 
Of  an  eye  where  feeling  plays 
In  ten  thousand  dewy  rays ; 

A face  o’er  which  a thousand  shadows  go! 

— She  stops  — is  fastened  to  that  rivulet’s  side ; 
And  there  (while,  with  sedater  mien. 

O’er  timid  waters  that  have  scarcely  left 
Their  birth-place  in  the  rocky  cleft 
She  bends)  at  leisure  may  be  seen 
Features  to  old  ideal  grace  allied. 

Amid  tlieir  smiles  and  dimples  dignified  — 

Fit  countenance  for  the  soul  of  primal  truth. 

The  bland  composure  of  eternal  youth ! 

What  more  changeful  than  the  sea? 

But  over  his  great  tides 
Fidelity  presides; 

And  this  light-hearted  Maiden  constant  is  as  ' c.  — 
High  is  her  aim  as  heaven  above. 

And  wide  as  ether  her  good-will. 

And,  like  the  lowly  reed,  her  love 
Can  drink  its  nurture  from  the  scantiest  rill ; 
Insight  as  keen  as  fro,sty  star 
Is  to  her  charity  no  bar. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


179 


Nor  interrupts  her  frolic  graces 
When  she  is,  far  from  these  wild  places, 

Encircled  by  familiar  faces. 

O the  charm  that  manners  draw, 

Nature,  from  thy  genuine  law ! 

If  from  what  her  hand  would  do. 

Her  voice  would  utter,  there  ensue 
Aught  untoward  or  unfit. 

She,  in  benign  affections  pure. 

In  self-forgetfulness  secure. 

Sheds  round  the  transient  harm  or  vague  mischance 
A light  unknown  to  tutored  elegance : 

Iler’s  is  not  a cheek  shame-stricken. 

But  her  blushes  are  joy-flushes  — 

And  the  fault  (if  fault  it  be) 

Only  ministers  to  quicken 
Laughter-loving  gaiety. 

And  kindle  sportive  wit  — 

Leaving  this  Daughter  of  the  mountains  free 
As  if  she  knew  that  Oberon  king  of  Faery 
Had  crossed  her  purpose  with  some  quaint  vagary. 

And  heard  his  viewless  bands 

Over  their  mirthful  triumph  clapping  liands. 

“ Last  of  the  Three,  though  eldest  born, 

Jleveal  thyself,  like  pensive  morn. 

Touched  by  the  skylark’s  earliest  note, 

Ere  humbler  gladness  be  afloat. 

But  whether  in  the  semblance  drest 
Of  dawn — or  eve,  fair  vision  of  the  west. 

Come  with  each  anxious  hope  subdued 
By  woman’s  gentle  fortitude. 

Each  grief,  through  meekness,  settling  into  rest. 

— Or  I would  hail  thee  when  some  high-wrought  page 
Of  a closed  volume  lingering  in  thy  hand 

Has  raised  thy  spirit  to  a peaceful  stand 
Among  the  glories  of  a happier  age.” 

— Her  brow  hath  opened  on  me  — see  it  there. 
Brightening  the  umbrage  of  her  hair ; 

So  gleams  the  crescent  moon,  that  loves 
To  be  descried  through  shady  groves. 

— Tenderest  bloom  is  on  her  cheek; 

Wish  not  for  a richer  streak  — 

Nor  dread  the  depth  of  meditative  eye ; 

But  let  thy  love,  upon  that  azure  field 
Of  thoughtfulness  and  beauty,  yield 
Its  homage  offered  up  in  purity. — 

What  would’st  thou  more!  In  sunny  glade 
Or  under  leaves  of  thickest  shade. 

Was  such  a stillness  e’er  diffused 

Since  earth  grew  calm  while  angels  mused! 

Softly  she  treads,  as  if  her  foot  were  loth 
To  crush  the  mountain  dew-drop,  soon  to  melt 
On  the  flowers  breast;  as  if  she  felt 
That  flowers  themselves,  whate’er  their  hue. 


With  all  their  fragrance,  all  their  glistening. 

Call  to  the  heart  for  inward  listening ; 

And  though  for  bridal  wreaths  and  tokens  true 
Welcomed  wisely  — though  a growth 
Which  the  careless  shepherd  sleeps  on. 

As  fitly  spring  from  turf  the  mourner  weeps  on. 
And  without  wrong  are  cropped  the  marble  tomb  to 
strew. 

The  charm  is  over;  the  mute  phantoms  gone, 

Nor  will  return  — but  droop  not,  favoured  Youtl.. ; 
The  apparition  that  before  thee  shone 
Obeyed  a summons  covetous  of  truth. 

From  these  wild  rocks  thy  footstep's  I will  guide 
To  bowers  in  which  thy  fortune  may  be  tried. 

And  one  of  the  bright  Three  become  thy  happy  Bride 


Lyre  ! though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live 
As  might  from  India’s  farthest  plain 
Recal  the  most  unwilling  maid. 

Assist  me  to  detain 
Tlie  lovely  fugitive : 

Check  with  thy  notes  the  impulse  which,  betrayee 
By  her  sweet  farewell  looks,  I longed  to  aid. 

Here  let  me  gaze  enwrapt  upon  that  eye. 

The  impregnable  and  awe-inspiring  fort 
Of  contemplation,  the  calm  port 
By  reason  fenced  from  winds  that  sigh 
Among  the  restless  sails  of  vanity. 

But  if  no  wish  be  hets  that  we  should  part, 

A humbler  bliss  would  satisfy  my  heart. 

Where  all  things  are  so  fair. 

Enough  by  her  dear  side  to  breathe  the  air 
Of  this  Elysian  weather  ; 

And,  on  or  in,  or  near,  the  brook,  espy 
Shade  upon  the  sunshine  lying 

Faint  and  somewhat  pensively; 

And  downward  image  gaily  vying 

W'ith  its  upright  living  tree 
Mid  silver  clouds,  and  openings  of  blue  sky 
As  soft  almost  and  deep  as  her  cerulean  eye. 

Nor  less  the  joy  with  many  a glance 

Cast  up  the  stream  or  down  at  her  beseeching. 

To  mark  its  eddying  foam-balls  prettily  distrest 
By  ever-changing  shape  and  want  of  rest; 

Or  watch,  with  mutual  teaching. 

The  current  as  it  plays 

In  flashing  leaps  and  stealthy  creeps 

Adown  a rocky  maze ; 

Or  note  (translucent  summer’s  happiest  chance!) 
In  the  slope-channel  floored  with  pebbles  bright, 
Slones  of  all  hues,  gem  emulous  of  gem. 

So  vivid  that  they  take  from  keenest  sight 
The  liquid  veil  that  seeks  not  to  hide  them. 


180 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A JEWISH  FAMILY. 

IM  A SMALL  VALLEY  OPPOSITE  ST.  GOAR.  OPO.V  THE  RHINE.) 

Genius  of  Raphael ! if  thy  wings 
Might  bear  thee  to  this  glen, 

With  faithful  memory  left  of  things 
To  pencil  dear  and  pen, 

Tiiou  would’st  forego  the  neighbouring  Rhine, 
And  all  his  majesty  — 

A studious  forehead  to  incline 
O’er  this  poor  family. 

The  mother  — her  thou  must  have  seen. 

In  spirit,  ere  she  came 
To  dwell  these  rifted  rocks  between, 

Or  found  on  earth  a name ; 

An  image,  too,  of  the  sweet  boy. 

Thy  inspirations  give  — 

Of  playfulness,  and  love,  and  joy. 

Predestined  here  to  live. 

Downcast,  or  shooting  glances  far. 

How  beautiful  his  eyes. 

That  blend  the  nature  of  the  star 
With  that  of  summer  skies! 

I speak  as  if  of  sense  beguiled ; 

Uncounted  months  are  gone. 

Yet  am  I with  the  Jewish  child. 

That  exquisite  Saint  John. 

I see  the  dark-brown  curls,  the  brow, 

The  smooth  transparent  skin. 

Refined,  as  with  intent  to  show 
The  holiness  within; 

The  grace  of  parting  infancy 
By  blushes  yet  untamed  ; 

Age  faithful  to  the  mother’s  knee. 

Nor  of  her  arms  ashamed. 

Two  lovely  sisters,  still  and  sweet 
As  flowers,  stand  side  by  side ; 

Their  soul-subduing  looks  might  cheat 
The  Christian  of  his  pride: 

Such  beauty  hath  the  Eternal  poured 
Upon  them  not  forlorn. 

Though  of  a lineage  once  abhorred, 

Nor  yet  redeemed  from  scorn. 

Mysterious  safeguard,  that,  in  spite 
Of  poverty  and  wrong. 

Doth  here  preserve  a living  light. 

From  Hebrew  fountains  sprung; 

That  gives  this  ragged  group  to  cast 
Around  the  dell  a gleam 
Of  Palestine,  of  glory  past. 

And  proud  Jerusalem ! 


I ‘Weak  is  the  will  of  man,  his  judgment  blind; 

‘ Remembrance  persecutes,  and  hope  betrays  ; 

‘ Heavy  is  woe  ; — and  joy,  for  human-kind, 

‘ A mournful  thing,  so  transient  is  the  blaze  !’ 
Thus  might  he  paint  our  lot  of  mortal  days 
Who  wants  the  glorious  faculty  assigned 
To  elevate  the  m.ore-than-reasoning  mind. 

And  colour  life’s  dark  cloud  with  orient  rays. 
Imagination  is  that  sacred  power. 

Imagination  lofty  and  refined  : 

’Tis  hers  to  pluck  the  amaranthine  flower 
Of  faith,  and  round  the  sufferer’s  temples  bind 
Wreaths  that  endure  affliction’s  heaviest  shower, 
And  do  not  shrink  from  sorrow’s  keenest  wind. 


RESOLUTION  AND  INDEPENDENCE. 
There  was  a roaring  in  the  wind  all  night; 

The  rain  came  heavily  and  fell  in  floods; 

But  now  the  sun  is  rising  calm  and  bright; 

The  birds  are  singing  in  the  distant  woods; 

Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  broods ; 

The  Jay  makes  answer  as  the  Magpie  chatters; 

And  all  the  air  is  filled  with  pleasant  noise  of  waters. 

All  things  that  love  the  sun  are  out  of  doors ; 

The  sky  rejoices  in  the  morning’s  birth; 

The  grass  is  bright  with  rain-drops;  — on  the  moors 
The  Hare  is  running  races  in  her  mirth  ; 

And  with  her  feet  she  from  the  plashy  earth 
Raises  a mist;  that,  glittering  in  the  sun. 

Runs  with  her  all  the  way,  wherever  she  doth  run. 

I was  a Traveller  then  upon  the  moor; 

I saw  the  Hare  that  raced  about  with  joy  ; 

I heard  the  woods  and  distant  waters  roar; 

Or  heard  them  not,  as  happy  as  a Boy : 

The  pleasant  season  did  my  heart  employ: 

My  old  remembrances  went  from  me  wholly; 

And  all  the  ways  of  men,  so  vain  and  melancholy! 

But,  as  it  sometime  chanceth,  from  the  might 
Of  joy  in  minds  that  can  no  further  go. 

As  high  as  we  have  mounted  in  delight 
In  our  dejection  do  we  sink  as  low. 

To  me  that  morning  did  it  happen  so; 

And  fears  and  fancies  thick  upon  me  came; 

Dim  sadness  — and  blind  thoughts,  I knew  not,  nor 
could  name. 

I heard  the  Sky-lark  warbling  in  the  sky; 

And  I bethought  me  of  the  playful  Hare: 

Even  such  a happy  Child  of  earth  am  I ; 

Even  as  these  blissful  Creatures  do  I fare; 

Far  from  the  world  I walk,  and  from  all  care ; 

But  there  may  come  another  day  to  me  — 

Solitude,  pain  of  heart,  distress,  and  poverty. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


181 


My  whole  life  I have  lived  in  pleasant  thought, 

As  if  life’s  business  were  a summer  mood  ; 

As  if  all  needful  things  would  come  unsought 
To  genial  faith,  still  rich  in  genial  good ; 

But  how  can  He  expect  that  others  should 
Build  for  him,  sow  for  him,  and  at  his  call 
Love  him,  who  for  himself  will  take  no  heed  at  alll 

I thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  Boy, 

The  sleepless  Soul  that  perished  in  his  pride ; 

Of  him  who  walked  in  glory  and  in  joy 
Following  his  plough,  along  the  mountain-side : 

By  our  own  spirits  are  we  deified  : 

We  Poets  in  our  youth  begin  in  gladness; 

But  thereof  come  in  the  end  despondency  and  madness. 

Now,  whether  it  were  by  peculiar  grace, 

A leading  from  above,  a something  given. 

Yet  it  befel,  that,  in  this  lonely  place. 

When  I with  these  untoward  thoughts  had  striven. 
Beside  a Pool  bare  to  the  eye  of  Heaven 
T saw  a Man  before  me  unawares : 

The  oldest  Man  he  seemed  that  ever  wore  gray  hairs. 

As  a huge  Stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence  ; 

Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy. 

By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence; 

So  that  it  seems  a thing  endued  with  sense: 

Like  a Sea-beast  crawled  forth,  that  on  a shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  itself; 

Such  seemed  this  Man,  not  all  alive  nor  dead 
Nor  all  asleep  — in  his  extreme  old  age  : 

His  body  was  bent  double,  feet  and  head 
Coming  together  in  life’s  pilgrimage  ; 

As  if  some  dire  constraint  of  pain  or  rage 
Of  sickness  felt  by  him  in  times  long  past, 

A more  than  human  weight  upon  his  frame  had  cast. 

Himself  he  propped,  his  body,  limbs,  and  face, 

Upon  a long  gray  Staff  of  shaven  wood : 

And,  still  as  I drew  near  with  gentle  pace, 

Upon  the  margin  of  that  moorish  flood 
Motionless  as  a Cloud  the  Old-man  stood  ; 

That  heareth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call ; 

And  moveth  all  together,  if  it  move  at  all. 

At  length,  himself  unsettling,  ho  the  Pond 
Stirred  with  his  Staff,  and  fixedly  did  look 
Upon  the  muddy  water,  which  he  conned. 

As  if  he  had  been  reading  in  a book  : 

And  now  a Stranger’s  privilege  T took ; 

And,  drawing  to  his  side,  to  him  did  say, 

“This  morning  gives  us  promise  of  a glorious  day.” 


A gentle  answer  did  the  Old-man  make. 

In  courteous  speech  which  forth  he  slowly  drew : 

And  him  with  further  words  I thus  bespake, 

“ What  occupation  do  you  there  pursue  I 
This  is  a lonesome  place  for  one  like  you.” 

He  answered,  while  a flash  of  mild  surprise 
Bloke  from  the  sable  orbs  of  his  yet  vivid  eyes. 

His  words  came  feebly,  from  a feeble  chest, 

But  each  in  solemn  order  followed  each, 

With  something  of  a lofty  utterance  drest  — 

Choice  word  and  measured  phrase,  above  the  reach 
Of  ordinary  men  ; a stately  speech  ; 

Such  as  grave  Livers  do  in  Scotland  use. 

Religious  men,  who  give  to  God  and  Man  their  dues. 

He  told,  that  to  these  waters  he  had  come 
To  gather  Leeches,  being  old  and  poor : 

Employment  hazardous  and  wearisome  ! 

And  he  had  many  hardships  to  endure : 

P’rom  pond  to  pond  he  roamed,  from  moor  to  moor ; 
Housing,  with  God's  good  help,  by  choice  or  chance ; 
And  in  this  way  he  gained  an  honest  maintenance. 

The  Old-man  still  stood  talking  by  my  side ; 

But  now  his  voice  to  me  was  like  a stream 
Scarce  heard  ; nor  word  from  word  could  I divide ; 
And  the  whole  Body  of  the  man  did  seem 
Like  one  whom  I had  met  with  in  a dream ; 

Or  like  a man  from  some  far  region  sent. 

To  give  me  human  strength,  by  apt  admonishment. 

My  former  thoughts  returned : the  fear  that  kills ; 

And  hope  that  is  unwilling  to  be  fed ; 

Cold,  pain,  and  labour,  and  all  fleshly  ills; 

And  mighty  Poets  in  their  misery  dead. 

— Perplexed,  and  longing  to  be  comforted 
My  question  eagerly  did  I renew, 

“ How  is  it  that  you  live,  and  what  is  it  you  do  I” 

He  with  a smile  did  then  his  words  repeat; 

And  said,  that,  gathering  Leeches,  far  and  wide 
He  travelled;  stirring  thus  about  his  feet 
The  waters  of  the  Pools  where  they  abide. 

“Once  I could  meet  w’ith  them  on  every  side; 

But  they  have  dwindled  long  by  slow  decay; 

Yet  still  I persevere,  and  find  them  where  I ma)  ” 

While  he  was  talking  thus,  the  lonely  place. 

The  Old-man’s  shape,  and  speech,  all  troubled  me : 

In  my  mind’s  eye  I seemed  to  see  him  pace 
About  the  weary  moors  continually, 

' Wandering  about  alone  and  silently. 

I While  I these  thoughts  within  myself  pursued, 

I He,  having  made  a pause,  the  same  discourse  renewed. 
IG 


182 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  soon  with  this  he  other  matter  blended, 

Cheerfully  uttered,  with  demeanour  kind. 

But  stately  in  the  main ; and  when  he  ended, 

I could  have  laughed  myself  to  scorn  to  find 
n that  decrepit  Man  so  firm  a mind. 

‘ God,”  said  I,  “ be  my  help  and  stay  secure  ; 

I’ll  think  of  the  Leech-gatherer  on  the  lonely  moor!” 

Ah  me ! what  lovely  tints  are  there 
Of  olive  green  and  scarlet  bright. 

In  spikes,  in  branches,  and  in  stars. 
Green,  red,  and  pearly  white! 

This  heap  of  earth  o’ergrown  with  moss. 
Which  close  beside  the  Thorn  you  see. 
So  fresh  in  all  its  beauteous  dyes, 

Is  like  an  infant’s  grave  in  size. 

As  like  as  like  can  be: 

THE  THORN. 

But  never,  never  any  where. 

An  infant’s  grave  was  half  so  fair. 

“ There  is  a Thorn  — it  looks  so  old. 
In  truth,  you’d  find  it  hard  to  say 
How  it  could  ever  have  been  young, 

It  looks  so  old  and  gray. 

Not  higher  than  a two  years*  child 
It  stands  erect,  this  aged  Thorn ; 

No  leaves  it  has,  no  thorny  points; 

It  is  a mass  of  knotty  joints, 

A wretched  thing  forlorn. 

It  stands  erect,  and  like  a stone 
With  lichens  it  is  overgrown. 

Now  would  you  see  this  aged  Thorn, 

This  Pond,  and  beauteous  Hill  of  moss. 
You  must  take  care  and  choose  your  Lime 
The  mountain  when  to  cross. 

For  oft.  there  sits  between  the  Heap 
So  like  an  infant’s  grave  in  size. 

And  that  same  Pond  of  which  I spoke, 

A Woman  in  a scarlet  cloak. 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

‘ Oh  misery  ! oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me ! oh  misery  !’ 

Like  rock  or  stone,  it  is  o’ergrown. 
With  lichens  to  the  very  top. 

And  hung  with  heavy  tufts  of  moss, 

A melancholy  crop : 

Up  from  the  earth  these  mosses  creep. 
And  this  poor  Thorn  they  clasp  it  round 
So  close,  you ’d  say  that  they  were  bent 
With  plain  and  manifest  intent 
To  drag  it  to  the  ground ; 

And  all  had  joined  in  one  endeavour 
To  bury  this  poor  Thorn  for  ever. 

At  all  times  of  the  day  and  night 
This  wretched  Woman  thither  goes  ; 
And  she  is  known  to  every  star. 

And  every  wind  that  blows; 

And,  there,  beside  the  Thorn,  she  sits 
When  the  blue  daylight’s  in  the  skies. 
And  when  the  whirlwind ’s  on  the  hill. 
Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still. 

And  to  herself  she  cries, 

‘ Oh  misery  ! oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me  ! oh  misery  !’  ” 

High  on  a mountain’s  highest  ridge. 
Where  oft  the  stormy  winter  gale 
Cuts  like  a scythe,  while  through  the  clouds 
It  sweeps  from  vale  to  vale; 

Not  five  yards  from  the  mountain  path. 
This  Thorn  you  on  your  left  espy ; 

And  to  the  left,  three  yards  beyond. 

You  see  a little  muddy  Pond 
Of  water — never  dry. 

Though  but  of  compass  small,  and  bare 
To  thirsty  suns  and  parching  air. 

“Now  v.'herefore,  thus,  by  day  and  night. 
In  rain,  in  tempest,  and  in  snow. 

Thus  to  the  dreary  mountain-top 
Does  this  poor  Woman  go  ! 

And  why  sits  she  beside  the  Thorn 
When  the  blue  daylight’s  in  the  sky. 

Or  W’hen  the  whirlwind’s  on  the  hill. 

Or  frosty  air  is  keen  and  still. 

And  wherefore  does  she  cry ! — 

Oh  wherefore ! wherefore ! tell  me  why 
Does  she  repeat  that  doleful  cry ! 

And,  close  beside  this  aged  Thorn, 
There  is  a fresh  and  lovely  sight, 
A beauteous  heap,  a Hill  of  moss. 
Just  half  a foot  in  height. 

All  lovely  colours  there  you  see, 
All  colours  that  were  ever  seen; 
And  mossy  network  too  is  there, 

As  if  by  hand  of  lady  fair 
The  work  had  woven  been ; 

And  cups,  the  darlings  of  the  eye, 
So  deep  is  their  vermilion  dye. 

“ I cannot  tell ; I wish  I could ; 

For  the  true  reason  no  one  knows : 

But  would  you  gladly  view  the  spot. 

The  spot  to  which  she  goes : 

The  hillock  like  an  infant’s  grave. 

The  Pond  — and  Thorn  so  old  and  gray; 
Pass  by  her  door  — ’tis  seldom  shut  — 
And,  if  you  see  her  in  her  hut  — 

Then  to  the  spot  away  ! 

I never  heard  of  such  as  dare 
Approach  the  spot  when  she  is  there. 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


1S5 


“ But  wherefore  to  tlie  mountain-top 
Can  this  unhappy  Woman  go, 

Whatever  star  is  in  the  skies, 

Whatever  wind  may  blow!” 

“’Tis  known,  that  twenty  years  are  past 
Since  she  (her  name  is  Martha  Ray) 

Gave  with  a maiden’s  true  good  will 
Her  company  to  Stephen  Hill ; 

And  she  was  blithe  and  gay, 

Wliile  friends  and  kindred  all  approved 
Of  him  whom  tenderly  she  loved. 

And  they  had  fixed  the  wedding  day. 

The  morning  that  must  wed  them  both; 
But  Stephen  to  another  Maid 
Had  sworn  another  oath ; 

And,  with  this  other  Maid,  to  church 
Unthinking  Stephen  went  — 

Poor  Martha!  on  that  woeful  day 
A pang  of  pitiless  dismay 
Into  her  soul  was  sent; 

A Fire  was  kindled  in  her  breast. 

Which  might  not  burn  itself  to  rest. 

They  say,  full  six  months  affer  this. 

While  yet  the  summer  leaves  were  green. 
She  to  the  mountain-top  would  go. 

And  there  was  often  seen. 

Alas!  her  lamentable  state 
Even  to  a careless  eye  was  plain ; 

She  was  with  child,  and  she  was  mad: 
Yet  often  she  was  sober  sad 
From  her  exceeding  pain. 

O guilty  Father — would  that  death 
Had  saved  him  from  that  breach  of  faith! 

Sad  case  for  such  a brain  to  hold 
Communion  with  a stirring  child ! 

Sad  case,  as  you  may  think,  fer  one 
Who  had  a brain  so  wild ! 

Last  Christmas-eve  we  talked  of  this. 

And  gray-haired  Wilfred  of  the  glen 
Held  that  the  unborn  Infant  wrought 
About  its  mother’s  heart,  and  brought 
Her  senses  back  again : 

And,  when  at  last  her  time  drew  near. 
Her  looks  were  calm,  her  senses  clear. 

More  know  I not,  I wish  I did. 

And  it  should  all  bo  told  to  you ; 

For  what  became  of  this  poor  Child 
No  Mortal  ever  knew ; 

Nay  — if  a Child  to  her  was  born 
No  earthly  tongue  could  ever  tell ; 

And  if  ’twas  born  alive  or  dead. 

Far  less  could  this  with  proof  be  said ; 

But  some  remember  well. 

That  Martha  Ray  about  this  time 
Would  up  the  mountain  often  climb. 


And  all  that  winter,  when  at  night 
The  wind  blew  from  the  mountain-peair, 

’T  was  worth  your  while,  though  in  the  dark, 
The  churchyard  path  to  seek : 

For  many  a time  and  oft  were  heard 
Cries  coming  from  the  mountain-head: 

Some  plainly  living  voices  were; 

And  others,  I’ve  heard  many  swear. 

Were  voices  of  the  dead : 

I cannot  think,  whate’er  they  say. 

They  had  to  do  with  Martha  Ray. 

But  that  she  goes  to  this  old  Thorn, 

The  Thorn  which  I described  to  you. 

And  there  sits  in  a scarlet  cloak, 

I w'ill  be  sworn  is  true. 

For  one  day  with  my  telescope, 

To  view  the  ocean  wide  and  bright, 

When  to  this  country  first  I came. 

Ere  I had  heard  of  Martha’s  name, 

I climbed  the  mountain’s  height ; 

A storm  came  on,  and  I could  see 
No  object  higher  than  my  knee. 

’T  was  mist  and  rain,  and  storm  and  rain; 

No  screen,  no  fence  could  I discover; 

And  then  the  wind  ! in  faith,  it  was 
A wind  full  ten  times  over. 

I looked  around,  I thought  I saw 
A jutting  crag,  — and  off  I ran. 
Head-foremost  through  the  driving  rain. 

The  shelter  of  the  crag  to  gain  ; 

And,  as  I am  a man. 

Instead  of  jutting  crag,  I found 
A Woman  seated  on  the  ground. 

I did  not  speak  — I saw  her  face; 

Her  face  ! — it  was  enough  for  me ; 

I turned  about  and  heard  her  cry, 

‘Oh  misery!  oh  misery!’ 

And  there  she  sits,  until  the  moon 
Through  half  the  clear  blue  sky  will  go; 
And,  when  the  little  breezes  make 
The  waters  of  the  Pond  to  shake. 

As  all  the  country  know. 

She  shudders,  and  you  hear  her  cry, 

‘ Oh  misery  ! oh  misery  !” 

“ But  what ’s  the  Thorn  1 and  what  the  Pond  1 
And  what  the  Hill  of  moss  to  her! 

And  what  the  creeping  breeze  that  comes 
The  little  Pond  to  stir  I” 

“I  cannot  tell;  but  some  will  say 
She  hanged  her  Baby  on  the  tree ; 

Some  say  she  drowned  it  in  the  Pond, 
Which  is  a little  step  beyond: 

But  all  and  each  agree, 

Tlie  little  babe  was  buried  there. 

Beneath  that  hill  of  moss  so  fair. 


184 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I’ve  heard,  the  moss  is  spotted  red 
With  drops  of  that  poor  infant’s  blood  ; 

But  kill  a new-born  infant  thus, 

I do  not  think  she  could ! 

Some  say,  if  to  the  pond  you  go, 

And  fix  on  it  a steady  view. 

The  shadow  of  a babe  you  trace, 

A baby  and  a baby’s  face. 

And  that  it  looks  at  you; 

Whene’er  you  look  on  it,  ’t  is  plain 
Tlie  baby  looks  at  you  ag’ain. 

And  some  had  sworn  an  oath  that  she 
Sliould  be  to  public  justice  broug-ht ; 

And  for  the  little  infant’s  bones 
Witli  spades  they  would  have  sought. 

But  then  tlie  beauteous  Hill  of  moss 
Before  tlieir  eyes  began  to  stir ! 

And,  for  full  fifty  yards  around. 

The  grass  — it  shook  upon  the  ground  ! 

Yet  all  do  still  aver 

The  little  Babe  is  buried  there. 

Beneath  that  Hill  of  moss  so  fair. 

1 cannot  tell  how  this  may  be ; 

But  plain  it  is,  the  Thorn  is  bound 
With  lieavy  tufls  of  moss  that  strive 
To  drag  it  to  the  ground ; 

And  this  I know,  full  many  a time. 

When  she  was  on  the  mountain  high. 

By  day,  and  in  the  silent  night. 

When  all  the  stars  shone  clear  and  bright. 
That  I have  heard  her  cry, 

‘ Oh  misery  ! oh  misery  ! 

Oh  woe  is  me  ! oh  misery !’  ” 


HART-LEAP  WEI-L. 


Ftarl-Leap  Well  is  a small  spnng  of  water,  about  five  miles 
from  Kictimond  in  Yorksliire,  and  near  the  side  of  the  road  that 
leads  Irom  Richmond  to  Askrigg.  Its  name  is  derived  from  a 
remarkable  Chase,  the  memory  of  which  is  preserved  hy  the 
monuments  spoken  of  in  the  second  Part  of  the  following  Poem, 
which  monuments  do  now  exist  as  I have  there  described  them. 


The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor 
With  the  slow  motion  of  a summer’s  cloud ; 
lie  turned  aside  towards  a Vassal’s  door. 

And  “ Bring  another  horse  !”  he  cried  aloud. 

‘‘  Another  horse  !” — That  shout  the  Vassal  heard 
And  saddled  his  best  Steed,  a comely  gray ; 

Sir  Walter  mounted  him  ; he  was  the  third 
Which  he  had  mounted  on  that  glorious  day. 


Joy  sparkled  in  the  prancing  Courser’s  eyes; 

The  Horse  and  Horseman  are  a happy  pair ; 

But,  though  Sir  Walter  like  a falcon  flies. 

There  is  a doleful  silence  in  the  air. 

A rout  this  morning  left  Sir  Walter’s  Hall, 

That  as  they  galloped  made  the  echoes  roar ; 

But  Horse  and  Alan  are  vanished,  one  and  all ; 

Such  race,  I think,  was  never  seen  before. 

Sir  Walter,  restless  as  a veering  wind. 

Calls  to  the  few  tired  Dogs  that  yet  remain ; 

Blanch,  Swift,  and  Music,  noblest  of  their  kind, 
Follow,  and  up  the  weary  mountain  strain. 

The  Knight  hallooed,  he  cheered  and  chid  them  on 
With  suppliant  gestures  and  upbraiding  stern ; 

But  breath  and  eyesiglit  fiiil ; and,  one  by  one. 

The  Dogs  are  stretched  among  the  mountain  fern. 

Where  is  the  throng,  tlie  tumult  of  the  race  1 
The  bugles  that  so  joyfully  were  blown  1 
This  Cliase  it  looks  not  like  an  earthly  Chase; 

Sir  Walter  and  Ihe.Hart  are  left  alone. 

The  poor  Hart  toils  along  the  mountain  side; 

I will  not  stop  to  tell  how  far  he  fled. 

Nor  will  I mention  by  wdiat  death  he  died: 

But  now  tlie  Knight  beholds  him  lying  dead. 

Dismounting,  then,  he  leaned  against  a thorn  , 

He  had  no  follower.  Dog,  nor  Man,  nor  Boy  ; 

He  neither  cracked  his  whip,  nor  blew  his  horn 
But  gazed  upon  the  spoil  with  silent  joy. 

Close  to  the  thorn  on  which  Sir  Walter  leaned. 
Stood  his  dumb  partner  in  this  glorious  feat; 

Weak  as  a lamb  the  hour  that  it  is  yeaned ; 

And  white  with  foam  as  if  with  cleaving  sleet. 

Upon  his  side  the  Hart  was  lying  stretched: 

His  nostril  touched  a spring  beneath  a hill. 

And  with  the  last  deep  groan  his  breath  had  fetched 
The  waters  of  the  spring  were  trembling  still. 

And  now,  too  happy  for  repose  or  rest, 

(Never  had  living  man  such  joyful  lot !) 

Sir  Walter  walked  all  round,  north,  south,  and  west. 
And  gazed  and  gazed  upon  that  darling  spot. 

And  climbing  up  the  hill  — (it  was  at  least 
Nine  roods  of  sheer  ascent)  Sir  Walter  found 
Three  several  hoof-marks  which  the  hunted  Beast 
Had  left  imprinted  on  the  grassy  ground. 

Sir  Walter  wiped  his  face,  and  cried,  “ Til,  now 
Such  sight  was  never  seen  by  living  eyes : 

Three  leaps  have  borne  him  from  this  lofty  brow 
Down  to  the  very  fountain  where  he  lies. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


181 


i’ll  build  a Pleasure-house  upon  this  spot, 

And  a small  Arbour,  made  for  rural  joy  ; 

’Twill  be  the  Traveller’s  shed,  the  Pilgrim’s  cot, 

A place  of  love  for  Damsels  that  are  coy. 

A cunning  Artist  will  I have  to  frame 
A basin  for  that  fountain  in  the  dell ! 

And  they  who  do  make  mention  of  the  same 
From  this  day  forth,  shall  call  it  Hart-leap  Well. 

And,  gallant  Stag ! to  make  thy  praises  known. 
Another  monument  shall  here  be  raised  ; 

Three  several  Pillars,  each  a rough-hewn  Stone, 
And  planted  where  thy  hoofs  the  turf  have  grazed. 

And,  in  the  summer-time  when  days  are  long, 

I will  come  hither  with  my  Paramour ; 

And  with  the  Dancers  and  the  Minstrel’s  song 
We  will  make  merry  in  that  pleasant  Bower. 

Till  the  foundations  of  the  mountains  fail 
My  Mansion  with  its  Arbour  shall  endure  ; — 

The  joy  of  them  who  till  the  fields  of  Swale, 

And  them  who  dwell  among  the  woods  of  Ure !” 

Then  home  he  went,  and  left  the  Hart,  stone-dead. 
With  breathless  nostrils  stretched  above  the  spring. 
— Soon  did  the  Knight  perform  what  he  had  said. 
And  far  and  wide  the  fame  thereof  did  ring. 

Ere  thrice  the  Moon  into  her  port  had  steered, 

A Cup  of  stone  received  the  living  Well ; 

Three  Pillars  of  rude  stone  Sir  Walter  reared. 

And  built  a house  of  Pleasure  in  the  dell. 

And  near  the  fountain,  flowers  of  stature  tall 
With  trailing  plants  and  trees  were  intertwined,  — 
Which  soon  composed  a little  sylvan  Hall, 

A leafy  shelter  from  the  sun  and  wind. 

And  thither,  when  the  sammer-days  were  long. 

Sir  Walter  led  his  wondering  Paramour ; 

And  with  the  Dancers  and  the  Minstrel's  song 
Made  merriment  within  that  plea.sant  Bower. 

The  Knight,  Sir  Walter,  died  in  course  of  time. 

And  his  bones  lie  in  his  paternal  vale.  — 

But  there  is  matter  for  a second  rhyme. 

And  I to  this  would  add  another  tale. 


PART  SECOND. 

The  moving  accident  is  not  my  trade: 

To  freeze  the  blood  I have  no  ready  arts: 
'T  is  my  delight,  alone  in  summer  shade, 
To  pipe  a simple  song  for  thinking  hearts. 

Y 


As  I from  Hawes  to  Richmond  did  repair. 

It  chanced  that  I saw  standing  in  a dell 
Three  Aspens  at  three  corners  of  a square ; 

And  one,  not  four  yards  distant  near  a Well. 

What  this  imported  I could  ill  divine: 

And,  pulling  now  the  rein  my  horse  to  stop, 

I saw  three  Pillars  standing  in  a line. 

The  last  Stone  Pillar  on  a dark  hill-top. 

The  trees  were  gray,  with  neither  arms  nor  head 
Half-wasted  the  square  Mound  of  tawny  green ; 

So  that  you  just  might  say,  as  then  I said, 

“ Here  in  old  time  the  hand  of  man  hath  been.” 

I looked  upon  the  hill  ’ooth  far  and  near. 

More  doleful  place  did  never  eye  survey  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  the  spring-time  came  not  here. 

And  Nature  here  were  willing  to  decay. 

I stood  in  various  thoughts  and  fancies  lost. 

When  one,  who  was  in  Shepherd’s  garb  attired, 

Came  up  the  Hollow  : — Him  did  I accost. 

And  what  this  place  might  be  I then  inquired. 

The  Shepherd  stopped,  and  that  same  story  told 
Which  in  my  former  rhyme  I have  rehearsed. 

“ A jolly  place,”  said  he,  “ in  times  of  old  ! 

But  something  ails  it  now;  the  spot  is  curst. 

You  see  these  lifeless  Stumps  of  aspen  wood  — 

Some  say  that  they  are  beeches,  others  elms  — 

These  were  the  Bower ; and  here  a Mansion  stood. 
The  finest  palace  of  a hundred  realms! 

The  Arbour  does  its  own  condition  tell ; 

You  see  the  Stones,  the  Fountain,  and  the  Stream ; 
But  as  to  the  great  Lodge ! you  might  as  well 
Hunt  half  a day  for  a forgotten  dream. 

There’s  neither  dog  nor  heifer,  horse  nor  sheep, 

Will  wet  his  lips  within  that  Cup  of  stone; 

And  oftentimes,  when  all  are  fast  asleep, 

This  water  doth  send  forth  a dolorous  groan. 

Some  say  that  here  a murder  has  been  done. 

And  blood  cries  out  for  blood : but,  for  my  part, 

I’ve  guessed,  when  I’ve  been  sitting  in  the  sun, 

That  it  was  all  for  that  unhappy  Hart. 

What  thoughts  must  through  the  Creature’s  brain 
have  past ! 

Even  from  the  topmost  Stone,  upon  the  Steep, 

Are  but  three  bounds  — and  look.  Sir,  at  this  last  — 

- O Master ! it  has  been  a cruel  leap. 

16* 


186 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  tlarteen  hours  he  ran  a desperate  race ; 

And  in  my  simple  mind  we  cannot  tell 

What  cause  the  Hart  might  have  to  love  this  place, 

And  come  and  make  his  death-bed  near  the  Well. 

Here  on  the  grass  perhaps  asleep  he  sank, 

Lulled  by  the  Fountain  in  the  summer-tide ; 

This  water  was  perhaps  the  first  he  drank 
When  he  had  wandered  from  his  mother’s  side. 

In  April  here  beneath  the  scented  thorn 
lie  heard  the  birds  their  morning  carols  sing; 

And  he,  perhaps,  for  aught  we  know,  was  born 
Not  half  a furlong  from  that  self-same  spring. 

Now,  here  is  neither  grass  nor  pleasant  shade ; 

The  sun  on  drearier  Hollow  never  shone  ; 

So  will  it  be,  as  I have  often  said. 

Till  Trees,  and  Stones,  and  Fountain,  all  are  gone.” 

‘‘  Gray-headed  Shepherd,  thou  hast  spoken  well ; 

Small  difference  lies  between  thy  creed  and  mine : 
This  Beast  not  unobserved  by  Nature  fell ; 

Ilis  death  was  mourned  by  sympathy  divine. 

The  Being,  that  is  in  the  clouds  and  air. 

That  is  in  the  green  leaves  among  the  groves. 

Maintains  a deep  and  reverential  care 

For  the  unoffending  creatures  whom  he  loves. 

The  Pleasure-house  is  dust:  — behind,  before. 

This  is  no  common  waste,  no  common  gloom ; 

But  Nature,  in  due  course  of  time,  once  more 
Shall  here  put  on  her  beauty  and  her  bloom. 

She  leaves  these  objects  to  a slow  decay. 

That  what  we  arc,  and  have  been,  may  be  known; 
But,  at  the  coming  of  the  milder  day. 

These  monuments  shall  all  be  overgrown. 

One  lesson.  Shepherd,  let  us  two  divide. 

Taught  both  by  what  she  shows,  and  what  conceals. 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride 
With  sorrow  of  the  meanest  thing  that  feels.” 

SONG 

AT  THE  FEAST  OF  BROUGHAM  CASTLE, 

UrON  THE  RESTORATION  OF  LORD  CLIFFORD,  THE  SHEPHERD, 
TO  THE  ESTATES  AND  HONOURS  OF  HIS  ANCESTORS.* 

High  in  the  breathless  Hall  the  Minstrel  sate. 

And  Emont’s  murmur  mingled  with  the  Song. — 

The  words  of  ancient  time  I thus  translate, 

A festal  strain  that  hath  been  silent  long. 

*See  Note. 


“ From  Town  to  Town  from  Tower  to  Tower, 
The  Red  Rose  is  a gladsome  flower. 

Her  thirty  years  of  winter  past. 

The  Red  Rose  is  revived  at  last; 

She  lifts  her  head  for  endless  spring. 

For  everlasting  blossoming: 

Both  Roses  flourish.  Red  and  White, 

In  love  and  sisterly  delight 

The  two  that  were  at  strife  are  blended. 

And  all  old  troubles  now  are  ended.  — 

Joy  ! .Toy  to  both ! but  most  to  her 
Who  is  the  Flower  of  Lancaster ! 

Behold  her  how  She  smiles  to-day 
On  this  great  throng,  this  bright  array! 

Fair  greeting  doth  sha  send  to  all 
From  every  corner  of  the  Hall ; 

But,  chiefly  from  above  the  Board 
Where  sits  in  state  our  rightful  Lord, 

A Cliflbrd  to  his  own  restored ! 

“ They  came  with  banner,  spear,  and  shield  ; 

And  it  was  proved  in  Bosworth-field. 

Not  long  the  Avenger  was  withstood  — 

Earth  helped  him  with  the  cry  of  blood  :* 

St  George  was  for  us,  and  the  might 
Of  blessed  Angels  crowned  the  right. 

Loud  voice  the  Land  has  uttered  forth. 

We  loudest  in  the  faithful  North: 

Our  Fields  rejoice,  our  Mountains  ring. 

Our  Streams  proclaim  a welcoming: 

Our  Strong-abodes  and  Castles  see 
The  glory  of  their  loyalty. 

“How  glad  is  Skipton  at  this  hour  — 

Though  she  is  but  a lonely  Tower! 

To  vacancy  and  silence  left; 

Of  all  her  guardian  sons  bereft; 

Knight,  Squire,  or  Yeoman,  Page  or  Groom: 

We  have  them  at  the  feast  of  Brough’m. 

How  glad  Pendragon  — though  the  sleep 
Of  years  be  on  her ! — She  shall  reap 
A taste  of  this  great  pleasure,  viewing 
As  in  a dream  her  own  renewing. 

Rejoiced  is  Brough,  right  glad  I deem 
Beside  her  little  humble  Stream  ; 

And  she  that  keepeth  watch  and  ward 
Her  statelier  Eden’s  course  to  guard; 

They  both  are  happy  at  this  hoUr, 

Though  each  is  but  a lonely  Tower: 

But  here  is  perfect  joy  and  pride 
For  one  fair  house  by  Emont’s  side. 

This  day  distinguished  without  peer 
To  see  her  Master  and  to  cheer 
Him,  and  his  Lady  Mother  dear ! 

* Tills  line  is  from  the  “The  Bailie  of  Bosworlh  Field,”  by 
Sir  John  Beaumont  (brother  to  the  Dramatist),  whose  poems  are 
written  with  much  spirit,  elegance,  and  harmony;  and  have 
deservedly  been  reprinted  lately  in  Chalmer’s  Collection  . f 
English  Poets. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


187 


“ Oh ! it  was  a time  forlorn 
When  the  fatherless  was  born  — 

Give  her  wings  that  she  may  fly, 

Or  she  sees  her  infant  die! 

Swords  that  are  with  slaughter  wild 
Hunt  the  Mother  and  the  Child? 

Who  will  take  them  from  the  light? 

— Yonder  is  a Man  in  sight  — 

Yonder  is  a House  — but  where? 

No,  they  must  not  enter  there. 

To  the  Caves,  and  to  the  Brooks, 

To  the  Clouds  of  Heaven  she  looks ; 

She  is  speechless,  but  her  eyes 
Pray  in  ghostly  agonies. 

Blissful  Mary,  Mother  mild. 

Maid  and  Mother  undefded. 

Save  a Mother  and  her  Child ! 

“Now  who  is  he  that  bounds  with  joy 
On  Carrock’s  side,  a Shepherd  Boy? 

No  thoughts  hath  he  but  thoughts  that  pass 
Light  as  the  wind  along  the  grass. 

Can  this  be  He  who  hith.er  came 
In  secret,  like  a smothered  flame ! 

O’er  whom  such  thankful  tears  were  shed 
For  shelter  and  a poor  Man’s  bread ! 

God  loves  the  Child ; and  God  hath  willed 
That  those  dear  words  should  be  fulfilled. 
The  Lady’s  words,  when  forced  away 
The  last  she  to  her  Babe  did  say, 

‘My  own,  my  own,  thy  Fellow-guest 
I may  not  be ; but  rest  thee,  rest. 

For  lowly  Shepherd’s  life  is  best!’ 

“Alas!  when  evil  men  are  strong 
No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long. 

The  Boy  must  part  from  Mosedale’s  Groves, 
And  leave  Blencathra’s  rugged  Coves, 

And  quit  the  flowers  that  summer  brings 
To  Glenderamakin’s  lofty  springs; 

Must  vanish,  and  his  careless  cheer 
Be  turned  to  heaviness  and  fear. 

— Give  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld  praise! 

Hear  it,  good  Man,  old  in  days! 

Thou  Tree  of  covert  and  of  rest ! 

For  this  young  Bird  that  is  distrest; 

Among  thy  branches  safe  he  lay. 

And  he  was  free  to  sport  and  play. 

When  falcons  were  abroad  for  prey. 

“ A recreant  Harp,  that  sings  of  fear 
And  heaviness  in  Clifford’s  ear 
I said,  when  evil  Men  are  strong. 

No  life  is  good,  no  pleasure  long, 

A weak  and  cowardly  untruth  ! 

Our  Clifford  was  a happy  Youth, 

And  thankful  through  a weary  time. 

That  brought  him  up  to  manhood’s  prime. 


— Again  he  wanders  forth  at  will. 

And  tends  a Flock  from  hill  to  hill : 

His  garb  is  humble;  ne’er  was  seen 
Such  garb  with  such  a noble  mien ; 

Among  the  Shepherd-grooms  no  Mate 
Hath  he,  a Child  of  strength  and  state! 
Yet  lacks  not  friends  for  solemn  glee. 

And  a cheerful  company. 

That  learned  of  him  submissive  ways; 

And  comforted  his  private  days. 

To  his  side  the  Fallow-deer 
Came,  and  rested  without  fear; 

The  Eagle,  Lord  of  land  and  sea. 

Stooped  down  to  pay  him  fealty; 

And  both  the  undying  fish  that  swim 
Through  Bowscale  Tarn  did  wait  on  him;* 
The  Pair  were  servants  of  his  eye 
In  their  immortality  ; 

They  moved  about  in  open  sight. 

To  and  fro,  for  his  delight. 

He  knew  the  Rocks  which  Angels  haunt 
•On  the  Mountains  visitant ; 

He  hath  kenned  them  taking  wing : 

And  the  Caves  where  Faeries  sing 
He  hath  entered;  and  been  told 
By  Voices  how  men  lived  of  old. 

Among  the  Heavens  his  eye  can  see 
Face  of  thing  that  is  to  be  ; 

And,  if  Men  report  him  right. 

He  could  whisper  words  of  might. 

— Now  another  day  is  come. 

Fitter  hope,  and  nobler  doom  ; 

He  hath  thrown  aside  his  Crook, 

And  hath  buried  deep  his  Book  ; 

Armour  rusting  in  his  Halls 

On  the  blood  of  Clifford  calls;!  — 

‘ Quell  the  Scot,’  exclaims  the  Lance  — 
Bear  me  to  the  heart  of  France, 

Is  the  longing  of  the  Shield  — 

Tell  thy  name,  thou  trembling  Field; 

Field  of  death  where’er  thou  be. 

Groan  thou  with  our  victory  ! 

Happy  day  and  mighty  hour. 

When  our  Shepherd,  in  his  power. 

Mailed  and  horsed,  with  lance  and  sword. 
To  his  Ancestors  restored 


* It  is  imagined  by  tlie  people  of  the  country  that  there  are 
two  immortal  Fish,  inhabitanis  of  this  Tarn,  which  lies  in  die 
mountains  not  far  from  Threlkeld.  — Illencalhara,  mentioned 
before,  is  the  old  and  proper  name  of  the  mountain  vulgarly 
called  Saddle-back. 

t The  martial  character  of  the  Clitliirds  is  well  known  to  the 
readers  of  F.nglish  history;  but  it  may  not  be  improper  here 
to  say,  by  way  of  eommeni  on  the.se  lines  and  what  follows, 
that  besides  several  others  who  perished  in  the  same  manner, 
the  lour  immediate  Progenitors  of  the  Person  in  whose  hearing 
this  is  supposed  to  be  spoken,  all  died  in  the  Field. 


188 


WORDSAVORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  a re-appearing  Star, 

Like  a glory  from  afar, 

First  shall  head  the  Flock  of  War !” 

Alas  ! the  fervent  harper  did  not  know 
That  for  a tranquil  Soul  the  Lay  was  framed, 
A\'’ho,  long  compelled  in  humble  walks  to  go. 

Was  softened  into  feeling,  soothed,  and  tamed. 

I.ove  had  he  found  in  huts  where  poor  Men  lie ; 
Ilis  daily  Teachers  had  been  Woods  and  Rills, 

The  silence  that  is  in  tlie  starry  sky. 

The  sleep  that  is  among  the  lonely  hills. 

In  him  the  savage  virtue  of  the  Race, 

Revenge,  and  all  ferocious  thoughts  were  dead : 
Nor  did  he  change  ; but  kept  in  lofty  place 
The  wisdom  which  adversity  had  bred. 

Glad  were  the  Vales,  and  every  cottage  hearth ; 
The  Shepherd  Lord  was  honoured  more  and  more ; 
And,  ages  after  he  was  laid  in  earth, 

“ The  Good  Lord  Clifford”  was  the  name  he  bore. 


Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo, 
Solitary,  clear,  profound, 

Answering  to  the  shouting  Cuckoo, 
Giving  to  her  sound  for  sound  ! 

Unsolicited  reply 

To  a babbling  wanderer  sent ; 

Like  her  ordinary  cry, 

Like  — but  oh,  how  different! 

Hears  not  also  mortal  Life  1 
Hear  not  we,  unthinking  Creatures 
Slaves  of  Folly,  Love,  or  Strife, 
Voices  of  two  different  Natures  ? 

Have  not  We  too?  — yes,  we  have 
Answers,  and  we  know  not  whence  . 
Echoes  from  beyond  the  grave. 
Recognised  intelligence! 

Often  as  thy  inward  ear 
Catches  such  rebounds,  beware,  — 
Listen,  ponder,  hold  them  dear; 

For  of  God,  — of  God  they  are. 


TO  A SKY-LARK. 

Ethereal  Minstrel ! Pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 

Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound? 
Or,  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 

Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will. 

Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 


To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond. 

Mount,  daring  Warbler ! that  love-prompted  strain, 
(’Twixt  thee  and  thine  a never-failing  bond) 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain : 

Yet  might’st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege ! to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  Nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine; 

Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar,  but  never  roam; 

True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home ! 


It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  Heaven  hath  flown. 

And  is  descending  on  his  embassy ; 

Nor  Traveller  gone  from  Earth  the  Heavens  to  espy ! 
’T  is  Hesperus  — there  he  stands  with  glittering  crown 
First  admonition  that  the  sun  is  down, 

For  yet  it  is  broad  daylight ! clouds  pass  by ; 

A few  are  near  him  still  — and  now  the  sky. 

He  hath  it  to  himself  — ’t  is  all  his  own. 

O most  ambitious  Star  ! thy  Presence  brought 
A startling  recollection  to  my  mind 
Of  the  distinguished  few  among  mankind. 

Who  dare  to  step  beyond  their  natural  race. 

As  thou  seem’st  now  to  do : — nor  was  a thought 
Denied  — that  even  I might  one  day  trace 
Some  ground  not  mine ; and,  strong  her  strength  above. 
My  Soul,  an  Apparition  in  the  place. 

Tread  there,  with  steps  that  no  one  shall  reprove  ! 


FRENCH  REVOLUTION, 

AS  IT  APPEARED  TO  ENTHUSIASTS  AT  ITS  COMMENCEilENT* 
REPRINTED  FROM  “ THE  FRIEND.” 

Oh  ! pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 

For  mighty  were  the  Auxiliars,  which  then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  we  who  were  strong  in  love ! 

Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  al  ive. 

But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  ! — Oh  ! times. 

In  w'hich  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 
Of  custom,  law,  and  stature,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a country  in  Romance  ! 

When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her  rights. 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 
A prime  Enchantress  — to  assist  the  work 
Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name ! 

Not  favoured  spots  alone,  but  the  whole  earth. 

The  beauty  wore  of  promise  — that  which  sets 

* This,  and  the  Extract,  page  80,  and  the  first  Piece  of  this 
Class,  are  from  the  unpublished  Poem  of  which  some  account 
is  given  in  the  preface  to  the  Excursion 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


189 


(As  at.  some  moment  might  not  be  unfelt 
Among  the  bowers  of  paradise  itself) 

The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown. 

What  Temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 
To  happiness  unthought  of?  The  inert 
Were  roused,  and  lively  Nature  rapt  away  ! 

1 hey  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon  dreams, 
The  playfellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All  powers  of  swiftness,  subtilty  and  strength 
Their  ministers,  — who  in  lordly  wise  had  stirred 
Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense. 

And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  there 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it;  — they,  too,  who  of  gentle  mood, 

Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to  these 
Had  fitted  their  own  thoughts,  schemers  more  mild. 
And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves ; — 

Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  Meek  and  Lofty 
Did  both  find  helpers  to  their  heart’s  desire. 

And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could  w'ish; 

Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill. 

Not  in  Utopia,  subterranean  Fields, 

Or  some  secreted  Island,  Heaven  knows  where! 

But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 
Of  all  of  us,  — the  place  where  in  the  end 
We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  all  !* 


GOLD  AND  SILVER  FISHES, 

I\  A VASE. 

The  soaring  Lark  is  blest  as  proud. 
When  at  Heaven’s  gate  she  sings; 
The  roving  Bee  proclaims  aloud 
Her  flight  by  vocal  wings; 

While  Ye,  in  lasting  durance  pent. 
Your  silent  lives  employ 
For  something  “more  than  dull  content 
Though  haply  less  than  joy.’’ 

let  might  your  glassy  prison  seem 
A place  where  joy  is  known, 

Mhere  golden  flash  and  silver  gleam 
Have  meanings  of  their  own; 

While,  high  and  low,  and  all  about. 
Your  motions,  glittering  Elves! 

Ye  weave  — no  danger  from  without. 
And  peace  among  yourselves. 

Type  of  a sunny  human  breast 
Is  your  transparent  Cell ; 

Where  Fear  is  but  a transient  Guest, 
No  sullen  humours  dwell ; 

Where,  sensitive  of  every  ray 
That  smites  this  tiny  sea, 

Your  scaly  panoplies  repay 
The  loan  with  usury. 


How  beautiful ! yet  none  knows  why 
This  ever-graceful  change. 

Renewed  — renewed  incessantly  — 

Within  your  quiet  range. 

Is  it  that  ye  with  conscious  skill 
For  mutual  pleasure  glide; 

And  sometimes,  not  without  your  will 
Are  dwarfed,  or  magnified  ? 

Fays  — Genii  of  gigantic  size  — 

And  now,  in  twilight  dim, 

Clustering  like  constellated  Eyes 
In  wings  of  Cherubim, 

When  they  abate  their  fiery  glare: 
Whate’er  your  forms  express, 

Whate’er  ye  seem,  whate’er  ye  are, 

All  leads  to  gentleness. 

Cold  though  your  nature  be,  ’t  is  pure ; 

Your  birthright  is  a fence 
From  all  that  haughtier  kinds  endure 
Through  tyranny  of  sense. 

Ah!  not  alone  by  colours  bright 
Are  ye  to  Heaven  allied, 

When,  like  essential  Forms  of  light. 

Ye  mingle,  or  divide. 

For  day-dreams  soft  as  e’er  beguiled 
Day-thoughts  while  limbs  repose; 

For  moonlight  fascinations  mild 
Your  gift,  ere  shutters  close ; 

Accept,  mute  Captives!  thanks  and  praise; 

And  may  this  tribute  prove 
That  gentle  admirations  raise 
Delight  resembling  love. 


LIBERTY. 

(SEcrUEL  TO  THE  ABOVE.) 

[Addressed  to  a Frieml;  the  Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  having  beet 
removed  to  a pool  in  the  pleasure-ground  of  Rydal  Mount.] 


“The  liberty  of  a people  consists  in  being  governed  by  laws 
winch  they  have  made  for  themselves,  under  whatever  form  it 
be  of  government,  The  liberty  of  a private  man,  in  being  mas 
ter  of  his  own  time  and  actions,  as  far  as  may  consist  with  the 
laws  of  CR)d  and  of  his  countrey.  Of  this  latter  W'c  are  here  to 
discourse.” — Covvlev. 


Those  breathing  Tokens  of  your  kind  regard, 
(Suspect  not,  Anna,  that  their  fate  is  hard ; 

Not  soon  does  aught  to  which  mild  fancies  cling. 
In  lonely  spots,  become  a slighted  thing;) 


See  Note. 


190 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Those  silent  Inmates  now  no  longer  share, 

Nor  do  they  need,  our  hospitable  care, 

Removed  in  kindness  from  their  glassy  Cell 
To  the  fresh  waters  of  a living  Well ; 

'j’hat  spreads  into  an  elfin  pool  opaque 

Of  which  close  boughs  a glimmering  mirror  make. 

On  whose  smooth  breast  with  dimples  light  and  small 
The  fly  may  settle,  leaf  or  blossom  fall. 

— There  swims,  of  blazing  sun  and  beating  shower 
Feailess  (but  how  obscured !)  the  golden  Power, 

That  from  his  bauble  prison  used  to  cast 
Gleams  by  the  richest  jewel  unsurpast; 

And  near  him,  darkling  like  a sullen  Gnome, 

The  silver  Tenant  of  the  crystal  dome ; 

Dissevered  both  from  all  the  mysteries 

Of  hue  and  altering  shape  that  charmed  all  eyes. 

They  pined,  perhaps,  they  languished  while  they  shone ; 

And,  if  not  so,  what  matters  beauty  gone 

And  admiration  lost,  by  change  of  place 

That  brings  to  the  inward  Creature  no  disgrace? 

Rut  if  the  change  restore  his  birthright,  then, 
Whate’er  the  difference,  boundless  is  the  ga'in. 

W'ho  can  divine  what  impulses  from  God 
Reach  the  caged  Lark,  within  a town-abode. 

From  his  poor  inch  or  two  of  daisied  sod  ? 

0 yield  him  back  his  privilege!  No  sea 
Swells  like  the  bosom  of  a man  sot  free  ; 

A wilderness  is  rich  with  liberty. 

Roll  on,  ye  spouting  Whales,  who  die  or  keep 
Your  independence  in  the  fathomless  Deep! 

Spread,  tiny  Nautilus,  the  living  sail ; 

Dive,  at  thy  choice,  or  brave  the  freshening  gale ! 

If  unreproved  the  ambitious  Eagle  mount 
Sunward  to  seek  the  daylight  in  its  fount. 

Bays,  gulfs,  and  Ocean’s  Indian  width,  shall  be. 

Till  the  world  perishes,  a field  for  thte ! 

While  musing  here  I sit  in  shadow  cool. 

And  watch  these  mute  Companions,  in  the  pool. 
Among  reflected  boughs  of  leafy  trees. 

By  glimpses  caught  — disporting  at  their  ease  — 
Enlivened,  braced,  by  hardy  lu.xuries, 

1 ask  what  warrant  fixed  them  (like  a spell 
Of  witchcraft  fixed  them)  in  the  crystal  Cell ; 

To  wheel  with  languid  motion  round  and  round. 
Beautiful,  yet  in  a mournful  durance  bound. 

Their  peace,  perhaps,  our  lightest  footfall  marred  ; 

On  their  quick  sense  our  sweetest  music  jarred ; 

And  whither  could  they  dart,  if  seized  with  fear? 

No  sheltering  stone,  no  tangled  root  was  near. 

When  fire  or  taper  ceased  to  cheer  the  room 
They  wore  away  the  night  in  starless  gloom 
And,  when  the  sun  first  dawned  upon  the  streams, 
IIow  faint  their  portion  of  his  vital  beams! 

Thus,  and  unable  to  complain,  they  fared. 

While  not  one  joy  of  ours  by  them  was  shared. 


Is  there  a cherished  Bird  (I  venture  now 
To  snatch  a sprig  from  Chaucer’s  reverend  brow)— 
Is  there  a brilliant  Fondling  of  the  cage. 

Though  sure  of  plaudits  on  his  costly  stage. 

Though  fed  with  dainties  from  the  snow-white  hand 
Of  a kind  Mistress,  fairest  of  the  land. 

But  gladly  would  escape  ; and,  if  need  were. 

Scatter  the  colours  from  the  plumes  that  bear 
The  emancipated  captive  through  blithe  air 
Into  strange  woods,  where  he  at  large  may  live 
On  best  or  worst  which  they  and  Nature  give? 

The  Beetle  loves  his  unpretending  track. 

The  Snail  the  house  he  carries  on  his  back : 

The  far-fetched  Worm  with  pleasure  would  (jisown 
The  bed  we  give  him,  though  of  softest  down ; 

A noble  instinct ; in  all  Kinds  the  same. 

All  Ranks ! What  Sovereign,  worthy  of  the  name, 
If  doomed  to  breathe  against  his  lawful  will 
An  element  that  flatters  him  — to  kill. 

But  would  rejoice  to  barter  outward  show 
For  the  least  boon  that  freedom  can  bestow  ? 

But  most  the  Bard  is  true  to  inborn  right. 

Lark  of  the  dawn,  and  Philomel  of  night. 

Exults  in  freedom,  can  with  rapture  vouch 
For  the  dear  blessings  of  a lowly  couch, 

A natural  meal — day.s,  months,  from  Nature’s  ha 
Time,  place,  and  business,  all  at  his  command 
VV'ho  bends  to  happier  duties,  who  more  wise 
Than  the  industrious  Poet,  taught  to  prize. 

Above  all  grandeur,  a pure  life  uncrossed 
By  cares  in  which  simplicity  is  lost? 

That  life  — the  flowery  path  which  winds  by  stealth. 
Which  Horace  needed  for  his  spirit’s  health  ; 

Sighed  for,  in  heart  and  genius,  overcome 
By  noise,  and  strife,  and  questions  wearisome. 

And  the  vain  splendours  of  Imperial  Rome  ? 

Let  easy  mirth  his  social  hours  inspire. 

And  fiction  animate  his  sportive  lyre. 

Attuned  to  verse  that  crowning  light  Distress 
With  garlands  cheats  her  into  happiness ; 

Give  me  the  humblest  note  of  those  sad  strains 
Drawn  forth  by  pressure  of  his  gilded  chains. 

As  a chance  sunbeam  from  his  memory  fell 
Upon  the  Sabine  Farm  he  loved  so  well; 

Or  when  the  prattle  of  Bandusia’s  spring 
Haunted  his  ear  — he  only  listening  — 

He  proud  to  please,  above  all  rivals,  fit 
To  win  the  palm  of  gaiety  and  wit ; 

He,  doubt  not,  with  involuntary  dread. 

Shrinking  from  each  new  favour  to  be  shed. 

By  the  World’s  Ruler,  on  his  honoured  head ! 

In  a deep  vision’s  intellectual  scene. 

Such  earnest  longings  and  regrets  as  keen 
Depressed  the  melancholy  Cowley,  laid 
Under  a fancied  yew-tree’s  luckless  shade ; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


A.  doleful  bower  for  penitential  song, 

\S  here  Man  and  Muse  complained  of  mutual  wrong 
While  Cam’s  ideal  current  glided  by, 

And  antique  towers  nodded  their  foreheads  high, 
Citadels  dear  to  studious  privacy. 

But  Fortune,  who  had  long  been  used  to  sport 
With  this  tried  servant  of  a thankless  Court, 
Relenting  met  his  wishes ; and  to  You 
The  remnant  of  his  days  at  least  was  true ; 

You,  whom,  though  long  deserted,  he  loved  best; 
You,  Muses,  Books,  Fields,  Liberty,  and  Rest ! 

But  happier  they  who,  fixing  hope  and  aim 
On  the  humanities  of  peaceful  fame 
Enter  betimes  with  more  than  martial  fire 
The  generous  course,  aspire,  and  still  aspire ; 

Upheld  by  warnings  heeded  not  too  late 
Stifle  the  contradictions  of  their  fate. 

And  to  one  purpose  cleave,  their  Being’s  godlike  mate 

Thus,  gifted  Friend,  but  with  the  placid  brow 
That  Woman  ne’er  should  forfeit,  keep  thy  vow ; 
With  modest  scorn  reject  whate’er  would  blind 
The  ethereal  eyesight,  cramp  the  winged  mind ! 
Then,  with  a bles.sing  granted  from  above 
To  every  act,  word,  thought,  and  look  of  love. 

Life’s  book  for  Thee  may  lie  unclosed,  till  age 
Shall  with  a thankful  tear  bedrop  its  latest  page.* 


ODE. 

THE  PASS  OF  KIRKSTOXE. 

1. 

Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work, 
A deep  delight  the  bosom  tlirills. 

Oft  as  I pass  along  the  fork 
Of  these  fraternal  hills  : 

VYhere,  save  the  rugged  road,  we  find 
No  appanage  of  human  kind; 

Nor  hint  of  man,  if  stone  or  rock 
Seem  not  his  handy-wmrk  to  mock 


* rhepe  is  now,  alas!  no  possibility  of  the  anticipation,  v 
which  the  above  Epistle  concludes,  being  realised  : nor  w 
the  verses  ever  seen  by  the  Individual  for  whom  they  were 
tended.  She  accompanied  her  husband,  the  Rev.  Wm.  Fletcl 
to  India,  and  died  of  cholera,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two  or  thi; 
three  years,  on  her  way  from  Shalajiore  to  Bombay,  deeply 
mented  by  all  who  knew  her. 

Her  enthusiasm  was  ardent,  her  piety  steadfast;  and  her  -r 
talents  would  have  enabled  her  to  be  eminently  useful  in 
difltcult  path  of  life  to  which  she  had  been  called.  1 
opinion  she  entertained  of  her  own  performances,  given  to  : 
world  under  her  maiden  name,  Jewshury,  was  modest  a 
humble,  and,  indeed,  far  below  their  merits;  as  is  often  i 
case  with  those  who  are  making  trial  of  their  powers  with 
hope  to  discover  what  they  are  best  fitted  for.  In  one  quali 
VIZ.,  quickness  in  the  motions  of  her  mind,  she  was  in  t 
author’s  estimation  unequalled. 


• 191 


By  something  cognizably  shaped; 

Mockery  — or  model  roughly  hewn, 

And  left,  as  if  by  earthquake  strewn, 

Or  from  the  Flood  escaped : 

Altars  for  Druid  service  fit; 

(But  where  no  fire  was  ever  lit. 

Unless  the  glow-worm  to  the  skies 
Thence  offer  nightly  sacrifice;) 

Wrinkled  Egyptian  monument; 

Green  moss-grown  tower;  or  hoary  tent; 
Tents  of  a camp  that  never  shall  be  raised ; 
On  which  four  thousand  years  have  gazed! 


2. 

Ye  plough-shares  sparkling  on  the  slopes ! 

Ye  snow-white  lambs  that  trip 
Imprisoned  ’mid  the  formal  props 
Of  restle.ss  ownership ! 

Ye  trees,  that  may  to-morrow  fall 
To  feed  the  insatiate  Prodigal! 

Lawns,  houses,  chattels,  groves,  and  fields. 

All  that  the  fertile  valley  shields; 

Wages  of  folly  — baits  of  crime,  — 

Of  life’s  uneasy  game  the  stake. 

Playthings  that  keep  the  eyes  awake 
Of  drowsy,  dotard  Time  ; — 

O care  ! O guilt ! — O vales  and  plains, 

Here,  ’mid  his  own  unvexed  domains, 

A Genius  dwells,  that  can  subdue 
At  once  all  memory  of  You,  — 

Most  potent  when  mists  veil  the  sky. 

Mists  that  distort  and  magnify ; 

While  the  coarse  rushes,  to  the  sweeping  orecze, 
Sigh  forth  their  ancient  melodies ! 


3. 

List  to  those  shriller  notes ! — that  march 
Perchance  was  on  the  blast, 

When,  through  this  Height’s  inverted  arch, 
Rome’s  earliest  legion  passed ! 

— They  saw,  adventurously  impelled. 

And  older  eyes  than  theirs  beheld. 

This  block  and  yon,  whose  Church-like  frame 
Gives  to  the  savage  Pass  its  name. 

Aspiring  Road ! that  lov’st  to  hide 
Thy  daring  in  a vapoury  bourn. 

Not  seldom  may  the  hour  return 
When  thou  shaft  be  my  Guide- 
And  I (as  often  we  find  cause. 

When  life  is  at  a weary  pause. 

And  we  have  panted  up  the  hill 
Of  duty  with  reluctant  will) 

Be  thankful,  even  though  tired  and  faint. 

For  the  rich  bounties  of  Constraint. 

Whence  oft  invigorating  transports  flow 
That  Choice  lacked  courage  to  bestow! 


]92 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


4. 

My  soul  was  grateful  for  delight 
That  wore  a threatening  brow ; 

A veil  is  lifted  — can  she  slight 
Tlie  scene  that  opens  now  1 
Though  habitation  none  appear, 

The  greenness  tells,  man  must  be  there; 

The  shelter — that  the  perspective 
Is  of  the  clime  in  which  we  live; 

Where  Toil  pursues  his  daily  round; 

Where  Pity  sheds  sweet  tears,  and  Love, 

In  woodbine  bower  or  birchen  grove, 

Inflicts  his  tender  wound. 

— Who  comes  not  hither  ne’er  shall  know 
How  beautiful  the  world  below ; 

Nor  can  he  guess  how  lightly  leaps 
The  brook  adown  the  rocky  steeps. 

Farewell,  thou  desolate  Domain  ! 

Hope,  pointing  to  the  cultured  Plain, 

Carols  like  a shepherd  boy; 

And  who  is  she!  — Can  that  be  Joy! 

Who,  with  a sunbeam  for  her  guide. 

Smoothly  skims  the  meadows  wide ; 

VV’hile  Faith,  from  yonder  opening  cloud. 

To  hill  and  vale  proclaims  aloud, 

“ Whate’er  the  weak  may  dread,  the  wicked  dare, 
Thy  lot,  O Man,  is  good,  thy  portion  fair!” 


SUGGESTED  BY  A PICTURE  OF  THE  BIRD 
OF  PARADISE. 

The  gentlest  poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed, 

And  a true  master  of  the  glowing  strain. 

Might  scan  the  narrow  province  with  disdain 
That  to  the  painter’s  skill  is  here  allowed. 

This,  this  the  Bird  of  Paradise!  disclaim 
The  daring  thought,  forget  the  name; 

This  the  sun’s  bird,  whom  Glendoveers  might  own 
As  no  unworthy  partner  in  their  flight 
Through  seas  of  ether,  where  the  ruffling  sway 
Of  nether  air’s  rude  billows  is  unknown; 

Whom  sylphs,  if  e’er  for  casual  pastime  they 
Through  India’s  spicy  regions  wing  their  way. 

Might  bow  to  as  their  Lord.  What  character, 

O sovereign  Nature!  I appeal  to  tliee. 

Of  all  thy  feathered  progeny 

Is  so  unearthly,  and  what  shape  so  fair? 

So  richly  decked  in  variegated  down, 

Green,  sable,  shining  yellow,  shadowy  brown. 

Tints  softly  with  each  other  blended. 

Hues  doubtfully  begun  and  ended ; 

Or  intershooting,  and  to  sight 

Lost  and  recovered,  as  the  rays  of  light 

Glance  on  the  conscious  plumes  touched  here  and  there? 

Full  surely,  when  with  such  proud  gifts  of  life 

Began  the  pencil’s  strife, 

O’erweening  art  was  caught  as  in  a snare. 

A sense  of  seemingly  presumptuous  wrong 
Gave  the  first  impulse  to  the  poet’s  song ; 


' But,  of  his  scorn  repenting  soon,  he  drew 
A juster  judgment  from  a calmer  view  ; 

And,  with  a spirit  freed  from  discontent. 

Thankfully  took  an  effort  that  was  meant 
Not  with  God’s  bounty,  nature’s  love,  to  vie. 

Or  made  with  hope  to  please  that  inward  eye 
Which  ever  strives  in  vain  itself  to  satisfy. 

But  to  recal  the  truth  by  some  faint  trace 
Of  power  ethereal  and  celestial  grace, 

I That  in  the  living  creature  find  on  earth  a place. 

AIREY-FORCE  VALLEY. 

Not  a breath  of  air 

Ruffles  the  bosom  of  this  leafy  glen.  ' 

From  the  brook’s  margin,  wide  around,  the  trees 
Are  stedfast  as  the  rocks;  the  brook  itself. 

Old  as  the  hills  that  feed  it  from  afar. 

Doth  rather  deepen  than  disturb  the  calm 
Where  all  things  else  are  still  and  motionk'ss. 

And  yet,  even  now,  a little  breeze,  perchance 
Escaped  from  boisterous  winds  that  rage  without. 
Has  entered,  by  the  sturdy  oaks  unfelt. 

But  to  its  gentle  touch  how  sensitive 
Is  the  light  ash  ! that,  pendent  from  the  brow 
Of  yon  dim  cave,  in  seeming  silence  makes 
A soft  eye-music  of  slow-waving  boughs, 

I Powerful  almost  as  vocal  harmony 
; To  stay  the  wanderer’s  steps  and  soothe  his  thoughtii 

I THE  CUCKOO-CLOCK. 

I WouLDST  thou  be  taught,  when  sleep  has  taken  flight, 

I By  a sure  voice  that  can  most  sweetly  tell, 

I How  far-off  yet  a glimpse  of  morning  light, 

! And  if  to  lure  the  truant  back  be  well, 

! Forbear  to  covet  a repeater’s  stroke, 

I That,  answering  to  thy  touch  will  sound  the  hour; 
Better  provide  thee  with  a Cuckoo-clock 
For  service  hung  behind  thy  chamber-door; 

And  in  due  Lime  the  soft  spontaneous  shock, 

The  double-note,  as  if  with  living  power. 

Will  to  composure  lead  — or  make  thee  blithe  as  bird 
in  bovver. 

List,  Cuckoo — Cuckoo!  — oft  tho’  tempests  howl. 

Or  nipping  frost  remind  thee  trees  aie  bare. 

How  cattle  pine,  and  droop  the  shivering  fowl. 

Thy  spirits  will  seem  to  feed  on  balmy  air; 

I speak  with  knowledge,  — by  that  voice  beguiled. 
Thou  wilt  salute  old  memories  as  they  throng 
Into  thy  heart;  and  fancies,  running  wild 
Through  fresh  green  fields,  and  budding  groves  among, 
Will  make  thee  happy,  happy  as  a child  ; 

Of  sunshine  wilt  thou  think,  and  flowers,  and  song 
And  breathe  as  in  a world  where  nothing  can  go  wrong. 

And  know  — that,  even  for  him  who  shuns  the  day 
And  nightly  tosses  on  a bod  of  pain; 

I Whose  joys,  from  all  but  memory  swept  away, 

1 Must  come  unhoped  for,  if  they  come  again; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION-. 


193 


Know  — that,  for  him  whose  waking  tlioughts,  severe 
As  his  distress  is  sharp,  would  scorn  my  theme, 

The  mimic  notes  striking  upon  his  ear 
In  sleep,  and  intermingling  with  his  dream. 

Could  from  sad  regions  send  him  to  a dear 
Delightful  land  of  verdure,  shower  and  gleam. 

To  mock  the  wandering  voice  beside  some  haunted 
stream. 

O bounty  without  measure ! while  the  grace 
Of  Heaven  doth  in  such  wise,  from  humblest  springs. 
Pour  pleasure  forth,  and  solaces  that  trace 
A mazy  course  along  familiar  things. 

Well  may  our  hearts  have  faith  that  blessings  come. 
Streaming  from  founts  above  the  starry  sky. 

With  angels  when  their  own  untroubled  home 
They  leave,  and  speed  on  nightly  embassy 
To  visit  earthly  chambers,  — and  for  whom? 

Yea,  both  for  souls  who  God’s  forbearance  try. 

And  those  that  seek  his  help,  and  for  his  mercy  sigh. 


Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind. 

With  tranquil  restoration: — feelings  too 
Of  unremembered  pleasure : such,  perhaps. 
As  have  no  slight  or  trivial  influence 
On  that  best  portion  of  a good  man’s  life. 

His  little,  nameless,  unremembered  acts 
Of  kindness  and  of  love.  Nor  less,  I trust, 
To  them  I may  have  owed  another  gift. 

Of  aspect  more  sublime  ; that  blessed  mood. 
In  which  the  burthen  of  the  mystery. 

In  which  the  heavy  and  the  weary  weight 
Of  all  this  unintelligible  world. 

Is  lightened  : — that  serene  and  blessed  mood. 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 

Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a living  soul : 


LINES, 


While  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy. 

We  see  into  the  life  of  things. 


1/ 


COMPOSED  A FEW  MILES  ABOVE  TINTERN  ABBEY,  ON  REVISITING 
THE  BANKS  OP  THE  WYE  DURING  A TOUR. 

JULY  13,  1798. 

Five  years  have  past ; five  summers,  with  the  length 
Of  five  long  winters ! and  again  I hear 
These  waters,  rolling  from  their  mountain-springs 
With  a sweet  inland  murmur.*  — Once  again 
Do  I behold  these  steep  and  lofty  cliffs. 

That  on  a wild  secluded  scene  impress 
Thoughts  of  more  deep  seclusion ; and  connect 
The  landscape  with  the  quiet  of  the  sky. 

The  day  is  come  when  I again  repose 
Here,  under  this  dark  sycamore,  and  view 
These  plots  of  cottage-ground,  these  orchard-tufts. 
Which  at  this  season,  with  their  unripe  fruits. 

Are  clad  in  one  green  hue,  and  lose  themselves 
Among  the  woods  and  copses,  nor  disturb 
The  wild  green  landscape.  Once  again  I see 
These  hedge-rows,  hardly  hedge-rows,  little  lines 
Of  sportive  wood  run  wild : these  pastoral  farms. 

Green  to  the  very  door ; and  wreaths  of  smoke 
Sent  up,  in  silence,  from  among  the  trees 
With  some  uncertain  notice,  as  might  seem 
Of  vagrant  Dwellers  in  the  houseless  woods, 

Or  of  some  Hermit’s  cave,  where  by  his  fire 
The  Hermit  sits  alone. 

These  beauteous  Forms, 
Through  a long  absence,  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a landscape  to  a blind  man’s  eye  : 

But  oft,  in  lonely  rooms,  and  ’mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I have  owed  to  them. 

In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 

•The  river  i3  not  effected  by  the  tides  a few  miles  above 
Tintem. 


If  this 

Be  but  a vain  belief,  yet,  oh ! how  oft. 

In  darkness,  and  amid  the  many  shapes 
Of  joyless  daylight ; when  the  fretful  stir 
Unprofitable,  and  the  fever  of  the  world. 

Have  hung  upon  the  beatings  of  my  heart. 

How  oft,  in  spirit,  have  I turned  to  thee, 

O sylvan  Wye  ! Thou  wanderer  thro’  the  woods. 

How  often  has  my  spirit  turned  to  thee  ! 

And  now,  with  gleams  of  half-extinguished  thought. 
With  many  recognitions  dim  and  faint. 

And  somewhat  of  a sad  perplexity. 

The  picture  of  the  mind  revives  again : 

While  here  I stand,  not  only  with  the  sense 
Of  present  pleasure,  but  with  pleasing  thoughts 
That  in  this  moment  there  is  life  and  food 
For  future  years.  And  so  I dare  to  hope. 

Though  changed,  no  doubt,  from  what  I was  when  first 
I came  among  these  hills  ; when  like  a roe 
I bounded  o’er  the  mountains,  by  the  sides 
Of  the  deep  rivers,  and  the  lonely  streams. 

Wherever  nature  led:  more  like  a man 
Flying  from  something  that  he  dreads,  than  one 
Who  sought  the  thing  he  loved.  For  nature  then 
(The  coarser  pleasures  of  my  boyish  days. 

And  their  glad  animal  movements  all  gone  by) 

To  me  was  all  in  all.  — I cannot  paint 
What  then  I was.  The  sounding  cataract 
Haunted  me  like  a passion  : the  tall  rock. 

The  mountain,  and  the  deep  and  gloomy  wood. 

Their  colours  and  their  forms,  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite  ; a feeling  and  a love. 

That  had  no  need  of  a remoter  charm. 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  the  eye.  — That  time  is  past, 


194 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  AVORKS 


And  all  its  aching  joys  are  now  no  more, 

And  all  its  dizzy  raptures.  Not  for  this 
Faint  I,  nor  mourn  nor  murmur;  other  gifts 
Have  followed,  for  such  loss,  I would  believe. 
Abundant  recompense.  For  I have  learned 
To  look  on  nature,  not  as  in  the  hour 
Of  thoughtless  youth  ; but  hearing  oftentimes 
The  still,  sad  music  of  humanity. 

Nor  harsh  nor  grating,  though  of  ample  power 
To  chasten  and  subdue.  And  I have  felt 
A presence  that  disturbs  me  with  the  joy 
Of  elevated  tlioughts  ; a sense  sublime 
Of  something  far  more  deeply  interfused, 

AA^hose  dwelling  is  the  liglit  of  setting  suns. 

And  tiie  round  ocean  and  the  living  air, 

And  the  blue  sky,  and  in  the  mind  of  man; 

A motion  and  a spirit,  that  impels 

All  thinking  things,  all  objects  of  all  thought. 

And  rolls  througli  all  things.  Therefore  am  I still 
A lover  of  the  meadows  and  the  woods. 

And  mountains;  and  of  all  that  we  behold 
From  this  green  earth  ; of  all  the  mighty  world 
Of  eye  and  ear,  both  what  they  half  create*. 

And  what  perceive  ; well  pleased  to  recognise 
In  nature  and  the  language  of  the  sense, 

The  anchor  of  my  purest  thoughts,  the  nurse. 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  my  heart,  and  soul 
Of  all  my  moral  being. 

Nor  perchance, 

If  I were  not  thus  taught,  should  I the  more 
Suffer  my  genial  spirits  to  decay  ; 

For  thou  art  with  me,  here,  upon  the  banks 
Of  this  fair  river  ; thou,  my  dearest  Friend, 

My  dear,  dear  Friend,  and  in  thy  voice  I catch 
The  language  of  my  former  heart,  and  read 
My  former  pleasures  in  the  shooting  lights 
Of  thy  wild  eyes.  Oh  ! yet  a little  while 
Jlay  I behold  in  thee  what  I was  once, 

Aly  dear,  dear  Sister  ! and  this  prayer  I make. 
Knowing  that  Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her ; ’t  is  her  privilege, 

Through  all  the  years  of  this  our  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy : for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
AA'ith  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
AVith  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues. 

Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men. 

Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life. 

Shall  e’er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings.  Therefore  let  the  moon 
Shine' on  thee  in  thy  solitary  walk; 

And  let  the  misty  mountain  winds  be  free 
To  blow  against  thee ; and,  in  after  years, 

*Thia  line  has  a close  resemblance  to  an  admirable  line  of 
Young,  the  exact  expression  of  which  I do  not  recollect. 


AVhen  these  wild  ecstacies  shall  be  matured 
Into  a sober  pleasure,  when  thy  mind 
Shall  be  a mansion  for  all  lovely  forms. 

Thy  memory  be  as  a dwelling  place 

For  all  sweet  sounds  and  harmonies ; oh  ! then. 

If  solitude,  or  fear,  or  pain,  or  grief. 

Should  be  thy'portion,  with  what  healing  thoughts 
Of  tender  joy  wilt  thou  remember  me. 

And  these  my  exhortations  ! Nor,  penrhance 

If  I should  be  where  I no  more  can  hear 

Thy  voice,  nor  catch  from  thy  wild  eyes  these  gleams 

Of  past  existence,  wilt  thou  then  forget 

That  on  the  banks  of  this  delightful  stream 

AVe  stood  together ; and  that  I,  so  long  ' 

A worshipper  of  Nature,  hither  came 
Unwearied  in  that  service : rather  say 
AVith  warmer  love,  oh ! with  far  deeper  zeal 
Of  holier  love.  Nor  wilt  thou  then  forget. 

That  after  many  wanderings,  many  years 
Of  absence,  these  steep  woods  and  lofty  cliffs. 

And  this  green  pastoral  landscape,  were  to  me 
]\Iore  dear,  both  for  themselves  and  for  thy  sake  ! 


PETER  BELL 

A TALE. 


What’s  in  a Name  ? 

Brutus  will  start  a Spirit  as  soon  as  Casar ! 


TO 

ROBERT  SOUTHEY  Esq.  T.L. 

&c.  &c. 

My  Dear  Frie.nd. 

The  Tale  of  Peter  Bell,  which  I now  introduce  to 
your  notice,  and  to  that  of  the  Public,  has,  in  its  Man- 
uscript state,  nearly  survived  its  minority ; — for  it 
first  saw  the  light  in  the  summer  of  1798.  During  this 
long  interval,  pains  have  been  taken  at  different  times 
to  make  the  production  less  unworthy  of  a favourable 
reception;  or,  rather,  to  fit  it  for  filling  'permanently 
a station,  however  humble,  in  the  Literature  of  my 
Country.  This  has,  indeed,  been  the  aim  of  all  my 
endeavours  in  Poetry,  which,  you  know,  have  been 
sufficiently  laborious  to  prove  that  I deem  the  Art  not 
lightly  to  be  approached ; and  that  the  attainment  of 
excellence  in  it,  may  laudably  be  made  the  principal 
object  of  intellectual  pursuit  by  any  man,  who,  with 
reasonable  consideration  of  circumstances,  has  faith  in 
his  own  impulses. 

The  Poem  of  Peter  Bell,  as  the  Prologue  will  show, 
was  composed  under  a belief  that  the  Imagination  not 


POEMS  OF  TPIE  IMAGINATION. 


195 


only  does  not  require  for  its  exercise  the  intervention 
of  supernatural  agency,  but  that,  though  such  agency 
oe  excluded,  the  faculty  may  be  called  forth  as  impe- 
riously, and  for  kindred  results  of  pleasure,  by  incidents, 
within  the  compass  of  poetic  probability,  in  the  hum- 
blest departments  of  daily  life.  Since  that  Prologue 
was  v.’ritten,  you  have  e.^hibited  most  splendid  effects 
of  judicious  daring,  in  the  opposite  and  usual  course. 
Let  this  acknowledgment  make  my  peace  with  the 
lovers  of  the  supernatural ; and  I am  persuaded  it  will 
be  admitted,  that  to  you,  as  a Master  in  that  province 
of  the  art,  the  following  Tale,  whether  from  contrast 
or  congruity,  is  not  an  unappropriate  offering.  Accept 
it,  then,  as  a public  testimony  of  affectionate  admira- 
tion from  one  with  whose  name  yours  has  been  often 
coupled  (to  use  your  ovvn  words)  for  evil  and  for  good ; 
and  believe  me  to  be,  with  earnest  wishes  that  life  and 
health  may  be  granted  you  to  complete  the  many  im- 
portant works  in  which  you  are  engaged,  and  with 
>igh  respect. 

Most  faithfully  yours, 

William  Wordsworth. 

SvDAL  Mount,  A-prU.  1,  1819. 


PROLOGUE. 

TIiere’s  something  in  a flying  horse. 

There’s  something  in  a huge  balloon; 

But  through  the  clouds  I’ll  never  float 
Until  I have  a little  Boat, 

Whose  shape  is  like  the  crescent-moon. 

And  now  I have  a little  Boat, 

In  shape  a very  crescent-moon : — 

Fast  through  the  clouds  my  boat  can  sail ; 

But  if  perchance  your  faith  should  fail. 

Look  up  — and  you  shall  see  me  soon ! 

The  woods,  my  Friends,  are  round  you  roaring. 
Rocking  and  roaring  like  a sea; 

The  noise  of  danger  fills  your  ears. 

And  ye  have  all  a thousand  fears 
Both  for  my  little  Boat  and  me  ! 

Meanwhile  untroubled  I admire 
Tlie  pointed  horns  of  rny  canoe ; 

And,  Qid  not  pity  touch  my  breast. 

To  see  how  ye  are  all  distrest. 

Till  my  ribs  ached,  I’d  laugh  at  you! 

Away  we  go,  my  Boat  and  I — 

Frail  man  ne’er  sate  in  such  another; 
Whether  among  the  winds  we  strive. 

Or  deep  into  the  clouds  we  dive. 

Each  is  contented  with  the  other. 


Away  we  go  — and  what  care  we 
For  treasons,  tumults,  and  for  wars? 

We  are  as  calm  in  our  delight 
As  is  the  crescent  moon  so  bright 
Among  the  scattered  stars. 

Up  goes  my  Boat  among  the  stars 
Through  many  a breathless  field  of  light, 
Through  many  a long  blue  field  of  ether. 
Leaving  ten  thousand  stars  beneath  her. 

Up  goes  my  little  Boat  so  bright ! 

The  Crab  — the  Scorpion  — and  the  Bull  — 
We  pry  among  them  all  — have  shot 
High  o’er  the  red-haired  race  of  Mars, 
Covered  from  top  to  toe  with  scars; 

Such  company  I like  it  not ! 

The  towms  in  Saturn  are  decayed, 

And  melancholy  Spectres  throng  them; 

The  Pleiads,  that  appear  to  kiss 
Each  other  in  the  vast  abyss. 

With  joy  I sail  among  them ! 

Swift  Mercury  resounds  with  mirth. 

Great  Jove  is  full  of  stately  bowers; 

But  these,  and  all  that  they  contain. 

What  are  they  to  that  tiny  grain, 

That  little  Earth  of  ours  ? 

Then  back  to  Earth,  the  dear  green  Earth ; 
Whole  ages  if  I here  should  roam, 

The  world  for  my  remarks  and  me 
Would  not  a whit  the  better  be; 

I’ve  left  my  heart  at  home. 

And  there  it  is,  the  matchless  Earth! 

There  spreads  the  famed  Pacific  Ocean! 

Old  Andes  thrusts  yon  craggy  spear 
Through  the  gray  clouds  — the  Alps  are  here, 
Like  waters  in  commotion ! 

Yon  tawny  slip  is  Libya’s  sands  — 

That  silver  thread  the  river  Dnieper  — 

And  look,  where  clothed  in  brightest  green 
Is  a sweet  Isle,  of  isles  the  Queen ; 

Ye  fairies,  from  all  evil  keep  her! 

And  see  the  town  where  I was  born ! 
Around  those  happy  fields  we  span 
In  boyish  gambols — I was  lost 
Where  I have  been,  but  on  this  coast 
I feel  I am  a man. 

Never  did  fifty  things  at  once 
Appear  so  lovely,  never,  never,  — 

How  tunefully  the  forests  ring! 

To  hear  the  earth’s  soft  murmuring 
Thus  could  I hang  for  ever ! 


196 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ Shame  on  you !”  cried  my  little  Boat, 

“ Was  ever  such  a homesick  Loon, 

Within  a living  Boat  to  sit. 

And  make  no  better  use  of  it, — 

A Boat  twin-sister  of  the  crescent  moon ! 

Ne’er  in  the  breast  of  full-grown  Poet 
Fluttered  so  faint  a heart  before;  — 

Was  it  the  music  of  the  spheres 
Tliat  overpowered  your  mortal  earsl 
— Such  din  shall  trouble  them  no  more. 

These  nether  precincts  do  not  lack 
Charms  of  their  own ; — then  come  with  me  — 
I want  a Comrade,  and  for  you 
There’s  nothing  that  I would  not  do; 

Nought  is  there  that  you  shall  not  see. 

Haste ! and  above  Siberian  snows 
We’ll  sport  amid  the  boreal  morning. 

Will  mingle  with  her  lustres,  gliding 
Among  the  stars,  the  stars  now  hiding, 

And  now  the  stars  adorning. 

I know  the  secrets  of  a land 
Where  human  foot  did  never  stray  ; 

Fair  is  that  land  as  evening  skies. 

And  cool,  — though  in  the  depth  it  lies 
Of  burning  Africa. 

Or  we’ll  into  the  realm  of  Faery, 

Among  the  lovely  shades  of  things; 

The  shadowy  forms  of  mountains  bare. 

And  streams,  and  bowers,  and  ladies  fair. 

The  shades  of  palaces  and  kings! 

Or,  if  you  thirst  with  hardy  zeal 
Less  quiet  regions  to  explore. 

Prompt  voyage  shall  to  you  reveal 
How  earth  and  heaven  are  taught  to  feel 
The  might  of  magic  lore !” 

“ My  little  vagrant  Form  of  light. 

My  gay  and  beautiful  Canoe, 

Well  have  you  played  your  friendly  part; 

As  kindly  take  what  from  my  heart 
Experience  forces  — then  adieu  ! 

Temptation  lurks  among  your  words  ; 

But,  while  these  pleasures  you’re  pursuing 
Without  impediment  or  let. 

My  radiant  Pinnace,  you  forget 
What  on  the  earth  is  doing. 

There  was  a time  when  all  mankind 
Did  listen  with  a faith  sincere 
To  tuneful  tongues  in  mystery  versed; 

Then  Poets  fearlessly  rehearsed 
The  wonders  of  a wild  career. 


Go  — (but  tlie  world ’s  a sleepy  world. 

And  ’tis,  I fear,  an  age  too  late) 

Take  with  you  some  ambitious  Youth, 

For,  restless  Wanderer ! I,  in  truth, 

Am  all  unfit  to  be  your  mate. 

Long  have  I loved  what  I behold, 

The  night  that  calms,  the  day  that  cheers-, 
The  common  growth  of  mother  Earth 
Suffices  me  — her  tears,  her  mirth, 

■ Her  humblest  mirth  and  tears. 

The  dragon’s  wing,  the  magic  ring, 

I shall  not  covet  for  my  dower,  < 

If  I along  that  lowly  way 
With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray, 

And  with  a soul  of  power. 

These  given,  what  more  need  I desire 
To  stir  — to  soothe  — or  elevate! 

What  nobler  marvels  than  the  mind 
May  in  life’s  daily  prospect  find. 

May  find  or  there  create ! 

A potent  wand  doth  Sorrow  wield ; 

What  spell  so  strong  as  guilty  fear! 
Repentance  is  a tender  Sprite ; 

If  aught  on  earth  have  heavenly  might, 
’Tis  lodged  within  her  silent  tear. 

But  grant  my  wishes,  — let  us  now 
Descend  from  this  ethereal  height; 

Then  take  thy  w-ay,  adventurous  Skiff, 

More  daring  far  than  Hippogriff, 

And  be  thy  own  delight! 

To  the  stone-table  in  my  garden, 

Loved  haunt  of  many  a summer  hour. 

The  Squire  is  come ; — his  daughter  Bess 
Beside  him  in  the  cool  recess 
Sits  blooming  like  a flower. 

With  these  are  many  more  convened; 

They  know  not  I have  been  so  far;  — 

I see  them  there,  in  number  nine. 

Beneath  the  spreading  Weymouth  pine  — 

I see  them  — there  they  are  ! 

There  sits  the  Vicar  and  his  Dame; 

And  there  my  good  friend,  Stephen  Otter, 
And,  ere  the  light  of  evening  fail. 

To  them  I must  relate  the  Tale 
Of  Peter  Bell  the  Potter.” 

Off  flew  my  sparkling  Boat  in  scorn, 
Spurning  her  freight  with  indignation ! 

And  I,  as  well  as  I w'as  able. 

On  two  poor  legs,  tow’rd  my  stone-table 
Limped  on  with  some  vexation. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


197 


“ O,  here  he  is!”  cried  little  Bess  — 

She  saw  me  at  the  garden  door, 

“We’ve  waited  anxiously  and  long,” 
They  cried,  and  all  around  me  throng. 
Full  nine  of  them  or  more! 

“Reproach  me  not — your  fears  be  still  — 
Be  thankful  we  again  have  met ; — 
Resume,  my  Friends!  within  the  shade 
Your  seats,  and  quickly  shall  be  paid 
The  well-remembered  debt” 

I spake  with  faltering  voice,  like  one 
Not  wholly  rescued  from  the  Pale 
Of  a wild  dream,  or  worse  illusion; 

But,  straight,  to  cover  my  confusion. 
Began  the  promised  Tale. 


PART  FlHgT. 

All  by  the  moonlight  river  side 
Groaned  the  poor  Beast  — alas!  in  vain; 

The  staff  was  raised  to  loftier  height. 

And  the  blows  fell  with  heavier  weight 
As  Peter  struck  — and  struck  again. 

Like  winds  that  lash  the  waves,  or  smite 
The  woods,  autumnal  foliage  thinning  — 

“Hold!”  said  the  Squire,  “I  pray  you  hold! 

Who  Peter  was  let  that  be  told. 

And  start  from  the  beginning.” 

“A  Potter*,  Sir,  he  was  by  trade,” 

Said  I,  becoming  quite  collected; 

“And  wheresoever  he  appeared. 

Full  twenty  times  was  Peter  feared 
For  once  that  Peter  was  respected. 

He,  two-and- thirty  years  or  more. 

Had  been  a wild  and  woodland  rover 
Had  heard  the  Atlantic  surges  roar 
On  farthest  Cornwall’s  rocky  shore. 

And  trod  the  cliffs  of  Dover. 

And  he  had  seen  Caernarvon’s  towers. 

And  well  he  knew  the  spire  of  Sarum ; 

And  he  had  been  where  Lincoln  bell 
Flings  o’er  the  fen  its  ponderous  knell, 

Its  far-renowned  alarum ! 

At  Doncaster,  at  York,  and  Leeds, 

And  merry  Carlisle  had  he  been ; 

And  all  along  the  Lowlands  fair. 

All  through  the  bonny  shire  of  Ayr  — 

And  far  as  Aberdeen. 

* In  the  dialect  of  the  North,  a hawker  of  earthen-wr~e  is  thus 
designated 


And  he  had  been  at  Inverness; 

And  Peter,  by  the  mountain  rills. 

Had  danced  his  round  with  Highland  lasses; 
And  he  had  lain  beside  his  asses 
On  lofty  Cheviot  Hills: 

And  he  had  trudged  through  Yorkshire  dales, 
Among  the  rocks  and  winding  scars; 

Where  deep  and  low  the  hamlets  lie 
Beneath  their  little  patch  of  sky 
And  little  lot  of  stars: 

And  all  along  the  indented  coast. 

Bespattered  with  the  salt-sea  foam ; 

Where’er  a knot  of  houses  lay 
On  headland,  or  in  hollow  bay ; — 

Sure  never  man  like  him  did  roam! 

As  well  might  Peter,  in  the  Fleet, 

Have  been  fast  bound,  a begging  Debtor;  — 
He  travelled  here,  he  travelled  there;  — 

But  not  the  value  of  a hair 
Was  heart  or  head  the  better. 

He  roved  among  the  vales  and  streams. 

In  the  green  wood  and  hollow  dell ; 

They  were  his  dwellings  night  and  day, -- 
But  Nature  ne’er  could  find  the  way 
Into  the  heart  of  Peter  Bell 

In  vain,  through  every  changeful  year. 

Did  Nature  lead  him  as  before; 

A primrose  by  a river’s  brim 
A yellow  primrose  was  to  him. 

And  it  was  nothing  more. 

Small  change  it  made  in  Peter’s  heart 
To  see  his  gentle  panniered  train 
With  more  than  vernal  pleasure  feeding. 
Where’er  the  tender  grass  was  leading 
Its  earliest  green  along  the  lane. 

In  vain,  through  water,  earth,  and  air. 

The  soul  of  happy  sound  was  spread. 

When  Peter,  on  some  April  morn. 

Beneath  the  broom  or  budding  thorn. 

Made  the  warm  earth  his  lazy  bed. 

At  noon,  when,  by  the  forest’s  edge. 

He  lay  beneath  the  branches  high. 

The  soft  blue  sky  did  never  melt 
Into  his  heart,  — he  never  felt 
The  witchery  of  the  soft  blue  sky ! 

On  a fair  prospect  some  have  looked 
And  felt,  as  I have  heard  them  say. 

As  if  the  moving  time  had  been 
A thing  as  steadfiist  as  the  scene 

On  which  they  gazed  themselves  away. 

* 


.98 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Within  the  breast  of  Peter  Bell 
These  silent  raptures  found  no  place; 

He  was  a Carl  as  wild  and  rude 
As  ever  hue-and-cry  pursued, 

As  ever  ran  a felon’s  race. 

Of  all  that  lead  a lawless  life, 

Of  all  that  love  their  lawless  lives. 

In  city  or  in  village  small, 
lie  was  the  wildest  far  of  all 
lie  had  a dozen  wedded  wives. 

Nay,  start  not! — wedded  wives  — and  twelve! 
Bat  how  one  wife  could  e’er  come  near  him, 
In  simple  truth  I cannot  tell; 

For,  be  it  said  of  Peter  Bell, 

To  see  him  was  to  fear  him. 

Though  Nature  could  not  touch  his  heart 
By  lovely  forms,  and  silent  weather. 

And  tender  sounds,  yet  you  might  see 
At  once,  that  Peter  Bell  and  she 
Had  often  been  together. 

A savage  wildness  round  him  hung 
.^s  of  a dweller  out  of  doors ; 

In  his  whole  figure  and  his  mien 
A savage  character  w'as  seen 
Of  mountains  and  of  dreary  moors. 

To  all  the  unshaped  half-human  thoughts 

Which  solitary  Nature  feeds 

’Mid  summer  storms  or  winter’s  ice, 

Had  Peter  joined  whatever  vice 
The  cruel  city  breeds. 

Ilis  face  was  keen  as  is  the  wind 
That  cuts  along  the  hawthorn  fence; 

Of  courage  you  saw  little  there. 

But,  in  its  stead,  a medley  air 
Of  cunning  and  of  impudence. 

He  had  a dark  and  sidelong  walk. 

And  long  and  slouching  was  his  gait ; 

Beneath  his  looks  so  bare  and  bold. 

You  might  perceive,  his  spirit  cold 
Was  playing  with  some  inward  bait. 

His  forehead  wrinkled  was  and  furred ; 

A work,  one  half  of  which  was  done 
By  thinking  of  his  whens  and  hows; 

And  half,  by  knitting  of  his  brows 
Beneath  the  glaring  sun. 

There  was  a hardness  in  his  cheek. 

There  was  a hardness  in  his  eye. 

As  if  the  man  had  fixed  his  face. 

In  many  a solitary  place. 

Against  the  wind  and  open  sky  ! 


One  night,  (and  now  my  little  Bess ! 
We’ve  reached  at  last  the  promised  Tale;) 
One  beautiful  November  night. 

When  the  full  moon  was  shining  bright 
Upon  the  rapid  river  Swale, 

Along  the  river’s  winding  banks 
Peter  was  travelling  all  alone;  — 

Whether  to  buy  or  sell,  or  led 
By  pleasure  running  in  his  head, 

To  me  was  never  known. 

He  trudged  along  through  copse  and  brake, 
He  trudged  along  o’er  hill  and  dale ; 

Nor  for  the  moon  cared  he  a tittle. 

And  for  the  stars  he  cared  as  little. 

And  for  the  murmuring  river  Swale. 

But,  chancing  to  espy  a path 
That  promised  to  cut  short  the  way. 

As  many  a wiser  man  hath  done. 

He  left  a trusty  guide  for  one 
That  might  his  steps  betray. 

To  a thick  wood  he  soon  is  brought 
Where  cheerfully  his  course  he  weaves. 

And  whistling  loud  may  yet  be  heard. 
Though  often  buried  like  a bird 
Darkling  among  the  boughs  and  leaves. 

But  quickly  Peter’s  mood  is  changed. 

And  on  he  drives  with  cheeks  that  burn 
In  downright  fury  and  in  wrath  — 

There’s  little  sign  the  treacherous  path 
Will  to  tlie  road  return! 

The  path  grows  dim  and  dimmer  still ; 

Now  up  — now  down  — the  Rover  wends, 
With  all  the  sail  that  he  can  carry 
Till  brought  to  a deserted  quarry  — 

And  there  the  pathway  ends. 

He  paused  — for  shadows  of  strange  shape. 
Massy  and  black,  before  him  lay ; 

But  through  the  dark,  and  through  the  cold 
And  through  the  yawning  fissures  old. 

Did  Peter  boldly  press  his  way. 

Right  through  the  quarry;  — and  behold 
A scene  of  soft  and  lovely  hue ! 

Where  blue  and  gray,  and  tender  green. 
Together  make  as  sweet  a scene 
As  ever  human  eye  did  view. 

Beneath  the  clear  blue  sky  he  saw 
A little  field  of  meadow  ground ; 

But  field  or  meadow  name  it  not; 

Call  it  of  earth  a small  green  plot, 

With  rocks  encompassed  round. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


199 


The  Swale  flowed  under  the  gray  rocks, 
But  he  flowed  quiet  and  unseen ; — 

You  need  a strong  and  stormy  gale 
To  bring  the  noises  of  the  Swale 
To  that  green  spot,  so  calm  and  green ! 

Thought  Peter,  Wliat  can  mean  all  this!  — 
Some  ugly  witchcraft  must  be  here! 

Once  more  the  Ass  with  motion  dull, 

Upon  the  pivot  of  his  skull 
Turned  round  his  long  left  ear. 

And  is  there  no  one  dwelling  here, 

No  hermit  with  his  beads  and  glass'! 

And  does  no  little  cottage  look 
Upon  this  soft  and  fertile  nook! 

Does  no  one  live  near  this  green  grass  — 

Suspicion  ripened  into  dread ; 

Yet  with  deliberate  action  slow. 
His  staff  high-raising,  in  the  pride 
Of  skill  upon  the  sounding  hide, 
He  dealt  a sturdy  blow. 

Across  the  deep  and  quiet  spot 
Is  Peter  driving  through  the  grass  — 
And  now  he  is  among  the  trees; 

When,  burning  round  his  head,  he  sees 
A solitary  Ass. 

What  followed ! — yielding  to  the  shocii, 
The  Ass,  as  if  to  take  his  ease. 

In  quiet  uncomplaining  mood. 

Upon  the  spot  where  he  had  stood. 
Dropped  gently  down  upon  his  knees. 

“A  prize,”  cried  Peter,  stepping  back 
To  spy  about  him  far  and  near; 
There’s  not  a single  house  in  sight, 
No  woodman’s  hut,  no  cottage  light  — 
Peter,  you  need  not  fear  ! 

And  then  upon  his  side  he  fell. 

And  by  the  river’s  brink  did  lie ; 

And,  as  he  lay  like  one  that  mourned, 
The  Beast  on  his  tormentor  turned 
His  shining  hazel  eye. 

There’s  nothing  to  be  seen  but  woods. 
And  rocks  that  spread  a hoary  gleam. 
And  this  one  beast  that  from  the  bed 
Of  the  green  meadow  hangs  his  head 
Over  the  silent  stream. 

’T  was  but  one  mild  reproachful  look, 
A look  more  tender  than  severe ; 

And  straight  in  sorrow,  not  in  dread. 
He  turned  the  eye-ball  in  his  head 
Towards  the  river  deep  and  clear. 

His  head  is  with  a halter  bound ; 
The  halter  seizing,  Peter  leapt 
Upon  the  Creature’s  back,  and  plied 
With  ready  heel  his  shaggy  side ; 
But  still  the  Ass  his  station  kept. 

Upon  the  beast  the  sapling  rings, — 

His  lank  sides  heaved,  his  limbs  they  stirred 
He  gave  a groan  — and  then  another. 

Of  that  which  went  before  the  brother, 

And  then  he  gave  a third. 

“What’s  this!”  cried  Peter,  brandishing 
A new’-peeled  sapling;  — though  I deem 
This  threat  was  understood  full  well. 
Firm,  as  before,  the  Sentinel 
Stood  by  the  silent  stream. 

And  Peter  halts  to  gather  breath. 

And,  while  he  halts,  was  clearly  shown 
(What  he  before  in  part  had  seen) 

How  gaunt  the  Creature  was,  and  lean, 
Yea,  wasted  to  a skeleton. 

Then  Peter  gave  a sudden  jerk, 

A jerk  that  from  a dungeon  floor 
Would  have  pulled  up  an  iron  ring; 
But  still  the  heavy-headed  Thing 
Stood  just  as  he  had  stood  before! 

With  legs  stretched  out  and  stiff  he  lay ; 
No  word  of  kind  commiseration 
Fell  at  the  sight  from  Peter’s  tongue; 
Witli  hard  contempt  his  heart  was  wrung, 
With  hatred  and  vexation. 

Quoth  Peter,  leaping  from  his  seat, 

“ There  is  some  plot  against  me  laid ;” 
Once  more  the  little  meadow  ground 
And  all  the  hoary  clifls  around 
He  cautiously  surveyed. 

The  meagre  beast  lay  still  as  death  — 
And  Peter’s  lips  w’ith  fury  quiver  — 
Quoth  he,  “ You  little  mulish  dog, 

I’ll  fling  your  carcass  like  a log 
Head-foremost  down  the  river!” 

All,  all  is  silent  — rocks  and  woods, 

All  still  and  silent  — far  and  near! 

Only  the  Ass,  with  motion  dull. 

Upon  the  pivot  of  hia  SKull  1 

Turns  round  his  long  left  ear.  1 

An  impious  oath  confirmed  tlie  threat ; 
That  instant,  w'hile  outstretched  he  lay. 
To  all  the  echoes,  south  and  north. 
And  east  and  west,  the  Ass  sent  forth 
A loud  and  piteous  bray ! 

200 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


This  outcry,  on  the  heart  of  Peter, 

Seems  like  a note  of  joy  to  strike, — 

Joy  at  the  heart  of  Peter  knocks; 

But  in  the  echo  of  the  rocks 
Was  sometliing  Peter  did  not  like. 

Whether  to  cheer  his  coward  breast, 

Or  that  he  could  not  break  the  chain, 

In  this  serene  and  solemn  hour, 

Twined  round  him  by  demoniac  power. 

To  the  blind  work  he  turned  ag^ain.  — 

Among  the  rocks  and  winding  crags  — 
Among  the  mountains  far  away  — 

Once  more  the  Ass  did  lengthen  out 
Itlore  ruefully  an  endless  shout. 

The  long  dry  sec-saw  of  this  horrible  bray  ! 

What  is  there  now  in  Peter’s  heart? 

Or  whence  the  might  of  this  strange  sound  ? 
The  moon  uneasy  looked  and  dimmer. 

The  broad  blue  heavens  appeared  to  glimmer, 
And  the  rocks  staggered  all  around. 

From  Peter’s  hand  the  sapling  dropped? 
Threat  has  he  none  to  execute  — 

“If  any  one  should  come  and  see 
That  I am  here,  they’ll  think,’’  quoth  he, 
“I’m  helping  this  poor  dying  brute.” 

lie  scans  the  Ass  from  limb  to  limb; 

And  Peter  now  uplifts  his  eyes; 

Steady  the  moon  doth  look,  ai>d  clear. 

And  like  themselves  tlie  ocks  appear. 

And  quiet  are  the  skies. 

Wliereat,  in  resolute  mood,  once  more, 

He  stoops  the  Ass’s  neck  to  seize  — 

Foul  purpose,  quickly  put  to  flight  ? 

For  in  the  pool  a startling  sight 
Meets  him,  beneath  the  shadowy  trees. 

Is  it  the  moon’s  dbtorted  face! 

The  ghost-like  image  of  a cloud  ? 

Is  it  the  gallows  there  portrayed  1 
Is  Peter  of  himself  afraid  I 
Is  it  a coffin,  — or  a shroud  I 

A grisly  idol  hewn  in  stone  ? 

Or  imp  from  witch’s  lap  let  fall? 

Or  a gay  ring  of  shining  fairies. 

Such  as  pursue  their  brisk  vagaries 
In  sylvan  bower,  or  haunted  hall? 

Is  it  a fiend  that  to  a stake 

Of  fire  his  desperate  self  is  tethering? 

Or  stubborn  spirit  doomed  to  yell 
In  solitary  ward  or  cell, 

Ten  thousand  miles  from  all  his  bretliren? 


Never  did  pulse  so  quickly  throb, 

And  never  heart  so  loudly  panted , 

He  looks,  he  cannot  choose  but  look , 

Like  one  intent  upon  a book  — 

A book  that  is  enchanted. 

Ah,  well-a-day  for  Peter  Bell ! — 

He  will  be  turned  to  iron  soon. 

Meet  Statue  for  the  court  of  Fear ! 

His  hat  is  up  — and  every  hair 
Bristles  — and  whitens  in  the  moon! 

He  looks  — he  ponders  — looks  again; 

He  sees  a motion  — hears  a groan  ; — < 

His  eyes  will  burst  — his  heart  will  break  — 

He  gives  a loud  and  frightful  shriek, 

And  drops,  a senseless  weight,  as  if  his  life  were  flowm 


PART  SECOND. 

We  left  our  Hero  in  a trance, 

Beneath  the  alders,  near  the  river; 

The  Ass  is  by  the  river  side. 

And,  where  the  feeble  breezes  glide. 

Upon  the  stream  the  moonbeams  quiver. 

A happy  respite  ! — but  at  length 
He  feels  the  glimmering  of  the  moon; 
Wakes  with  glazed  eye,  and  feebly  sighing  — 
To  sink,  perhaps,  where  he  is  lying. 

Into  a second  swoon  1 

He  lifts  his  head  — he  sees  his  stafT; 

He  touches  — ’tis  to  him  a treasure! 

Faint  recollection  seems  to  tell 
That  he  is  yet  where  mortals  dwell  — 

A thought  received  with  languid  pleasure  I 

His  head  upon  his  elbow  propped. 

Becoming  less  and  less  perplexed, 

Sky-ward  he  looks — to  rock  and  wood  — 
And  then  — upon  the  glassy  flood 
His  wandering  eye  is  fixed. 

Thought  he,  that  is  the  face  of  one 
In  his  last  sleep  securely  bound ! 

So  toward  the  stream  his  head  he  bent. 

And  downward  thrust  his  staff*,  intent 
The  river’s  depth  to  sound. 

]\^ow  — like  a tempest-shattered  oark, 

That  overwhelmed  and  prostrate  lies, 

And  in  a moment  to  the  verge 
Is  lifted  of  a foaming  surge  — 

Full  suddenly  the  Ass  doth  rise  ? 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


201 


His  staring  bones  all  shake  with  joy  — 
And  close  by  Peter's  side  he  stands: 
While  Peter  o’er  the  river  bends, 

The  little  Ass  his  neck  extends, 

And  fondly  licks  his  hands. 

When  hark  a burst  of  doleful  sound ! 
And  Peter  honestly  might  say, 

The  like  came  never  to  his  ears. 
Though  he  has  been,  full  thirty  years, 
A Rover  — night  and  day  ! 

Such  life  is  in  the  Ass’s  eyes  — 
Such  life  is  in  his  limbs  and  ears  — 
That  Peter  Bell,  if  he  had  been 
The  veriest  coward  ever  seen, 

IVIust  now  have  thrown  aside  his  fears. 

’Tis  not  a plover  of  the  moors, 

’Tis  not  a bittern  of  the  fen; 

Nor  can  it  be  a barking  fox  — 

Nor  night-bird  chambered  in  the  rocks  — 
Nor  wild-cat  in  a woody  glen! 

The  Ass  looks  on  — and  to  his  work 
Is  Peter  quietly  resigned; 

He  touches  here  — he  touches  there  — 
And  now  among  the  dead  man’s  hair 
His  sapling  Peter  has  entwined. 

The  Ass  is  startled  — and  stops  short 
Right  in  the  middle  of  the  thicket; 
And  Peter,  wont  to  whistle  loud 
Whether  alone  or  in  a crowd. 

Is  silent  as  a silent  cricket. 

Ho  pulls  — and  looks  — and  pulls  again; 
And  he  whom  the  poor  Ass  had  lost. 
The  Man  who  had  been  four  days  dead. 
Head  foremost  from  the  river’s  bed 
Uprises  — like  a ghost! 

What  ails  you  now,  my  little  Bess! 
Well  may  you  tremble  and  look  gra\  ! 
This  cry  — that  rings  along  the  wood, 
This  cry  — that  floats  adown  the  floa<! 
Comes  from  the  entrance  of  a cave : 

And  Peter  draws  him  to  dry  land; 

And  through  the  brain  of  Peter  pass 
Some  poignant  twitches,  fast  and  faster, 
“No  doubt,”  quoth  he,  “he  is  the  Master 
Of  this  poor  miserable  Ass  I” 

I see  a blooming  Wood-boy  there. 
And,  if  I had  the  power  to  say 
How  sorrowful  the  wanderer  is, 
Your  heart  would  be  as  sad  as  his 
Till  you  had  kissed  his  tears  away  ! 

The  meagre  Shadow  all  this  while  — 
What  aim  is  his  I what  is  he  doing! 
His  sudden  fit  of  joy  is  flown,— 

He  on  his  knees  hath  laid  him  down. 
As  if  he  were  his  grief  renewing. 

Holding  a hawthorn  branch  in  hand, 

All  bright  with  berries  ripe  and  red. 

Into  the  cavern’s  mouth  he  peeps  — 
Thence  back  into  the  moonlight  cre»  s; 
What  seeks  the  boy!  — the  silent  dv-.d  — 

But  no — his  purpose  and  his  wish 
The  Suppliant  shows,  well  as  he  can; 
Thought  Peter,  whatsoe’er  betide, 

I’ll  go,  and  he  my  way  will  guide 
To  the  cottage  of  the  drowned  man. 

His  father ! — Him  doth  he  require. 

Whom  he  hath  sought  with  fruitless  pains. 
Among  the  rocks,  behind  the  trees, 

Now  creeping  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
Now  running  o’er  the  open  plains. 

This  hoping,  Peter  boldly  mounts 
Upon  the  pleased  and  thankful  Ass; 
And  then,  without  a moment’s  stay. 
That  earnest  Creature  turned  away. 
Leaving  the  body  on  the  grass. 

And  hither  is  he  come  at  last. 

When  he  through  such  a day  has  gone. 
By  this  dark  cave  to  be  distrest 
Like  a poor  bird  — her  plundered  nest 
Hovering  around  with  dolorous  moan ! 

Intent  upon  his  faithful  watch. 

The  Beast  four  days  and  nights  had  past; 
A sweeter  meadow  ne’er  was  seen. 

And  there  the  Ass  four  days  had  been. 
Nor  ever  once  did  break  his  fast. 

Of  that  intense  and  piercing  cry 
The  listening  Ass  conjectures  well; 
Wild  as  it  is,  he  there  can  read 
Some  intermingled  notes  that  plead 
With  touches  irresistible ; 

Yet  firm  his  step,  and  stout  his  heart; 
The  mead  is  crossed  — the  quarry’s  mouth 
Is  reached  — but  there  the  trusty  guide 
Into  a thicket  turns  aside. 

And  takes  his  way  towarrls  the  south. 

SJA 

But  Peter,  when  he  saw  the  Ass 
Not  only  stop  but  turn,  and  change 
The  cherished  tenor  of  his  pace 
That  lamentable  noise  to  chase. 

It  wrought  ip  him  conviction  strange; 

202 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A faith  that,  for  the  dead  man’s  sake 
And  this  poor  slave  who  loved  him  well, 
Vengeance  upon  his  head  will  fall. 

Some  visitation  worse  than  all 
Which  ever  till  this  night  befel. 

IMeanwhile  the  Ass  to  reach  his  home, 

Is  striving  stoutly  as  he  may; 

But,  while  he  climbs  the  woody  hill. 

The  cry  grows  weak  — and  weaker  still. 

And  now  at  last  it  dies  away. 

So  with  his  freight  the  Creature  turns 
Into  a gloomy  grove  of  beech. 

Along  the  shade  with  footstep  true 
Descending  slowly,  till  the  two 
The  open  moonlight  reach. 

And  there,  along  a narrow  dell, 

A fair  smooth  pathway  you  discern, 

A length  of  green  and  open  road  — 

As  if  it  from  a fountain  flowed  — 

Winding  away  between  the  fern. 

The  rocks  that  tower  on  either  side 
Build  up  a wild  fantastic  scene; 

Temples  like  those  among  the  Hindoos, 

And  mosques,  and  spires,  and  abbey  windows, 
And  castles  all  with  ivy  green  ! 

And,  while  the  Ass  pursues  his  way. 

Along  this  solitary  dell. 

As  pensively  his  steps  advance. 

The  mosques  and  spires  change  countenance, 
And  look  at  Peter  Bell ! 

That  unintelligible  cry 

Hath  left  him  high  in  preparation. 

Convinced  that  he,  or  soon  or  late. 

This  very  night,  will  meet  his  fate  — 

And  so  he  sits  in  e.xpectation ! 

The  strenuous  Animal  hath  clomb 
With  the  green  path,  — and  now  he  wends 
Where,  shining  like  the  smoothest  sea, 

In  undisturbed  immensity 
A level  plain  extends. 

But  whence  that  faintly-rustling  sound 
Which,  all  too  long,  the  pair  hath  chased  ! 

— A dancing  leaf  is  close  behind, 

Like  plaything  for  the  sportive  wind 
Upon  that  solitary  waste. 

When  Peter  spies  the  withered  leaf, 

It  yields  no  cure  to  his  distress; 

“ Where  there  is  not  a bush  or  tree. 

The  very  leaves  they  follow  me  — 

So  huge  hath  been  my  wickedness !” 


To  a close  lane  they  now  are  come. 

Where,  as  before,  the  enduring  Ass 
Moves  on  without  a moment’s  stop. 

Nor  once  turns  round  his  head  to  crop 
A bramble  leaf  or  blade  of  grass. 

Between  the  hedges  as  they  go. 

The  white  dust  sleeps  upon  the  lane; 

And,  Peter,  ever  and  anon 
Back-looking,  sees,  upon  a stone 
Or  in  the  dust,  a crimson  stain. 

A stain  — as  of  a drop  of  blood 
By  moonlight  made  more  faint  and  wan^ — 
Ha!  why  this  comfortless  despair  1 
He  knows  not  how  the  blood  comes  there. 
And  Peter  is  a wicked  man. 

At  length  he  spies  a bleeding  wound. 

Where  he  had  struck  the  Creature’s  head; 
He  sees  the  blood,  knows  what  it  is, — 

A glimpse  of  sudden  joy  was  his. 

But  then  it  quickly  fled; 

Of  him  whom  sudden  death  had  seized 
He  thought,- — of  thee,  O faithful  Ass ! 

And  once  again  those  darting  pains. 

As  meteors  shoot  through  heaven’s  wide  plains, 
Pass  through  his  bosom  — and  repass ! 


PART  THIRD. 

I’vE  heard  of  one,  a gentle  Soul, 

Though  given  to  sadness  and  to  gloom. 
And  for  the  fact  will  vouch,  — one  night 
It  chanced  that  by  a taper’s  light 
This  man  was  reading  in  his  room ; 

Bending,  as  you  or  I might  bend 
At  night  o’er  any  pious  book. 

When  sudden  blackness  overspread 
The  snow-white  page  on  which  he  read. 
And  made  the  good  man  round  him  look. 

The  chamber  walls  were  dark  all  round,  — 
And  to  his  book  he  turned  again; 

— The  light  had  left  the  good  man’s  taper 
And  formed  itself  upon  the  paper 
Into  large  letters  — bright  and  plain  I • 

The  godly  book  was  in  his  hand  — 

And,  on  the  page,  more  black  than  coal, 
Appeared,  set  forth  in  strange  array, 

A word  — which  to  his  dying  day 
Perplexed  the  good  man’s  gentle  soul. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


203 


The  ghostly  word,  full  plainly  seen, 

Did  never  from  his  lips  depart; 

But  he  hath  said,  poor  gentle  wight! 

It  brought  full  many  a sin  to  light 
Out  of  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

Dread  Spirits ! to  torment  the  good 
Why  wander  from  your  course  so  far. 
Disordering  colour,  form,  and  stature! 

— Let  good  men  feel  the  soul  of  Nature, 
And  see  things  as  they  are. 

I know  you,  potent  Spirits  ! well. 

How,  with  the  feeling  and  the  sense 
Playing,  ye  govern  foes  or  friends. 

Yoked  to  your  will,  for  fearful  ends  — 

And  this  I speak  in  reverence ! 

But  might  I give  advice  to  you, 

Whom  in  my  fear  I love  so  well, 

From  men  of  pensive  virtue  go. 

Dread  Beings!  and  your  empire  show 
On  hearts  like  that  of  Peter  Bell. 

Your  presence  I have  often  felt 
In  darkness  and  the  stormy  night; 

And  well  I know,  if  need  there  be. 

Ye  can  put  forth  your  agency 

When  earth  is  calm,  and  heaven  is  bright. 

Then,  coming  from  the  wayward  world. 
That  powerful  world  in  which  ye  dwell, 
Come,  spirits  of  the  Mind  ! and  try 
To-night,  beneath  the  moonlight  sky. 

What  may  be  done  with  Peter  Bell ! 

— O would  that  some  more  skilful  voice 
My  further  labour  might  prevent ! 

Kind  Listeners,  that  around  mo  sit, 

I feel  that  I am  all  unfit 
For  such  high  argument. 

I’ve  played  and  danced  with  my  narration  — 
I loitered  long  ere  I began : 

Ye  waited  then  on  my  good  pleasure,  — 
Pour  out  indulgence,  still,  in  measure 
As  liberal  as  ye  can ! 

Our  travellers,  ye  remember  well. 

Are  thridding  a sequestered  lane ; 

And  Peter  many  tricks  is  trying. 

And  many  anodynes  applying. 

To  ease  his  conscience  of  its  pain. 

By  this  his  heart  is  lighter  far ; 

And,  finding  that  he  can  account 
So  clearly  for  that  crimson  stain. 

His  evil  spirit  up  again 

Does  like  an  empty  bucket  mount. 


And  Peter  is  a deep  logician 
Who  hath  no  lack  of  wit  mercurial ; 

“ Blood  drops  — leaves  rustle  — yet,”  quoth  he, 
“ This  poor  man  never,  but  for  me, 

“ Could  have  had  Christian  burial. 

“And,  say  the  best  you  can,  ’tis  plain, 

“ That  here  hath  been  some  wicked  dealing ; 
“No  doubt  the  devil  in  me  wrought; 

“I’m  not  the  man  who  could  have  thought 
“ An  Ass  like  this  was  worth  the  stealing !” 

So  from  his  pocket  Peter  takes 
His  shining  liorn  tobacco-bo.x ; 

And,  in  a light  and  careless  way. 

As  men  who  with  their  purpose  play. 

Upon  the  lid  he  knocks. 

Let  them  whose  voice  can  stop  the  clouds  — 
Whose  cunning  eye  can  see  the  wind  — 

Tell  to  a curious  world  the  cause 
Why,  making  here  a sudden  pause. 

The  Ass  turned  round  his  head  — and  grinned. 

Appalling  process  ! — I have  marked 
The  like  on  heath  — in  lonely  wood, 

And,  verily,  have  seldom  met 
A spectacle  more  hideous  — yet 
It  suited  Peter’s  present  mood. 

And,  grinning  in  his  turn,  his  teeth 
He  in  jocose  defiance  showed  — 

When,  to  confound  his  spiteful  mirth, 

A murmur,  pent  within  the  earth. 

In  the  dead  earth  beneath  the  road. 

Rolled  audibly! — it  swept  along  — 

A muffled  noise  — a rumbling  sound  ! 

’Twas  by  a troop  of  miners  made. 

Plying  with  gunpowder  their  trade. 

Some  twenty  fathoms  under  ground. 

Small  cause  of  dire  effect ! — for,  surely, 

If  ever  mortal.  King  or  Cotter, 

Believed  that  earth  was  charged  to  quake 
And  yawn  for  his  unworthy  sake, 

’T  was  Peter  Bell  the  Potter. 

But,  as  an  oak  in  breathless  air 
Will  stand  though  to  the  centre  hewn; 

Or  as  the  weakest  things,  if  frost 
Have  stiffened  them,  maintain  their  post; 

So  he,  beneath  the  gazing  moon ! — 

Meanwhile  the  pair  have  reached  a spot 
Where,  sheltered  by  a rocky  cove, 

A little  chapel  stands  alone. 

With  greenest  ivy  overgrown. 

And  tufted  with  an  ivy  grove. 


204 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Dying  insensibly  away 

From  human  thoughts  and  purposes, 

The  building  seems,  wall,  roof,  and  tower. 

To  bow  to  some  transforming  power. 

And  blend  with  the  surrounding  trees. 

Deep-sighing  as  he  passed  along. 

Quoth  Peter,  “ In  the  shire  of  Fife, 

“’Mid  such  a ruin,  following  still 
“ From  land  to  land  a lawless  will, 

“I  married  my  sixth  wife!” 

Tlie  unheeding  Ass  moves  slowly  on. 

And  now  is  passing  by  an  inn 
Brim-full  of  a carousing  crew. 

That  make,  with  curses  not  a few. 

An  uproar  and  a drunken  din. 

I cannot  well  express  the  thoughts 
Which  Peter  in  those  noises  found ; — 

A stifling  power  compressed  his  frame, 

And  a confusing  darkness  came 
Over  that  dull  and  dreary  sound. 

For  well  did  Peter  know  the  sound ; 

The  language  of  those  drunken  joys 
To  him,  a jovial  soul,  I ween. 

But  a few  hours  ago,  had  been 
A gladsome  and  a welcome  noise. 

Now,  turned  adrift  into  the  past. 

He  finds  no  solace  in  his  course ; 

Like  planet-stricken  men  of  yore. 

He  trembles,  smitten  to  the  core 
By  strong  compunction  and  remorse. 

But,  more  than  all,  his  heart  is  stung 
To  think  of  one,  almost  a child; 

A sweet  and  playful  Highland  girl. 

As  light  and  beauteous  as  a squirrel. 

As  beauteous  and  as  wild ! 

A lonely  house  her  dwelling  was, 

A cottage  in  a heathy  dell ; 

And  she  put  on  her  gown  of  green, 

And  left  her  mother  at  sixteen, 

And  followed  Peter  Bell. 

But  many  good  and  pious  thoughts 
Had  she ; and,  in  the  kirk  to  pray, 

Two  long  Scotch  miles,  through  rain  or  snow. 
To  kirk  she  had  been  used  to  go, 

Twice  every  Sabbath-day. 

And,  when  she  followed  Peter  Bell, 

It  was  to  lead  an  honest  life;’ 

For  he,  with  tongue  not  used  to  falter, 

Had  pledged  liis  troth  before  the  altar 
To  love  her  as  his  wedded  wife. 


A mother’s  hope  is  hers;  — but  soon 
She  drooped  and  pined  like  one  forlorn ; 
From  Scripture  she  a name  did  borrow ; 
Benoni,  or  the  child  of  sorrow. 

She  called  her  babe  unborn. 

For  she  had  learned  how  Peter  lived, 

And  took  it  in  most  grievous  part; 

She  to  the  very  bone  was  worn. 

And,  ere  that  little  child  was  born. 

Died  of  a broken  heart. 

And  now  the  Spirits  of  the  Mind 
Are  busy  with  poor  Peter  Bell;  , 

Upon  the  rights  of  visual  sense 
Usurping,  with  a prevalence 
More  terrible  than  magic  spell. 

Close  by  a brake  of  flowering  furze 
(Above  it  shivering  aspens  play) 
lie  sees  an  unsubstantial  creature. 

His  very  self  in  form  and  feature. 

Not  four  yards  from  the  broad  highway : 

And  stretched  beneath  the  furze  he  sees 
The  Highland  girl  — it  is  no  other; 

And  hears  her  crying  as  she  cried. 

The  very  moment  that  she  died, 

“ My  mother  ! oh  my  mother  !” 

Tlie  sweat  pours  down  from  Peter’s  face, 
So  grievous  is  his  heart’s  contrition ; 

With  agony  his  eye-balls  ache 
While  he  beholds  by  the  furze-brake 
This  miserable  vision! 

Calm  is  the  well  deserving  brute. 

His  peace,  hath  no  offence  betrayed  ; 

But  now,  while  down  that  slope  he  wends 
A voice  to  Peter’s  ear  ascends. 

Resounding  from  the  woody  glade: 

The  voice,  though  clamourous  as  a horn 
Re-echoed  by  a naked  rock. 

Is  from  that  tabernacle  — List ! 

Within,  a fervent  Methodist 
Is  preaching  to  no  heedless  flock 

“ Repent ! repent !”  he  cries  aloud, 

“While  yet  ye  may  find  mercy; — strive 
“To  love  the  Lord  with  all  your  might • 

“ Turn  to  him,  seek  him  day  and  night, 

“ And  save  your  souls  alive  ! 

“ Repent ! repent ! though  ye  have  gone, 

“ Through  paths  of  wickedness  and  woe, 
“After  the  Babylonian  harlot, 

“ And,  though  your  sins  be  red  as  scarlet, 
“They  shall  be  white  as  snow!” 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


205 


Even  as  he  passed  the  door,  these  words 
Did  plainly  come  to  Peter’s  ears ; 

And  they  such  joyful  tidings  were, 

The  joy  was  more  than  he  could  bear ! — 
He  melted  into  tears. 

Sweet  tears  of  hope  and  tenderness ! 

And  fast  they  fell,  a plenteous  shower! 

His  nerves,  his  sinews  seemed  to  melt; 
Through  all  his  iron  frame  was  felt 
A gentle,  a relaxing  power ! 

Each  fibre  of  his  frame  was  weak  ; 

Weak  all  the  animal  within ; 

But,  in  its  helplessness,  grew  mild 
And  gentle  as  an  infant  child, 

An  infant  that  has  known  no  sin. 

’Tis  said,  that,  through  prevailing  grace, 
He,  not  unmoved,  did  notice  now 
The  cross  upon  thy  shoulders  scored, 

Meek  Beast ! in  memory  of  the  Lord 
To  whom  all  human-kind  shall  bow; 

In  memory  of  that  solemn  day 
When  Jesus  humbly  deigned  to  ride, 
Entering  the  proud  Jerusalem, 

By  an  immeasurable  stream 
Of  shouting  people  deified  ! 

Meanwhile  the  persevering  Ass, 

Towards  a gate  in  open  view. 

Turns  up  a narrow  lane ; his  chest 
Against  the  yielding  gate  he  pressed, 

And  quietly  passed  through. 

And  up  the  stony  lane  he  goes; 

No  ghost  more  softly  ever  trod ; 

Among  the  stones  and  pebbles,  he 
Sets  down  his  hoofs  inaudibly. 

As  if  with  felt  his  hoofs  were  shod. 

Along  the  lane  the  trusty  Ass 

Had  gone  two  hundred  yards,  not  more; 

When  to  a lonely  house  he  came ; 

He  turned  aside  towards  the  same. 

And  stopped  before  the  door. 

Thought  Peter,  ’tis  the  poor  man’s  home! 
He  listens  — not  a sound  is  heard 
Save  from  the  trickling  household  rill ; 
But,  stepping  o’er  the  cottage-sill. 
Forthwith  a little  Girl  appeared. 

She  to  the  Meeting-house  was  bound 
In  hope  some  tidings  there  to  gather;  — 
No  glimpse  it  is — no  doubtful  gleam  — 
She  saw  — and  uttered  with  a scream, 

Mv  father!  here’s  my  father!” 


The  very  word  was  plainly  heard. 

Heard  plainly  by  the  wretched  Mother  — 
Her  joy  was  like  a deep  affright : 

And  forth  she  rushed  into  the  light. 

And  saw  it  was  another ! 

And,  instantly,  upon  the  earth. 

Beneath  the  full  moon  shining  bright. 

Close  to  the  Ass’s  feet  she  fell ; 

At  the  same  moment  Peter  Bell 
Dismounts  in  most  unhappy  plight. 

As  he  beheld  the  Woman  lie 
Breathless  and  motionless,  the  mind 
Of  Peter  sadly  was  confused ; 

But,  though  to  such  demands  unused 
And  helpless  almost  as  the  blind. 

He  raised  her  up ; and,  while  he  held 
Her  body  propped  against  his  knee. 

The  Woman  waked  — and  when  she  spied 
The  poor  Ass  standing  by  her  side. 

She  moaned  most  bitterly. 

“ Oh  ! God  be  praised  — my  heart’s  at  ease  - 
“For  he  is  dead  — I know  it  well?” 

— At  this  she  wept  a bitter  flood ; 

And,  in  the  best  way  that  he  could. 

His  tale  did  Peter  tell. 

He  trembles  — he  is  pale  as  death  — 

His  voice  is  weak  with  perturbation  — 

He  turns  aside  his  head  — he  pauses; 

Poor  Peter  from  a thousand  causes 
Is  crippled  sore  in  his  narration. 

At  length  she  learned  how  he  espied 
The  Ass  in  that  small  meadow  ground  ; 
And  that  her  husband  now  lay  dead. 

Beside  that  luckless  river’s  bed 
In  which  he  had  been  drowned. 

A piercing  look  the  Sufferer  cast 
Upon  the  Beast  that  near  her  stands; 

She  sees  ’t  is  he,  that  ’t  is  the  same ; 

She  calls  the  poor  Ass  by  his  name. 

And  wrings,  and  wrings  her  hands. 

“ O wretched  loss  — untimely  stroke  1 
“ If  he  had  died  upon  his  bed ! 

— “He  knew  not  one  forewarning  pain  — 
“He  never  will  come  home  again  — 

“Is  dead  — for  ever  dead  I” 

Beside  the  Woman  Peter  stands ; 

His  heart  is  opening  more  and  more; 

A holy  sense  pervades  his  mind ; 

He  feels  what  he  for  human  kind 
Had  never  felt  before. 


18 


206 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  length,  by  Peter’s  arm  sustained, 

The  Woman  rises  from  the  ground  — 

“ Oh,  mercy,  something  must  he  done,  — 

“ My  little  Rachaei,  you  must  run,  — 

Some  willing  neighbour  must  be  found. 

“Make  haste  — my  little  Rachael  — do, 

“The  first  you  meet  with  — bid  him  come, — 
“Ask  him  to  lend  his  horse  to-night — 

“And  this  good  Man,  whom  Heaven  requite, 
“ Will  help  to  bring  the  body  home.” 

Away  goes  Rachael  weeping  loud;  — 

An  Infant  waked  by  her  distress. 

Makes  in  the  house  a piteous  cry ; 

And  Peter  hears  the  Mother  sigh, 

“ Seven  are  they,  and  all  fatherless !” 

And  now  is  Peter  taught  to  feel 
That  man’s  heart  is  a holy  thing; 

And  Nature,  through  a world  of  death. 
Breathes  into  him  a second  breath. 

More  searching  than  the  breath  of  spring 

Upon  a stone  the  Woman  sits 
In  agony  of  silent  grief — 

From  his  own  thoughts  did  Peter  start ; 

He  longs  to  press  her  to  his  heart, 

Frrm  love  that  cannot  find  relief. 

But  roused,  as  if  through  every  limb 
Had  passed  a sudden  shock  of  dread. 

The  IMother  o’er  the  threshold  flies. 

And  up  the  cottage  stairs  she  hies. 

And  to  the  pillow  gives  her  burning  head. 

And  Peter  turns  his  steps  aside 
Into  a siiade  oi  darksome  irees. 

Where  he  sits  down,  he  knows  not  now. 

With  his  hands  pressed  against  his  brow. 

His  elbows  on  his  tremulous  knees. 

Tliere,  self-involved,  does  Peter  sit 
Until  no  sign  of  life  he  makes, 

As  if  his  mind  were  sinking  deep 
Through  years  that  have  been  long  asleep ! 

The  trance  is  past  away  — he  wakes, — 

He  lifts  his  head  — and  sees  the  Ass 
Yet  standing  in  the  clear  moonshine ; 

“When  shall  I be  as  good  as  thou  I 
“ Oh ! would,  poor  beast,  that  I had  now 
“A  heart  but  half  as  good  as  thine!” 

— But  He  — who  deviously  hath  sought 
His  Father  through  the  lonesome  woods, 

Hath  sought,  proclaiming  to  the  ear 
Of  night  his  inward  grief  and  fear  — 

He  comes  — escaped  from  fields  and  floods ; — 


With  weary  pace  is  drawing  nigh  — 
He  sees  the  Ass — and  nothing  living 
Had  ever  such  a fit  of  joy 
As  hath  this  little  orphan  Boy, 

For  he  has  no  misgiving  I 

Towards  the  gentle  Ass  he  springs. 
And  up  about  his  neck  he  climbs; 

In  loving  words  he  talks  to  him. 

He  kisses,  kisses  face  and  limb,  — 

He  kisses  him  a thousand  times! 

This  Peter  sees,  while  in  the  shade 
He  stood  beside  the  cottage-door; 

And  Peter  Bell,  the  ruffian  wild, 

Sobs  loud,  he  sobs  even  like  a child, 

“ Oh ! God,  I can  endure  no  more ! 

— Here  ends  my  Tale : — for  in  a trice 
Arrived  a neighbour  with  his  horse ; 
Peter  went  forth  with  him  straightway ; 
And,  with  duo  care,  ere  break  of  day. 
Together  they  brought  back  the  Corse. 

And  many  years  did  this  poor  Ass, 
Whom  once  it  was  my  luck  to  see 
Cropping  the  shrubs  of  Leming-Lane, 
Help  by  his  labour  to  maintain 
The  Widow  and  her  family. 

And  Peter  Bell,  who,  till  that  night. 
Had  been  the  wildest  of  his  clan. 
Forsook  his  crimes,  renounced  his  folly, 
And,  after  ten  months’  melancholy. 
Became  a good  and  honest  man. 


THE  EGYPTIAN  MAID; 

OR, 

THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  WATER  LILY. 


[For  the  names  and  persons  in  the  following  poem,  see  the 
“History  of  the  renowned  Prince  Arthur  and  his  Knights 
of  the  Round  Table;”  for  the  rest  the  Author  is  answerable; 
only  it  may  be  proper  to  add,  that  the  Lotus,  with  the  bust  of 
the  goddess  appearing  to  rise  out  of  the  full-blown  flower, 
was  suggested  by  the  beautiful  work  of  ancient  art,  once  in- 
cluded among  the  Townley  Marbles,  and  now  in  the  British 
Museum.] 


While  Merlin  paced  the  Cornish  sands. 
Forth-looking  toward  the  Rocks  of  Scilly, 

The  pleased  Enchanter  was  aware 

Of  a bright  Ship  that  seemed  to  hang  in  air. 

Yet  was  she  work  of  mortal  hands. 

And  took  from  men  her  name  — The  Water  Lilt. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


207 


Soft  was  the  wind,  that  landward  blew  ; 

And,  as  the  Moon,  o’er  some  dark  hill  ascendant. 
Grows  from  a little  edg-e  of  light 
To  a full  orb,  this  Pinnace  bright 
Became,  as  nearer  to  the  Coast  she  drew. 

More  glorious,  with  spread  sail  and  streaming  pendant. 

Upon  this  winged  Shape  so  fair 
Sage  Merlin  gazed  with  admiration : 

Her  lineaments,  thought  he,  surpass 
Aught  that  was  ever  shown  in  magic  glass; 

Was  ever  built  with  patient  care; 

Or,  at  a touch,  set  forth  with  wondrous  transformation. 

Now,  though  a Mechanist,  whose  skill 
Shames  the  degenerate  grasp  of  modern  science, 
Grave  IMerlin  (and  belike  the  more 
For  practising  occult  and  perilous  lore) 

Was  subject  to  a freakish  will 
Tliat  sapped  good  thoughts,  or  scared  them  with  de- 
fiance. 

Provoked  to  envious  spleen,  he  cast 
An  altered  look  upon  the  advancing  Stranger 
Whom  he  had  hailed  with  joy,  and  cried, 

“ My  Art  shall  help  to  tame  her  pride  — ” 

Anon  the  breeze  became  a blast. 

And  the  waves  rose,  and  sky  portended  danger. 

With  thrilling  word,  and  potent  sign 

Traced  on  the  beach,  his  work  the  Sorcerer  urges ; 

The  clouds  in  blacker  clouds  are  lost. 

Like  spiteful  Fiends  that  vanish,  crossed 
By  Fiends  of  aspect  more  malign ; 

And  the  winds  roused  the  Deep  with  fiercer  scourges. 

But  worthy  of  the  name  she  bore 
Was  this  Sea-flower,  this  buoyant  Galley; 

Supreme  in  loveliness  and  grace 
Of  motion,  whether  in  the  embrace 
Of  trusty  anchorage,  or  scudding  o’er 
The  main  flood  roughened  into  hill  and  valley. 

Behold,  how  wantonly  she  laves 

Her  sides,  the  Wizard’s  craft  confounding; 

Like  something  out  of  Ocean  sprung 
To  be  for  ever  fresh  and  young, 

Breasts  the  sea-flashes,  and  huge  waves 
Top-gallant  high,  rebounding  and  rebounding  ! 

But  Ocean  under  magic  heaves. 

And  cannot  spare  the  ’I’hing  he  cherished  : 

Ah ! what  avails  that  She  was  fair. 

Luminous,  blithe,  and  debonair  1 
The  storm  has  stripped  her  of  her  leaves; 

The  Lily  floats  no  longer ! — She  hath  perished.  I 


Grieve  for  her, — She  deserves  no  less; 

So  like,  yet  so  unlike,  a living  Creature  ! 

No  heart  had  she,  no  busy  brain; 

Though  loved,  she  could  not  love  again ; 

Though  pitied,  feel  her  own  distress ; 

Nor  aught  that  troubles  us,  the  fools  of  Nature. 

Yet  is  there  cause  for  gushing  tears; 

So  richly  was  tliis  Galley  laden ; 

A fairer  than  Herself  she  bore. 

And,  in  her  struggles,  cast  ashore ; 

A lovely  One,  who  nothing  hears 
Of  wind  or  wave — a meek  and  guileless  Maiden. 

Into  a cave  had  Merlin  fled 
From  mischief,  caused  by  spells  himself  had  mut 
tered ; 

And,  while  repentant  all  too  late, 

In  moody  posture  there  he  sate. 

He  heard  a voice,  and  saw,  with  half-raised  head, 

A Visitant  by  whom  these  words  were  uttered: 

“On  Christian  service  this  frail  Bark 
Sailed’’  (hear  me.  Merlin !)  “ under  high  protection, 
Though  on  her  prow  a sign  of  heathen  power 
Was  carved  — a Goddess  with  a Lily  flower. 

The  old  Egyptian’s  emblematic  mark 
Of  joy  immortal  and  of  pure  affection. 

“Her  course  was  for  the  British  strand. 

Her  freight  it  was  a Damsel  peerless ; 

God  reigns  above,  and  Spirits  strong 
May  gather  to  avenge  this  wrong 
Done  to  the  Princess,  and  her  Land 
Which  she  in  duty  left,  though  sad  not  cheeness. 

“ And  to  Caerleon’s  loftiest  tower 
Soon  will  the  Knights  of  Arthur’s  Table 
A cry  of  lamentation  send  ; 

And  all  will  weep  who  there  attend. 

To  grace  that  Stranger’s  bridal  hour. 

For  whom  the  sea  was  made  unnavigable. 

“ Shame ! should  a Child  of  Royal  Line 
Die  through  the  blindness  of  thy  malice:” 

Thus  to  the  Necromancer  spake 
Nina,  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 

A gentle  Sorceress,  and  benign. 

Who  ne’er  embittered  any  good  man’s  chalice. 

“ What  boots,”  continued  she,  “ to  mourn  1 
To  expiate  thy  sin  endeavour ! 

From  the  bleak  isle  where  she  is  laid. 

Fetched  by  our  art,  the  Egyptian  Maid 
May  yet  to  Arthur’s  court  be  borne 
Cold  as  she  is,  ere  life  be  fled  for  ever 


208 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ My  pearly  Boat,  a shining  Light, 

That  brought  me  down  that  sunless  river. 

Will  bear  me  on  from  wave  to  wave. 

And  back  with  her  to  this  sea-cave ; 

Then,  Merlin ! for  a rapid  flight 
Through  air  to  thee  my  charge  will  I deliver. 

“The  very  swiftest  of  thy  Cars 
Must,  when  my  part  is  done,  be  ready; 
Meanwhile,  for  further  guidance,  look 
Into  thy  own  prophetic  book ; 

And,  if  that  fail,  consult  the  Stars 
To  learn  thy  course ; farewell  ! be  prompt  and  steady.” 

This  scarcely  spoken,  she  again 
Was  seated  in  her  gleaming  Shallop, 

That,  o’er  the  yet-distempered  Deep, 

Pursued  its  way  with  bird-like  sweep. 

Or  like  a steed,  without  a rein. 

Urged  o’er  the  wilderness  in  sportive  gallop. 

Soon  did  the  gentle  Nina  reach 
That  Isle  without  a house  or  haven ; 

Landing,  she  found  not  what  she  sought, 

Nor  saw  of  wreck  or  ruin  aught 
But  a carved  Lotus  cast  upon  the  shore 
By  the  fierce  waves,  a flower  in  marble  graven. 

Sad  relique,  but  how  fair  the  while  ! 

For  gently  each  from  each  retreating 
With  backward  curve,  the  leaves  revealed 
The  bosom  half,  and  half  concealed. 

Of  a Divinity,  that  seemed  to  smile 
On  Nina  as  she  passed,  with  hopeful  greeting. 

No  quest  was  hers  of  vague  desire, 

Of  tortured  hope  and  purpose  shaken ; 

Following  the  margin  of  a bay. 

She  spied  the  lonely  Cast-away, 

Unmarred,  unstripped  of  her  attire. 

But  with  closed  eyes,  — of  breath  and  bloom  forsaken. 

Then  Nina,  stooping  down,  embraced. 

With  tenderness  and  mild  emotion, 

The  Damsel,  in  that  trance  embound ; 

And,  while  she  raised  her  from  the  ground. 

And  in  the  pearly  shallop  placed. 

Sleep  fell  upon  the  air,  and  stilled  the  ocean. 

The  turmoil  hushed,  celestial  springs 
Of  music  opened,  and  there  came  a blending 
Of  fragrance,  underived  from  earth. 

With  gleams  that  owed  not  to  the  Sun  their  birth, 
And  that  soft  rustling  of  invisible  wings 
Which  Angels  make,  on  works  of  love  descending. 


And  Nina  heard  a sweeter  voice 
Than  if  the  Goddess  of  the  Flower  had  spoken 
“ Thou  hast  achieved,  fair  Dame  ! what  none 
Less  pure  in  spirit  could  have  done; 

Go,  in  thy  enterprise  rejoice ! 

Air,  earth,  sea,  sky,  and  heaven,  success  betoken.” 

So  cheered  she  left  that  Island  bleak, 

A bare  rock  of  the  Scilly  cluster  ; 

And,  as  they  traversed  the  smooth  brine, 

The  self-illumined  Brigantine 
Shed,  on  the  Slumberer’s  cold  wan  cheek 
And  pallid  brow,  a melancholy  lustre.  , 

Fleet  was  their  course,  and  when  they  came 
To  the  dim  cavern,  whence  the  river 
Issued  into  the  salt-sea  flood. 

Merlin,  as  fi.ved  in  thought  he  stood. 

Was  thus  accosted  by  the  Dame: 

“ Behold  to  thee  my  Charge  I now  deliver ! 

“ But  where  attends  thy  chariot  — where  !” 

Quoth  Merlin,  “ Even  as  I was  bidden. 

So  have  I done ; as  trusty  as  thy  barge 
My  vehicle  shall  prove — O precious  Charge! 

If  this  be  sleep,  how  soft ! if  death,  how  fair  ! 

Much  have  my  books  disclosed,  but  the  end  is  hidden.” 

He  spake,  and  gliding  into  view 

Forth  from  the  grotto’s  dimmest  chamber 

Came  two  mute  Swans,  whose  plumes  of  dusky  white 

Changed,  as  the  pair  approached  the  light. 

Drawing  an  ebon  car,  their  hue 
(Like  clouds  of  sunsetj  into  lucid  amber. 

Once  more  did  gentle  Nina  lift 
The  Princess,  passive  to  all  changes  : 

The  Car  received  her ; then  up-went 
Into  the  ethereal  element 
The  Birds  with  progress  smooth  and  swift 
As  thought,  when  through  bright  regions  memory 
ranges. 

Sage  Merlin,  at  the  Slumberer’s  side. 

Instructs  the  Swans  their  w'ay  to  measure ; 

And  soon  Caerleon’s  towers  appeared. 

And  notes  of  minstrelsy  were  heard 
From  rich  pavilions  spreading  wide. 

For  some  high  day  of  long-expected  pleasure. 

Awe-stricken  stood  both  Knights  and  Dames 
Ere  on  firm  ground  the  Car  alighted; 

Eftsoons  astonishment  was  past. 

For  in  that  face  they  saw  the  last. 

Last  lingering  look  of  clay,  that  tames 
All  pride,  by  which  all  happiness  is  blighted. 


209 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Said  Merlin,  “ Mighty  King,  fair  Lords, 

Away  with  feast  and  tilt  and  tourney  ! 

Ye  saw,  throughout  this  Royal  House, 

Ye  heard,  a rocking  marvellous 
Of  turrets,  and  a clash  of  swords 
Self-shaken,  as  I closed  my  airy  journey. 

“ Lo ! by  a destiny  well  known 
Po  mortals,  joy  is  turned  to  sorrow; 

This  is  the  wished-for  Bride,  the  Maid 
Of  Egypt,  from  a rock  conveyed 
Where  she  by  shipwreck  had  been  thrown ; 

111  sight ! but  grief  may  vanish  ere  the  morrow.” 

“ Though  vast  thy  power,  thy  words  are  weak,’ 
E.xclaimed  the  King,  “ a mockery  hateful ; 
Dutiful  Child  ! her  lot  how  hard  ! 

Is  this  her  piety’s  reward? 

Those  watery  locks,  that  bloodless  cheek ! 

O winds  without  remorse  ! O shore  ungrateful ! 


“My  books  command  me  to  lay  bare 
The  secret  thou  art  bent  on  keeping 
Here  must  a high  attest  be  given,  ° 

What  Bridegroom  was  for  her  ordained  by  Heaven  , 
And  in  my  glass  significants  there  are 
Of  things  that  may  to  gladness  turn  this  weeping. 

“For  this,  approaching.  One  by  One, 

Thy  Knights  must  touch  the  cold  hand  of  the  Vir<rin  , 
So,  for  the  favoured  One,  the  Flower  may  blooin 
Once  more  ; but,  if  unchangeable  her  doom. 

If  life  departed  be  for  ever  gone. 

Some  blest  assurance,  from  this  cloud  emerging. 

May  teach  him  to  bewail  his  loss; 

Not  with  a grief  that,  like  a vapour,  rises 
And  melts;  but  grief  devout  that  shall  endure. 

And  a perpetual  growth  secure 

Of  purposes  which  no  false  thought  shall  cross, 

A harvest  of  high  hopes  and  noble  enterprises.” 


“Rich. robes  are  fretted  by  the  moth; 
Towers,  temples,  fall  by  stroke  of  thunder ; 
Will  that,  or  deeper  thoughts,  abate 
A Father’s  sorrow  for  her  fate? 

He  will  repent  him  of  his  troth ; 

His  brain  will  burn,  his  stout  heart  split  asunder. 


“So  be  it,”  said  the  King;— “anon. 

Here,  where  the  Princess  lies,  begin  the  trial ; 
Knights  each  in  order  as  ye  stand 
Step  forth.”  — To  touch  the  pallid  hand 
Sir  Agravaine  advanced ; no  sign  he  won 
From  Heaven  or  Earth; -Sir  Kaye  had  like  denial, 


“ Alas ! and  I have  caused  this  woe ; 

For,  when  my  prowess  from  invading  Neighbours 
Had  freed  his  Realm,  he  plighted  word 
That  he  would  turn  to  Christ  our  Lord, 

And  his  dear  daughter  on  a Knight  bestow 
horn  I should  choose  for  love  and  matchless  labours. 

“ Her  birth  was  heathen,  but  a fence 
Of  holy  angels  round  her  hovered  ; 

A Lady  added  to  my  court 
So  fair,  of  such  divine  report 
And  worship,  seemed  a recompense 
For  fifty  kingdoms  by  my  sword  recovered. 


Abashed,  Sir  Dinas  turned  away; 

Even  for  Sir  Percival  was  no  disclosure;. 

Though  he,  devoutest  of  all  Champions,’  ere 
He  reached  that  ebon  car,  the  bier 
Whereon  diffused  like  snow  the  Damsel  lay. 
Full  thrice  had  crossed  himself  in  meek  compos’ure. 

Imagine  (but  ye  Saints ! who  can  ?) 

How  in  still  air  the  balance  trembled; 

The  wishes,  peradventure  the  despites 
That  overcame  some  not  ungenerous  Knights; 

And  all  the  thoughts  that  lengthened  outli  span 
Of  time  to  Lords  and  Ladies  thus  a.ssembled. 


“Ask  not  for  whom,  O champions  true  ! 

She  was  reserved  by  me,  her  life’s  betrayer; 
She  who  was  meant  to  be  a bride 
Is  now  a corse ; then  put  aside 
Yam  thoughts,  and  speed  ye,  with  observance  due 
Of  Christian  rites,  in  Christian  ground  to  lay  her.” 


What  patient  confidence  was  here ! 

And  there  how  many  bosoms  panted! 

While  drawing  toward  the  Car  Sir  Gaw’aine,  mailed. 
For  tournament,  his  Beaver  vailed. 

And  soflly  touched;  but,  to  his  princely  cheer 
And  high  e.\pectancy,  no  sign  was  granted. 


The  tomb,”  said  Merlin,  “may  not  close 
Upon  her  yet,  earth  hide  her  beauty ; 

Not  froward  to  thy  sovereign  will 
Esteem  me,  Liege ! if  I,  whose  skill 
Wafted  her  hither,  interpose 
10  check  this  pious  haste  of  errino"  dutv 
2B  ” 


Next,  disencumbered  of  his  harp. 

Sir  Tristram,  dear  to  thou.sands  as  a brother. 

Came  to  the  proof,  nor  grieved  that  there  ensued 
No  change,  — the  fair  Izonda  he  had  wooed 
With  love  too  true,  a love  with  pangs  too  sharo. 
From  hope  too  distant,  not  to  dread  another 
18* 


210 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Not  so  Sir  Launcelot;  — from  Heaven’s  grace 
A sign  he  craved,  tired  slave  of  vain  contrition  ; 
The  royal  Guinever  looked  passing  glad 
When  his  touch  failed.  — Ne.xt  came  Sir  Galahad  ; 
He  paused,  and  stood  entranced  by  that  still  face 
\Miose  features  he  had  seen  in  noontide  vision. 

For  late,  as  near  a murmuring  stream 
He  rested  ’mid  an  arbour  green  and  shady 
Nina,  the  good  Enchantress,  shed, 

A light  around  his  mossy  bed ; 

And,  at  her  call,  a waking  dream 
Prefigured  to  his  sense  the  Egyptian  Lady. 

Now,  while  his  bright-haired  front  he  bowed. 

And  stood,  far-kenned  by  mantle  furred  with  ermine, 
As  o’er  the  insensate  Body  hung  , 

The  enrapt,  the  beautiful,  the  young. 

Belief  sank  deep  into  the  crowd 
That  he  the  solemn  issue  would  determine. 

Nor  deem  it  strange;  the  Youth  had  worn 
That  very  mantle  on  a day  of  glory, 

The  day  when  he  achieved  that  matchless  feat, 
The  marvel  of  the  Perilous  Seat, 

Which  whosoe’er  approached  of  strength  was  shorn. 
Though  King  or  Knight  the  most  renowned  in  story. 

He  touched  with  hesitating  hand. 

And  lo ! those  Birds,  far-famed  through  Love’s 
dominions. 

The  Swans,  in  triumph,  clap  their  wings; 

And  their  necks  play,  involved  in  rings. 

Like  sinless  snakes  in  Eden’s  happy  land  ; — 

“Mine  is  she,”  cried  the  Knight;  — again  they  clap- 
ped their  pinions. 

“ Mine  was  she  — mine  she  is,  though  dead. 

And  to  her  name  my  soul  shall  cleave  in  sorrow  ;” 
Whereat,  a tender  twilight  streak 
Of  colour  dawned  upon  the  Damsel’s  cheek ; 

And  her  lips,  quickening  with  uncertain  red. 
Seemed  from  each  other  a faint  warmth  to  borrow. 

Deep  was  the  awe,  the  rapture  high, 

Of  love  emboldened,  hope  with  dread  entwining. 
When,  to  the  mouth,  relenting  Death 
Allowed  a soft  and  flower-like  breath, 

Precursor  to  a timid  sigh, 

To  lifted  eyelids,  and  a doubtful  shining. 

In  silence  did  King  Arthur  gaze 
Upon  the  signs  that  pass  away  or  tarry  ; 


In  silence  watched  the  gentle  strife 
Of  Nature  leading  back  to  life  ; 

Then  eased  his  Soul  at  length  by  praise 
Of  God,  and  Heaven’s  pure  Qeeen  — the  blissful  Mary 

Then  said  he,  “ Take  her  to  thy  heart. 

Sir  Galahad  ! a treasure  that  God  giveth. 

Bound  by  indissoluble  ties  to  thee 
Through  mortal  change  and  immortality ; 

Be  happy  and  unenvied,  thou  who  art 
A goodly  Knight  that  hath  no  Peer  that  liveth !” 

Not  long  the  nuptials  were  delayed ; 

And  sage  tradition  still  rehearses 
The  pomp,  the  glory  of  that  hour 
When  toward  the  Altar  from  her  bower 
King  Arthur  led  the  Egyptian  Maid, 

And  Angels  carolled  these  far-echoed  verses  — 

Who  shrinks  not  from  alliance 
Of  evil  with  good  Powers, 

To  God  proclaims  defiance. 

And  mocks  whom  he  adores. 

A Ship  to  Christ  devoted 
From  the  Land  of  Nile  did  go; 

Alas!  the  bright  Ship  floated. 

An  Idol  at  her  Prow. 

By  magic  domination, 

The  Heaven-permitted  vent 
Of  purblind  mortal  passion, 

Was  wrought  her  punishment. 

The  Flower,  the  Form  within  it. 

What  served  they  in  her  need  ? 

Her  port  she  could  not  win  it. 

Nor  from  mishap  be  freed. 

The  tempest  overcame  her. 

And  she  was  seen  no  more ; 

But  gently  gently  blame  her. 

She  cast  a Pearl  ashore. 

The  Maid  to  Jesu  hearkened. 

And  kept  to  him  her  faith. 

Till  sense  in  death  was  darkened. 

Or  sleep  akin  to  death. 

But  Angels  round  her  pillow 
Kept  watch,  a viewless  band ; 

And,  billow  favouring  billow. 

She  reached  the  destined  strand. 

Blest  Pair  I whate’er  befall  you. 

Your  faith  in  Him  approve 
Who  from  frail  earth  can  call  you, 

To  bowers  of  endless  love  ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


'211 


THE  SIMPLON  PASS. 

Bkook  and  road 

Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  pass, 

And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 
At  a slow  step.  The  immeasurable  height 
Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 

Tlie  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls. 

And  in  the  narrow  rent,  at  every  turn. 

Winds  thwarting  w’inds  bewildered  and  forlorn. 
The  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky. 

The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our  ears. 

Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the  wayside 
As  if  a voice  were  in  therii,  the  sick  sight 
And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream. 

The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the  heavens. 
Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light  — 
Where  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the  features 
Of  the  same  face,  blossoms  upon  one  tree, 
Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse, 

The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity, 

Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  without  end. 


AN  EVENING  ODE, 

COMPOSED  UPON  AN  EVENING  OF  EXTRAOUDINAKY  SPLEN- 
DOUR AND  BEAUTY. 

Had  this  effulgence  disappeared 
With  flying  haste,  I might  have  sent. 

Among  the  speechless  clouds,  a look 
Of  blank  astonishment; 

But  ’tis  endued  with  power  to  stay. 

And  sanctify  one  closing  day. 

That  frail  mortality  may  see  — 

What  isl  — ah  no,  but  what  can  be! 

Time  was  when  field  and  watery  cove 
With  modulated  echoes  rang. 

While  choirs  of  fervent  angels  sang 
Their  vespers  in  the  grove ; 

Or,  crowning,  star-like,  each  some  sovereign  height. 
Warbled,  for  heaven  above  and  earth  below, 

Strains  suitable  to  both.  — Such  holy  rite, 

Methinks,  if  audibly  repeated  now 
From  hill  or  valley,  could  not  move 
Sublimer  transport,  purer  love. 

Than  doth  this  silent  spectacle  — the  gleam  — 

The  shadow  — and  the  peace  supreme! 

II. 

No  sound  is  uttered,  — but  a deep 
And  solemn  harmony  pervades 
The  hollow  vale  from  steep  to  steep, 

And  penetrates  the  glades. 

Far-distant  images  draw  nigh. 

Called  forth  by  wondrous  potency 


Of  beamy  radiance,  that  imbues, 

Whate’er  it  strikes,  with  gem-like  hues! 

In  vision  e.vquisitely  clear. 

Herds  range  along  the  mountain  side; 

And  glistening  antlers  are  descried; 

And  gilded  flocks  appear. 

Thine  is  the  tranquil  hour,  purpureal  Eve! 

But  long  as  god-like  wish,  or  hope  divine. 
Informs  my  spirit,  ne’er  can  I believe 
That  this  magnificence  is  wholly  thine! 

— From  worlds  not  quickened  by  the  sun 
A portion  of  the  gift  is  won ; 

An  intermingling  of  Heaven’s  pomp  is  spread 
On  ground  which  British  shepherds  tread ! 

III. 

And  if  there  be  whom  broken  ties 
Afflict,  or  injuries  assail. 

Yon  hazy  ridges  to  their  eyes* 

Present  a glorious  scale. 

Climbing  suffused  with  sunny  air. 

To  stop  — no  record  hath  told  where! 

And  tempting  fancy  to  ascend. 

And  with  immortal  spiritslilend  ! 

— Wings  at  my  shoulders  seem  to  play , f 
But,  rooted  here,  I stand  and  gaze 

On  those  bright  steps  that  heaven-ward  raise 
Their  practicable  way. 

Come  forth,  ye  drooping  old  men,  look  abroad. 
And  see  to  what  fair  countries  ye  are  bound  ! 
And  if  some  traveller,  weary  of  his  road. 

Hath  slept  since  noon-tide  on  the  grassy  ground 
Ye  Genii ! to  his  covert  speed  ; 

And  wake  him  with  such  gentle  heed 
As  may  attune  his  soul  to  meet  the  dower 
Bestowed  on  this  transcendant  hour ! 

IV. 

Such  hues  from  their  celestial  Urn 
Were  vvont  to  stream  before  mine  eye. 
Where’er  it  wandered  in  the  morn 
Of  blissful  infancy. 

This  glimpse  of  glory,  why  renewed! 

Nay,  rather  speak  with  gratitude; 

For,  if  a vestige  of  those  gleams 
Survived,  ’twas  only  in  my  dreams. 


* The  multiplication  of  mountain-ritiges  described  at  the 
commencement  of  the  third  Stanza  of  this  Ode,  as  a kind 
of  .Tacob’s  Ladder,  leading  to  Heaven,  is  produced  either 
by  watery  vapours,  or  sunny  haze ; — in  the  present  instance 
by  the  latter  cause.  Allusions  to  the  Ode,  entitled  ‘Inti- 
mations of  Immortality,’  pervade  the  last  stanza  of  the 
foregoing  Poem. 

tin  these  lines  I am  under  obligation  to  the  exquisite 
picture  of  “.Tacob’s  Dream,’’  by  Mr.  Allston,  now  in 
America.  It  is  pleasant  to  make  this  public  acknowledg- 
ment to  a man  of  genius,  whom  I have  the  honour  to  rank 
among  my  friends. 


212 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETl'CAL  WORKS. 


Dread  Power ! whom  peace  and  calmness  serve 
No  less  than  nature’s  threatening  voice, 

If  aught  unworthy  be  my  choice, 

From  Thee  if  I would  swerve ; 

O,  let  thy  grace  remind  me  of  the  light 
Full  early  lost,  and  fruitlessly  deplored ; 

J Which,  at  this  moment,  on  my  waking  sight 
Appears  to  shine,  by  miracle  restored  ; 

My  soul,  though  yet  confined  to  earth. 

Rejoices  in  a second  birth ! 

— ’Tis  past,  the  visionary  splendour  fades; 

And  night  approaches  with  her  shades. 


TO  THE  CLOUDS. 

Army  of  Clouds ! ye  winged  Host  in  troops 
Ascending  from  behind  the  motionless  brow 
Of  that  tall  rock,  as  from  a hidden  world, 

O whither  with  such  eagerness  of  speed  1 
What  seek  ye,  or  what  shun  ye1  of  the  gale 
Companions,  fear  ye  to  be”lefl  behind. 

Or  racing  o’er  your  blue  ethereal  field 
Contend  ye  with  each  other]  of  the  sea 
Children,  thus  post  ye  over  vale  and  height 
To  sink  upon  your  mother’s  lap  — and  rest! 

Or  were  ye  rightlier  hailed,  when  first  mine  eyes 
Beheld  in  your  impetuous  march  the  likeness 
Of  a wide  army  pressing  on  to  meet 
Or  overtake  some  unknown  enemy  1 — 

But  your  smooth  motions  suit  a peaceful  aim ; 

And  Fancy,  not  less  aptly  pleased,  compares 
Your  squadrons  to  an  endless  flight  of  birds 
Aerial,  upon  due  migration  bound 
To  milder  climes ; or  rather  do  ye  urge 
In  caravan  your  hasty  pilgrimage 
To  pause  at  last  on  more  aspiring  heights 
Than  these,  and  utter  your  devotion  there 
With  thunderous  voice  1 Or  are  ye  jubilant. 

And  would  ye,  tracking  your  proud  lord  the  Sun, 

Be  present  at  his  setting ; or  the  pomp 

Of  Persian  mornings  would  ye  fill,  and  stand 

Poising  your  splendours  high  above  the  heads 

Of  worshippers  kneeling  to  their  up-risen  God? 

Whence,  whence,  ye  clouds ! this  eagerness  of  speed  ? 

Speak,  silent  creatures.  — They  are  gone,  are  fled. 

Buried  together  in  yon  gloomy  mass 

That  loads  the  middle  heaven  ; and  clear  and  bright 

And  vacant  doth  the  region  which  they  thronged 

Appear;  a calm  descent  of  sky  conducting 

Down  to  the  unapproachable  abyss, 

Down  to  that  hidden  gulf  from  which  they  rose 
To  vanish  — fleet  as  days  and  months  and  years. 

Fleet  as  the  generations  of  mankind. 

Power,  glory,  empire,  as  the  world  itself, 


The  lingering  world,  when  time  hath  ceased  to  be. 
But  the  winds  roar,  shaking  the  rooted  trees. 

And  see ! a bright  precursor  to  a train 
Perchance  as  numerous,  overpeers  the  rock 
That  sullenly  refuses  to  partake 
Of  the  wild  impulse.  From  a fount  of  life 
Invisible,  the  long  procession  moves 
Luminous  or  gloomy,  welcome  to  the  vale 
Which  they  are  entering,  welcome  to  mine  eye 
That  sees  them,  to  my  soul  that  owns  in  them. 

And  in  the  bosom  of  the  firmament 

O’er  which  they  move,  wherein  they  are  contained, 

A type  of  her  capacious  self  and  all 

Her  restless  progeny. 

A humble  walk 

Here  is  my  body  doomed  to  tread,  this  path, 

A little  hoary  line  and  faintly  traced. 

Work,  shall  we  call  it,  of  the  shepherd’s  foot 
Or  of  his  flock? — joint  vestige  of  them  both. 

I pace  it  unrepining,  for  my  thoughts 
Admit  no  bondage  and  my  words  have  wings. 
Where  is  the  Orphean  lyre,  or  Druid  harp. 

To  accompany  the  verse?  The  mountain  blast 
Shall  be  our  ha>id  of  music;  he  shall  sweep 
The  rocks,  and  quivering  trees,  and  billowy  lake. 
And  search  the  fibres  of  the  caves,  and  they 
Shall  answer,  for  our  song  is  of  the  clouds 
And  the  wind  loves  them ; and  the  gentle  gales  — 
Which  by  their  aid  re-clothe  the  naked  lawn 
With  annual  verdure,  and  revive  the  woods. 

And  moisten  the  parched  lips  of  thirsty  flowers  — 
Love  them  ; and  every  idle  breeze  of  air 
Bends  to  the  favourite  burthen.  Moon  and  stars 
Keep  their  most  solemn  vigils  when  the  clouds 
Watch  also,  shifting  peaceably  their  place 
Like  bands  of  ministering  spirits,  or  when  they  lie. 
As  if  some  Protean  art  the  change  had  wrought, 

In  listless  quiet  o’er  the  ethereal  deep 
Scattered,  a Cyclades  of  various  shapes 
And  all  degrees  of  beauty.  O ye  lightnings ! 

Ye  are  their  perilous  offspring;  and  the  sun  - - 
Source  inexhaustible  of  life  and  joy. 

And  type  of  man’s  far-darting  reason,  therefore 
In  old  time  worshipped  as  the  god  of  verse, 

A blazing  intellectual  deity  — 

Loves  his  own  glory  in  their  looks,  and  showers 
Upon  that  unsubstantial  brotherhood 
Visions  with  all  but  beatific  light 
Enriched  — too  transient  were  they  not  renewed 
[ From  age  to  age,  and  did  not  while  we  gaze 
In  silent  rapture,  credulous  desire 
Nourish  the  hope  that  memory  lacks  not  power 
To  keep  the  treasure  unimpaired.  Vain  thought? 
Yet  why  repine,  created  as  we  are 
For  joy  and  rest,  albeit  to  find  them  only 
I Lodged  in  the  bosom  of  eternal  things'* 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2}? 


STANZAS 

ON 

THE  POWER  OF  SOUND. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Ear  addressed,  as  occupied  by  a spiritual  functionary,  in 
communion  with  sounds,  individual,  or  combined  in  studied 
harmony.  — Sources  and  eflects  of  those  sounds  (to  the  close  of 
6th  Stanza).  — The  power  of  music,  whence  procet-ding,  exem- 
plified in  the  idiot — Origin  of  music,  and  its  cflcct  in  early 
ages  — how  produced  (to  the  middle  of  10th  Stanza). — The 
mind  recalled  to  sounds  acting  casually  and  severally.  — Wish 
uttered  (11th  Stanza)  that  these  could  be  united  into  a scheme 
or  system  for  moral  interests  and  intellectual  contemplation. — 
(Stanza  12th.)  The  Pythagorean  theory  of  numbers  and  music, 
with  their  supposed  power  over  the  motions  of  the  universe  — 
iraacinations  consonant  with  such  a theory.  — Wish  expressed 
(in  11th  Stanza)  realized,  in  some  degree,  by  the  repre.senta- 
tion  of  all  sounds  under  the  form  of  thanksgiving  to  the  Creator. 
— (Last  Stanza)  the  destruction  of  earth  and  the  planetary  sj^s. 
tem  — the  survival  of  audible  harmony,  and  its  support  in  the 
Divine  Nature,  as  revealed  in  Holy  Writ 


1. 

Thy  functions  are  etherial. 

As  if  within  thee  dwelt  a glancing  Mind, 

Organ  of  Vision ! And  a Spirit  aerial 
Informs  the  cell  of  hearing,  dark  and  blind ; 
Intricate  labyrinth,  more  dread  for  thought 
To  enter  than  oracular  cave ; 

Strict  passage,  through  which  sighs  are  brought. 

And  whispers,  for  the  heart,  their  slave ; 

And  shrieks,  that  revel  in  abuse 
Of  shivering  flesh;  and  warbled  air. 

Whose  piercing  sweetness  can  unloose 
The  chains  of  frenzy,  or  entice  a smile 
Into  the  ambush  of  despair; 

Hosannas  pealing  down  the  long-drawn  aisle. 

And  requiems  answered  by  the  pulse  that  beats 
Devoutly,  in  life’s  last  retreats! 

2, 

The  headlong  Streams  and  Fountains 
Serve  Thee,  Invisible  Spirit,  with  untired  powers ; 
Cheering  the  wakeful  Tent  on  Syrian  mountains. 
They  lull  perchance  ten  thousand  thousand  Flowers. 
That  roar,  the  prowling  Lion’s  Here  I am, 

How  fearful  to  the  desert  wide  ! 

7'hat  bleat,  how  tender!  of  the  Dam 
Calling  a straggler  to  her  side. 

Shout,  Cuckoo!  let  the  vernal  soul 
Go  with  thee  to  the  frozen  zone ; 

Toll  from  thy  loftiest  perch,  lone  Bell-bird,  toll ! 

At  the  still  hour  to  Mercy  dear, 

Mercy  from  her  twilight  throne 
listening  to  Nun’s  faint  sob  of  holy  fear, 

To  Sailor’s  prayer  breathed  from  a darkening  sea. 

Or  Widow’s  cottage  lullaby. 


3. 

Ye  Voices,  and  ye  Shadows, 

And  Images  of  voice  — to  hound  and  horn 
From  rocky  steep  and  rock-bestudded  meadows 
Flung  back,  and,  in  the  sky’s  blue  caves,  reborn. 

On  with  your  pastime  ! till  the  church-tower  bells 
A greeting  give  of  measured  glee ; 

And  milder  echoes  from  their  cells 
Repeat  the  bridal  symphony. 

Then,  or  far  earlier,  let  us  rove 
Where  mists  are  breaking  up  or  gone. 

And  from  aloft  look  down  into  a cove 
Besprinkled  with  a careless  quire. 

Happy  Milk-maids,  one  by  one 
Scattering  a ditty  each  to  her  desire, 

A liquid  concert  matchless  by  nice  Art, 

A stream  as  if  from  one  full  heart. 

4. 

Blest  be  the  song  that  brightens 
The  blind  Man’s  gloom,  exalts  the  Veteran’s  mirth  . 
Uiiscorned  the  Peasant’s  whistling  breath,  that  lightens 
His  duteous  toil  of  furrowing  the  green  earth. 

For  the  tired  Slave,  Song  lifts  the  languid  oar. 

And  bids  it  aptly  fall,  with  chime 
That  beautifies  the  fairest  shore. 

And  mitigates  the  harshest  clime. 

Yon  Pilgrims  see — in  lagging  file 
They  move ; but  soon  the  appointed  way 
A choral  Ave  Alarie  shall  beguile. 

And  to  their  hope  the  distant  shrine 
Glisten  with  a livelier  ray: 

Nor  friendless  He,  the  Prisoner  of  the  Mine, 

Who  from  the  well-spring  of  his  own  clear  breast 
Can  draw,  and  sing  his  griefs  to  rest 

5. 

When  civic  renovation 
Dawns  on  a kingdom,  and  for  needful  haste 
Best  eloquence  avails  not  Inspiration 
Mounts  with  a tune,  that  travels  like  a blast 
Piping  through  cave  and  battlemented  tower ; 

Then  starts  the  Sluggard,  pleased  to  meet 
That  voice  of  Freedom,  in  its  power 
Of  promises,  shrill,  wild,  and  sweet ! 

Who,  from  a martial  pageant,  spreads 
Incitements  of  a battle-day. 

Thrilling  the  unweaponed  crowd  with  plumeless  heads , 

Even  She  whose  Lydian  airs  inspire 

Peaceful  striving,  gentle  play 

Of  timid  hope  and  innocent  desire 

Shot  from  the  dancing  Graces,  as  they  move 

Fanned  by  the  plausive  wings  of  Ix)ve. 

G. 

How  ofl  along  thy  mazes. 

Regent  of  Sound,  have  dangerous  Passions  trod  ! 


tin 


AVORDSWORTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


O Thou,  through  whom  the  Temple  rings  with  praises, 

And  blackening  clouds  in  thunder  speak  of  God, 

Betray  not  by  the  cozenage  of  sense 

Thy  Votaries,  wooingly  resigned 

To  a voluptuous  influence 

That  taints  the  purer,  better  mind; 

But  lead  sick  Fancy  to  a harp 
That  hath  in  noble  tasks  been  tried ; 

And,  if  the  Virtuous  feel  a pang  too  sharp, 

Soothe  it  into  patience,  — stay 
The  uplifted  arm  of  Suicide; 

And  let  some  mood  of  thine  in  firm  array 
Knit  every  thought  the  impending  issue  needs, 

Ere  Martyr  burns,  or  Patriot  bleeds! 

7. 

As  Conscience,  to  the  centre 
Of  Being,  smites  with  irresistible  pain, 

So  shall  a solemn  cadence,  if  it  enter 
The  mouldy  vaults  of  the  dull  Idiot’s  brain. 
Transmute  him  to  a wretch  from  quiet  hurled  — 
Convulsed  as  by  a jarring  din  ; 

And  then  aghast,  as  at  the  world 
Of  reason  partially  let  in 
By  concords  winding  with  a sway 
Terrible  for  sense  and  soul ! 

Or,  aw’ed  he  weeps,  struggling  to  quell  dismay. 

Point  not  these  mysteries  to  an  Art 
Lixlged  above  the  starry  pole ; 

Pure  modulations  flowing  fiom  the  heart 
Of  divine  Love,  where  Wisdom,  Beauty,  Truth, 

With  Order  dw^ell,  in  endless  youth  1 

8. 

Oblivion  may  not  cover 

All  treasures  hoarded  by  the  Miser,  Time. 

Orphean  Insight!  Truth’s  undaunted  Lover, 

To  the  first  leagues  of  tutored  passion  climb. 

When  Music  deigned  within  this  grosser  sphere 
Her  subtle  essence  to  enfold. 

And  Voice  and  Shell  drew  forth  a tear 
Softer  than  Nature’s  self  could  mould. 

Yet  stremious  was  the  infant  Age; 

Art,  daring  because  souls  could  feel. 

Stirred  nowhere  but  an  urgent  equipage 
Of  rapt  imagination  sped  her  march 
Through  the  realms  of  woe  and  weal : 

Hell  to  the  lyre  bowed  low ; the  upper  arch 
Rejoiced  that  clamorous  spell  and  magic  verse 
Her  wan  disasters  could  disperse. 

e 

The  Gift  to  King  Amphion 

That  walled  a city  with  its  melody 

Was  for  belief  no  dream ; thy  skill.  Avion ! 

Could  humanise  the  creatures  of  the  sea. 

Where  men  were  monsters.  A last  grace  he  craves. 
Leave  for  one  chant ; — the  dulcet  sound 
Steals  from  the  deck  o’er  willing  waves, 


And  listening  Dolphins  gather  round. 

Self-cast,  as  with  a desperate  course, 

’Mid  that  strange  audience,  he  bestrides 
A proud  One  docile  as  a managed  horse; 

And  singing,  while  the  accordant  hand 
Sweeps  his  harp,  the  Master  rides; 

So  shall  he  touch  at  length  a friendly  strand. 

And  he,  with  his  Preserver,  shine  star-bright 
In  memory,  through  silent  night. 

10. 

The  pipe  of  Pan,  to  Shepherds 
Couched  in  tlie  shadow  of  Menalian  Pines, 

Was  passing  sweet ; the  eyeballs  of  the  Leopards, 
That  in  high  triumph  drew  the  Lord  of  vines, 
IIow  did  they  sparkle  to  the  cymbal's  clang! 
While  Fauns  and  Satyrs  beat  the  ground 
In  cadence,  — and  Silenus  swang 
This  way  and  that,  with  wild-flowers  crowned. 

To  life,  to  life  give  back  thine  Ear: 

Ye  who  are  longing  to  be  rid 
Of  Fable,  though  to  truth  subservient,  hear 
The  little  sprinkling  of  cold  earth  that  fell 
Echoed  from  the  coffin  lid  ; 

The  Convict’s  summons  in  the  steeple  knell. 

“ The  vain  distress-gun,”  from  a leeward  shore. 
Repeated  — heard,  and  heard  no  more  ! 

11. 

For  terror,  joy,  or  pity. 

Vast  is  the  compass,  and  the  swell  of  notes  : 

From  the  Babe’s  first  cry  to  voice  of  regal  City, 
Rolling  a solemn  sea-like  bass,  that  floats 
Far  as  the  woodlands — with  the  trill  to  blend 
Of  that  shy  Songstress,  whose  love-tale 
Might  tempt  an  Angel  to  descend. 

While  hovering  o’er  the  moonlight  vale. 

O for  some  soul-affecting  scheme 

Of  moral  music,  to  unite 

Wanderers  whose  portion  is  the  faintest  dream 

Of  memory  ! — O that  they  might  stoop  to  bear 

Chains,  such  precious  chains  of  sight 

As  laboured  minstrelsies  through  ages  wear  ! 

O for  a balance  fit  the  truth  to  tell 
Of  the  Unsubstantial,  pondered  well ! 

12. 

By  one  pervading  Spirit 

Of  tones  and  numbers  all  things  are  controlled. 

As  Sages  taught,  where  faith  was  found  to  merit 
Initiation  in  that  mystery  old 

The  Heavens,  whose  aspect  makes  our  minds  as  still 
As  they  themselves  appear  to  be. 

Innumerable  voices  fill 
With  everlasting  harmony ; 

The  towering  Headlands,  crowned  with  mist, 

Their  feet  among  the  billows,  know 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


215 


That  Ocean  is  a mighty  harmonist; 

Thy  pinions,  universal  Air, 

Ever  waving  to  and  fro. 

Are  delegates  of  harmony,  and  bear 
Strains  that  support  the  Seasons  in  their  round : 
Stern  Winter  loves  a dirge-like  sound. 

13. 

Break  forth  into  thanksgiving. 

Ye  banded  Instruments  of  wind  and  chords ; 
Unite,  to  magnify  the  Ever-living, 

Your  inarticulate  notes  with  the  voice  of  words ! 
Nor  hushed  be  service  from  the  lowing  mead. 
Nor  mute  the  forest  hum  of  noon  ; 

Thou  too  be  heard,  lone  Eagle  ! freed 
From  snowy  peak  and  cloud,  attune 
Thy  hungry  barkings  to  the  hymn 
Of  joy,  that  from  her  utmost  walls 
The  six-days’  Work,  by  flaming  Seraphim, 
Transmits  to  Heaven!  As  Deep  to  Deep 
Shouting  through  one  valley  calls, 


All  worlds,  all  natures,  mood  and  measure  keep 
For  praise  and  ceaseless  gratulation,  poured 
Into  the  ear  of  God,  their  Lord ! 

14. 

A Voice  to  Light  gave  Being; 

To  Time,  and  Man  his  earth-born  Chronicler; 

A Voice  shall  finish  doubt  and  dim  foreseeing, 

And  sweep  away  life’s  visionary  stir; 

The  Trumpet  (we,  intoxicate  with  pride. 

Arm  at  its  blast  for  deadly  wars) 

To  archangelic  lips  applied. 

The  grave  shall  open,  quench  the  stars. 

O Silence ! are  Man’s  noisy  years 
No  more  than  moments  of  thy  life  ? 

Is  Harmony,  blest  Queen  of  smiles  and  tears. 

With  her  smooth  tones  and  discords  just. 

Tempered  into  rapturous  strife. 

Thy  destined  Bond-slave?  No!  though  Earth  be  dust 
And  vanish,  though  the  Heavens  dissolve,  her  stay 
Is  in  the  Woed,  that  shall  not  pass  away. 


MISCELLANEOUS  SONNETS. 


PART  FIRST. 


I. 

To 

Happy  the  feeling  from  the  bosom  thrown 
In  perfect  shape,  whose  beauty  Time  shall  spare 
Though  a breath  made  it,  like  a bubble  blown 
For  summer  pastime  into  wanton  air ; 

Happy  the  thought  best  likened  to  a stone 
Of  the  sea-beach,  when,  polished  with  nice  care. 
Veins  it  discovers  exquisite  and  rare. 

Which  for  the  loss  of  that  moist  gleam  atone 
That  tempted  first  to  gather  it.  O chief 
Of  Friends ! such  feelings  if  I here  present. 
Such  thoughts,  with  otliers  mixed  less  fortunate; 
Then  smile  into  my  heart  a fond  belief 
That  thou,  if  not  with  partial  joy  elate, 
Receivest  the  gift  for  more  than  mild  content! 

II. 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent’s  narrow  room ; 
And  Hermits  arc  contented  with  their  cells; 

And  Students  with  their  (jensive  citadels: 

Maids  at  the  wheel,  the  Weaver  at  his  loom. 

Sit  blithe  and  happy  ; Bees  that  soar  for  bloom. 


High  as  the  highest  Peak  of  Furness  Fells, 

Will  murmur  by  the  hour  in  foxglove  bells: 

In  truth,  the  prison,  unto  which  we  doom 
Ourselves,  no  prison  is:  and  hence  to  me. 

In  sundry  moods,  ’twas  pastime  to  be  bound 
Within  the  Sonnet’s  scanty  plot  of  ground: 

Pleased  if  some  Souls  (for  such  there  needs  must  bo) 
Who  have  felt  the  weight  of  too  much  liberty. 
Should  find  brief  solace  there,  as  I have  found. 


HI. 

AT  APPLETIIWAITE,  NEAR  KESWICK. 
Beaumont  ! it  was  thy  wish  that  I should  rear 
A seemly  Cottage  in  this  sunny  Dell, 

On  favoured  ground,  thy  gift,  where  I might  dwell 
In  neighlKiurhood  with  One  to  me  most  dear. 

That  undivided  we  from  year  to  year 
Might  work  in  our  high  Calling  — a bright  hope 
To  which  our  fancies,  mingling,  gave  free  scope 
Till  checked  by  some  necessities  severe. 

And  should  these  slacken,  honoured  Beau.mont!  still 
Even  then  we  may  perhaps  in  vain  itnplore 
Leave  of  our  fate  thy  wishes  to  fulfil. 

Whether  this  boon  be  granted  us  or  not. 

Old  Skiddaw  will  look  down  upon  the  Spot 
VV4th  pride,  the  Muses  love  it  evermore. 


21G 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IV. 

ADMOJVITION. 

Intended  more  particularly  for  the  Perusal  of  those  who  may 
ave  happened  to  be  enamoured  of  some  beautiful  Place  of 
Retreat,  in  the  Country  of  the  Lakes. 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye  ! 

— The  lovely  Cottajre  in  the  g-uarclian  nook 
Hath  stirred  thee  deeply;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 

Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 

But  covet  not  the  Abode;  — forbear  to  sigh, 

As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look  ; 

Intruders  — who  would  tear  from  Nature’s  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety. 

Think  what  the  Home  must  be  if  it  were  thine. 

Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants! — Roof,  window, 
door. 

The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  tlie  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine: 

Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On  which  it  should  be  touched,  would  melt,  and  melt 
away. 

V. 

“ Beloved  Vale  !”  I said,  “ when  I shall  con 
Those  many  records  of  my  childish  years. 
Remembrance  of  myself  and  of  my  peers 
Will  press  me  down : to  think  of  what  is  gone 
Will  be  an  awful  thought,  if  life  have  one.” 

But,  when  into  the  Vale  I came,  no  fears 
Distressed  me ; from  mine  eyes  escaped  no  tears ; 

Deep  thought,  or  awful  vision,  had  I none. 

By  doubts  and  thousand  petty  fancies  crust, 

I stood  of  simple  shame  the  blushing  Thrall ; 

So  narrrow  seemed  the  brooks,  the  fields  so  small. 

A Juggler’s  balls  old  Time  about  him  tossed ; 

I looked,  I stared,  I smiled,  1 laughed ; and  all 
The  weight  of  sadness  was  in  wonder  lost. 


VI. 

Pelion  and  Ossa  flourish  side  by  side. 

Together  in  immortal  books  enrolled  : 

His  ancient  dower  Olympus  hath  not  sold ; 

And  that  inspiring  Hill,  which  ‘‘did  divide 
Into  two  ample  horns  his  forehead  wide,” 

Shines  with  poetic  radiance  as  of  old  ; 

While  not  an  English  Mountain  we  behold 
By  the  celestial  Muses  glorified. 

Yet  round  our  sea-girt  shore  they  rise  in  crowds; 
What  was  the  great  Parnassus’  self  to  Thee, 
IMount  Skiddaw  ? in  his  natural  sovereignty 
Our  British  Hill  is  fairer  far;  he  shrouds 
His  double  front  among  Atlantic  clouds. 

And  pours  forth  streams  more  sweet  than  Castaly. 


VII. 

There  is  a little  unpretending  Rill 
Of  limpid  water,  humbler  far  than  aught 
That  ever  among  Men  or  Naiads  sought 
Notice  or  name  ! — it  quivers  down  the  hill. 

Furrowing  its  shallow  way  with  dubious  will; 

Yet  to  my  mind  this  scanty  Stream  is  brouglA 
Oftener  than  Ganges  or  the  Nile ; a thought 
Of  private  recollection  sweet  and  still ! 

Months  perish  with  their  moons;  year  treads  on  year; 
But,  faithful  Emma,  thou  with  me  canst  say 
That,  while  ten  thousand  pleasures  disappear. 

And  flies  their  memory  fast  almost  as  they,  ' 

The  immortal  Spirit  of  one  happy  day 
Lingers  beside  that  Rill,  in  vision  clear. 


viir. 

Her  only  Pilot  the  soft,  breeze,  the  Boat 
Lingers,  but  Fancy  is  well  satisfied ; 

With  keen-eyed  Hope,  with  Memory,  at  her  side. 

And  the  glad  Muse  at  liberty  to  note 

All  that  to  each  is  precious,  as  we  float 

Gently  along;  regardless  who  shall  chide 

If  the  Heavens  smile,  and  leave  us  free  to  glide. 

Happy  Associates  breathing  air  remote 

From  trivial  cares.  But,  Fancy  and  the  Muse, 

Why  have  I crowded  this  small  Bark  with  you 
And  others  of  your  kind.  Ideal  Crew ! 

While  here  sits  One  whose  brightness  ow'es  its  hues 
To  flesh  and  blood  ; no  Goddess  from  above. 

No  fleeting  Spirit,  but  my  ow'n  true  Love ! 


IX. 

The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fiide  ; 
The  sweetest  notes  must  terminate  and  die; 
O Friend  ! thy  flute  has  breathed  a harmony 
Softly  resounded  through  this  rocky  glade ; 
Such  strains  of  rapture  as*  the  Genius  played 
In  his  still  haunt  on  Bagdad’s  summit  high  ; 
He  W’ho  stood  visible  to  Mirza’s  eye. 

Never  before  to  human  sight  betrayed. 

Lo,  in  the  vale,  the  mists  of  evening  spread ! 
The  visionary  arches  are  not  there. 

Nor  the  green  Islands,  nor  the  shining  seas ; 
Yet  sacred  is  to  me  tliis  Mountain’s  head. 
From  which  I have  been  lifted  on  the  breeze 
Of  harmony,  above  all  earthly  care. 


* See  the  vision  of  Mirza.  in  the  Spectator. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


217 


X. 

UPON  THE  SIGHT  OF  A BEAUTIFUL  PICTURE, 
PAINTED  BY  SIR  G.  II.  BEAUMONT,  BART. 

Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay 
Yon  Cloud,  and  fix  it  in  that  glorious  shape ; 

Nor  would  permit  the  thin  smoke  to  escape, 

Nor  those  bright  sunbeams  to  forsake  the  day ; 

Which  stopped  that  Band  of  Travellers  on  their  way. 
Ere  they  were  lost  within  the  shady  wood ; 

And  showed  the  Bark  upon  the  glassy  flood 
For  ever  anchored  in  her  sheltering  Bay. 
Soul-soothing  Art!  which  Morning,  Noon-tide,  Even, 
Do  serve  with  all  their  changeful  pageantry; 

Thou,  with  ambition  modest  yet  sublime, 

Here,  for  the  sight  of  mortal  man,  hast  given 
To  one  brief  moment  caught  from  fleeting  time 
The  appropriate  calm  of  blest  eternity. 


XI. 

“ Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings  — 
Dull,  flagging  notes  that  with  each  other  jar  I 
“ Think,  gentle  Lady,  of  a Harp  so  far 
From  its  own  Country,  and  forgive  the  strings.” 

A simple  Answer ! but  even  so  forth  springs, 
From  the  Castalian  fountain  of  the  heart. 

The  Poetry  of  Life,  and  all  that  Art 
Divine  of  words  quickening  insensate  Things. 
From  the  submissive  necks  of  guiltless  Men 
Stretched  on  the  block,  the  glittering  axe  recoils ; 
Sun,  Moon,  and  Stars,  all  struggle  in  the  toils 
Of  mortal  sympathy ; what  wonder  then 
If  the  poor  Harp  distempered  music  yields 
To  its  sad  Lord,  far  from  his  native  Fields  I 


XII. 

Aerial  Rock  — whose  solitary  brow 

From  this  low  threshold  daily  meets  my  sight ; 

When  I step  forth  to  hail  the  morning  light ; 

Or  quit  the  stars  with  lingering  farewell  — how 
Shall  Fancy  pay  to  thee  a grateful  vowl 
How,  with  the  Muse’s  aid,  her  love  attest! 

By  planting  on  thy  naked  head  the  crest 
Of  an  imperial  Castle,  which  the  plough 
Of  ruin  shall  not  touch.  Innocent  scheme  ! 
That  doth  presume  no  more  than  to  supply 
A grace  the  sinuous  vale  and  roaring  stream 
Want,  through  neglect  of  hoar  Antiquity. 

Rise,  then,  ye  votive  Towers,  and  catch  a gleam 
Of  golden  sunset,  ere  it  fade  and  die  I 


XIII. 

TO  SLEEP 

0 GENTLE  Sleep ! do  they  belong  to  thee. 

These  twinklings  of  oblivion  ] Thou  dost  love 
To  sit  in  meekness,  like  the  brooding  Dove, 

A Captive  never  wishing  to  be  free. 

This  tiresome  night,  O Sleep ! thou  art  to  me 
A Fly,  that  up  and  down  himself  doth  shove. 
Upon  a fretful  rivulet,  now  above. 

Now  on  the  water,  vexed  with  mockery. 

1 have  no  pain  that  calls  for  patience,  no ; 
Hence  am  I cross  and  peevish  as  a child: 

Am  pleased  by  fits  to  have  thee  for  my  foe, 

Yet  ever  willing  to  be  reconciled  : 

O gentle  Creature  ! do  not  use  me  so. 

But  once  and  deeply  let  me  be  beguiled. 


XIV. 

TO  SLEEP. 

A FLOCK  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by, 

One  after  one;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas. 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky; 
By  turns  have  all  been  thought  of,  yet  I lie 
Sleepless ; and  soon  the  small  birds’  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  uttered  from  my  orchard  trees ; 

And  the  first  Cuckoo’s  melancholy  cry. 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more,  I lay. 
And  could  not  win  thee.  Sleep  ! by  any  stealth: 

So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away : 

Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning’s  wealth  1 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day. 

Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  healt.h ! 


XV. 

TO  SLEEP. 

Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee.  Sleep  ! 
And  thou  hast  had  thy  store  of  tenderest  names; 
The  very  sweetest  words  that  fancy  frames. 
When  thankfulness  of  heart  is  strong  and  deep ! 
Dear  bosom  Child  wo  call  thee,  that  dost  steep 
In  rich  reward  all  suffering;  Balm  that  tames 
All  anguish  ; Saint  that  evil  thoughts  and  aims 
Takest  away,  and  into  souls  dost  creep. 

Like  to  a breeze  from  heaven.  Shall  I alone, 

I surely  not  a man  ungently  made. 

Call  thee  worst  Tyrant  by  which  Flesh  is  crostl 
Perverse,  self-willed  to  own  and  to  disown. 

Mere  Slave  of  them  who  never  for  thee  prayed, 
Still  last  to  come  where  thou  art  wanted  most! 


218 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 

THE  WILD  DUCK’S  NEST. 

The  Imperial  Consort  of  the  Fairy  King 
Owns  not  a sylvan  bower ; or  gorgeous  cell 
With  emerald  floored,  and  with  purpureal  shell 
Ceilinged  and  roofed  ; that  is  so  fair  a thing 
As  this  low  Structure  — for  the  tasks  of  Spring 
Prepared  by  one  who  loves  the  buoyant  swell 
Of  the  brisk  waves,  yet  here  consents  to  dwell ; 

And  spreads  in  steadfast  peace  her  brooding  wing. 
Words  cannot  paint  the  o’ershadowing  yew-tree  bough, 
And  dimly-gleaming  Nest,  — a hollow  crown 
Of  golden  leaves  inlaid  with  silver  down. 

Fine  as  the  Mother’s  softest  plumes  allow: 

I gaze  — and  almost  wish  to  lay  aside 
Humanity,  weak  slave  of  cumbrous  pride! 


XVII. 

WRITTEN  UPON  A BLANK  LEA!'  IN  “THE  COM- 
PLETE ANGLER.” 

While  flowing  Rivers  yield  a blameless  sport. 

Shall  live  the  name  of  Walton  ; — Sage  benign  ! 
Whose  pen,  the  mysteries  of  the  rod  and  line 
Unfolding,  did  not  fruitlessly  exhort 
To  reverend  watching  of  each  still  report 
That  Nature  utters  from  her  rural  shrine.  — 
hleek,  nobly  versed  in  simple  discipline. 

He  found  the  longest  summer  day  too  short. 

To  his  loved  pastime  given  by  sedgy  Lee, 

Or  down  the  tempting  maze  of  Shawford  brook ! 
Fairer  than  life  itself,  in  this  sweet  Book, 

The  cowslip  bank  and  shady  willow-tree. 

And  the  fresh  meads ; where  flowed,  from  every  nook 
Of  his  full  bosom,  gladsome  Piety ! 


XVI  IT. 

TO  THE  POET,  JOHN  DYER. 

Bard  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful  genius  made 
That  wmrk  a living  landscape  fair  and  bright; 

Nor  hallowed  less  with  musical  delight 
Than  those  soft  scenes  through  which  thy  Childhood 
strayed. 

Those  southern  Tracts  of  Cambria,  “ deep  embayed. 
With  green  hills  fenced,  with  Ocean’s  murmur  lulled 
Though  hasty  Fame  hath  many  a chaplet  culled 
For  worthless  brow's,  while  in  the  pensive  shade 
Of  cold  neglect  she  leaves  thy  head  ungraced. 

Vet  pure  and  powerful  minds,  hearts  meek  and  still, 

A grateful  few,  shall  love  thy  modest  Lay, 

Long  as  the  Shepherd’s  bleating  flock  shall  stray 
O’er  naked  Snowdon’s  wide  aerial  waste  ; 

Long  as  the  thrush  shall  pipe  on  Grongar  Hill ! 


XIX. 

ON  THE  DETRACTION  WHICH  FOLLOWED  THE 
PUBLICATION  OF  A CERTAIN  POEM. 

See  Milton’s  Sonnet,  beginning 
“ A Book  was  writ  of  late,  called  “ Tetrachordon.’  ” 

A Book  came  forth  of  late,  called  “ Peter  Bell 
Not  negligent  the  style ; — the  matter  1 — good 
As  aught  that  song  records  of  Robin  Hood  ; 

Or  Roy,  renowned  through  many  a Scottish  dell ; 

But  some  (who  brook  these  hacknied  themes  full  well, 
Nor  heat,  at  Tam  o’  Shanter’s  name,  their  blood) 
Waxed  wroth,  and  with  foul  claws,  a harpy  brood, 

On  Bard  and  Hero  clamorously  fell. 

Heed  not,  wild  Rover  once  through  heath  ancl  glen. 
Who  madest  at  length  the  better  life  thy  choice. 

Heed  not  such  onset ! nay,  if  praise  of  men 
To  thee  appear  not  an  unmeaning  voice. 

Lift  up  that  gray-haired  forehead,  and  rejoice 
In  the  just  tribute  of  thy  Poet’s  pen ! 

XX. 

TO  THE  RIVER  DERWENT. 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream  ! 
Thou,  near  the  eagle’s  nest — within  brief  sail, 

I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale. 

Where  thy  deep  voice  could  lull  me! — Faint  the 
beam 

Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 
On  mortal  notice.  — Glory  of  the  Vale, 

Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a crown  though  frail 
Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 
Of  thy  soft  breath  ! — Less  vivid  wreath  entwined 
Nemiean  Victors  brow  ; less  bright  was  worn. 

Meed  of  some  Roman  Chief — in  triumph  borne 
With  captives  chained  ; and  shedding  from  his  car 
The  sunset  splendours  of  a finished  war 
Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


XXL 

COMPOSED  IN  ONE  OF  THE  VALLEYS  OF  WEST- 
MORELAND, ON  EASTER  SUNDAY. 

With  each  recurrence  of  this  glorious  morn 
That  saw  the  Saviour  in  his  human  frame 
Rise  from  the  dead,  erewhile  the  Cottage-dame 
Put  on  fresh  raiment — till  that  hour  unworn ; 
Domestic  hands  the  home-bred  wool  had  shorn. 

And  she  who  span  it  culled  the  daintiest  fleece. 

In  thoughtful  reverence  to  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
Whose  temples  bled  beneath  the  platted  thorn. 

A blest  estate  when  piety  sublime 
These  humble  props  disdained  not ! O green  dales ! 
Sad  may  I he  who  heard  your  sabbath  chime 
When  Art’s  abused  inventions  were  unknown  ; 

Kind  Nature’s  various  wealth  was  all  your  own  ; 
And  benefits  were  weighed  in  Reason’s  scales ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


219 


XXII. 

Grief,  thou  hast  lost  an  ever-ready  Friend, 

Now  that  the  cottage  spinning-wheel  is  mute  ; 

And  Care  — a Comforter  that  best  could  suit 
Her  froward  mood,  and  soflliest  reprehend  ; 

And  Love  — a Charmer’s  voice,  that  used  to  lend. 
More  efficaciously  than  aught  that  flows 
From  harp  or  lute,  kind  influence  to  compose 
The  throbbing  pulse, — else  troubled  without  end  ; 
Even  Joy  could  tell,  Joy  craving  truce  and  rest 
From  her  own  overflow,  what  power  sedate 
On  those  revolving  motions  did  await 
Assiduously,  to  soothe  her  aching  breast  — 

And  — to  a point  of  just  relief  — abate 
The  mantling  triumphs  of  a day  too  blest. 


XXIII.— TO  S.II. 

Excuse  is  needless  when  with  love  sincere 
Of  occupation,  not  by  fashion  led, 

Thou  turn’stthe  Wheel  that  slept  with  dust  o’erspread  ; 
My  nerves  from  no  such  murmur  shrink,  — tho’  near, 
Soft  as  the  Dorhawk’s  to  a distant  ear. 

When  twilight  shades  bedim  the  mountain’s  head. 

She  who  was  feigned  to  spin  our  vital  thread 
Might  smile,  O Lady  ! on  a task  once  dear 
To  household  viitues.  Venerable  Art, 

Torn  from  the  Poor ! yet  will  kind  Heaven  protect 
Its  own,  not  left  without  a guiding  chart. 

If  Rulers,  trusting  with  undue  respect 
To  proud  discoveries  of  the  Intellect, 

Sanction  the  pillage  of  man’s  ancient  heart. 


XXIV. 

DECAY  OK  PFETY. 

Oft  have  I seen,  ere  Time  had  ploughed  my  cheek 
Matrons  and  Sires  — who,  punctual  to  the  call 
Of  their  loved  Church,  on  Fast  or  Festival 
Through  the  long  year  the  House  of  Prayer  would 
seek : 

By  Christmas  snows,  by  visitation  Ideak 
Of  Easter  winds,  unscarcd,  from  Hut  or  Hall 
They  came  to  lowly  bench  or  sculptured  Stall, 

But  with  one  fervour  of  devotion  meek. 

I see  the  places  wdiere  they  once  were  known. 

And  ask,  surrounded  even  by  kneeling  crowds. 

Is  ancient  Piety  for  ever  flown  1 
Alas ! even  then  they  seemed  like  fleecy  clouds 
That,  struggling  through  the  western  sky,  have  won 
Their  pensive  light  from  a departed  sun ! 


XXV. 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  EVE  OF  THE  MARRIAGE  OF  A 
FRIEND  IN  THE  VALE  OF  GRASMERE. 

What  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribands  gay. 

These  humble  Nuptials  to  proclaim  or  grace  I 
Angels  of  Love,  look  down  upon  the  place. 

Shed  on  the  chosen  Vale  a sun-bright  day  ! 

Yet  no  proud  gladness  would  the  Bride  display 
Even  for  such  promise  : — serious  is  her  face. 

Modest  her  mien  ; and  she,  whose  thoughts  keep  pace 

With  gentleness,  in  that  becoming  way 

Will  thank  you.  Faultless  does  the  Maid  appear; 

No  disproportion  in  her  soul,  no  strife : 

But,  when  the  closer  view  of  wedded  life 
Hath  shown  that  nothing  human  can  be  clear 
From  frailty,  for  that  insight  may  the  Wife 
To  her  indulgent  Lord  become  more  dear. 


XXVI. 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  MICHAEL  ANGELO. 

Yes  ! hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace. 
And  I be  undeluded,  unbetrayed  ; 

For  if  of  our  affections  none  find  grace 
In  sight  of  Heaven,  then,  wherefore  hath  God  made 
The  world  which  we  inhabit!  Better  plea 
Love  cannot  have,  than  that  in  loving  thee 
Glory  to  that  eternal  Peace  is  paid. 

Who  such  divinity  to  thee  imparts 
As  hallows  and  makes  pure  all  gentle  hearts. 

His  hope  is  treacherous  only  whose  love  dies 
With  beauty,  which  is  varying  every  hour ; 

But,  in  chaste  hearts  uninfluenced  by  the  power 
Of  outward  chatige,  there  blooms  a deathless  flower, 
That  breathes  on  earth  the  air  of  paradise. 


XXVII. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold 
When  first  they  met  the  placid  light  of  thine 
And  my  Soul  felt  her  destiny  divine. 

And  hope  of  endless  peace  in  me  grew  bold  : 
Heaven-born,  the  Soul  a heavenward  course  must  hold 
Beyond  the  visible  world  She  soars  to  seek 
(For  what  delights  the  sense  is  false  and  weaki 
Ideal  Form,  the  universal  mould. 

The  wise  man,  I affirm,  can  find  no  rest 
In  that  which  perishes;  nor  will  he  lend 
Ilis  heart  to  aught  which  doth  on  time  depend. 

’Tis  sense,  unbridled  will,  and  not  true  love. 

That  kills  the  soul : love  betters  what  is  best. 

Even  here  below,  but  more  in  heaven  above 


220 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVIII. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

TO  THE  SUPRiiME  BEING. 

The  prayers  I make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed, 

If  Thou  the  spirit  give  by  which  I pray : 

My  unassisted  heart  is  barren  clay, 

That  of  its  native  self  can  nothing  feed: 

Of  good  and  pious  works  thou  art  the  seed. 

That  quickens  only  where  thou  sayest  it  may : 
Unless  thou  shew  to  us  thine  own  true  way, 

No  man  can  find  it:  Father!  thou  must  lead. 

Do  Thou,  then,  breathe  those  thoughts  into  my  mind 
By  which  such  virtue  may  in  me  be  bred 
That  in  thy  holy  footsteps  I may  tread ; 

The  fetters  of  my  tongue  do  Thou  unbind. 

That  I may  have  the  power  to  sing  of  thee, 

And  sound  thy  praises  everlastingly. 


XXIX. 

Surprised  by  joy  — impatient  as  the  Wind 
I turned  to  share  the  transport  — Oh  ! with  whom 
But  Thee,  deep  buried  in  the  silent  Tomb, 

That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  1 
Love,  faithful  love,  recalled  thee  to  my  mind  — 

But  how  could  I forget  thee?  Through  what  power. 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour. 

Have  I been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss  1 — That  thought’s  return 

Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore. 

Save  one,  one  only,  when  I stood  forlorn. 

Knowing  my  heart’s  best  treasure  was  no  more; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 


XXX. 

Methought  I saw  the  footsteps  of  a throne 
Which  mists  and  vapours  from  mine  eyes  did  shroud  — 
Nor  view  of  who  might  sit  thereon  allowed  ; 

But  all  the  steps  and  ground  about  were  strown 
With  sights  the  ruefullest  that  flesh  and  bone 
Ever  put  on ; a miserable  crowd. 

Sick,  hale,  old,  young,  who  cried  before  that  cloud, 

“ Thou  art  our  king,  O Death  ! to  thee  we  groan.” 

I seemed  to  mount  those  steps ; the  vapours  gave 
Smooth  way ; and  I beheld  the  face  of  one 
Sleeping  alone  within  a mossy  cave. 

With  her  face  up  to  heaven ; that  seemed  to  have 
Pleasing  remembrance  of  a thought  foregone ; 

A lovely  Beauty  in  a summer  grave ! 


XXXI. 

NOVEMBER,  1836. 

II. 

Even  so  for  me  a Vision  sanctified 

The  sway  of  Death;  long  ere  mine  eyes  had  seen 

Thy  countenance  — the  still  rapture  of  thy  mien  — 

When  thou,  dear  Sister ! wert  become  Death’s  Bride  : 

No  trace  of  pain  or  languor  could  abide 

That  change : — age  on  thy  brow  was  smoothed— thy  cola 

Wan  cheek  at  once  was  privileged  to  unfold 

A loveliness  to  living  youth  denied. 

Oh!  if  within  me  hope  should  e’er  decline. 

The  lamp  of  faith,  lost  Friend  ! too  faintly  bbrn  ; 

Then  may  that  heaven-revealing  smile  of  thine. 

The  bright  assurance,  visibly  return  : 

And  let  my  spirit  in  that  power  divine 

Rejoice,  as,  through  that  power,  it  ceased  to  mourn. 


XXXII. 

It  is  a beauteous  Evening,  calm  and  free; 

The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ; the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity; 

Tlie  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea: 

Listen  ! the  mighty  Being  is  awake. 

And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A sound  like  thunder  — everlastingly. 

Dear  Child ! dear  Girl ! that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear’st  untouched  by  solemn  thought, 

Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine: 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham’s  bosom  all  the  year; 

And  worsliipp’st  at  the  Temple’s  inner  shrine, 

God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not.* 


XXXIII. 

Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go: 
Festively  she  puts  forth  in  trim  array; 

As  vigorous  as  a Lark  at  break  of  day: 

Is  she  for  tropic  suns,  or  polar  snow  ? 

What  boots  the  inquiry  ? — Neither  friend  nor  foe 
She  cares  for ; let  her  travel  where  she  may. 

She  finds  familiar  names,  a beaten  way 
Ever  before  her,  and  a wind  to  blow. 

Yet,  still  I ask,  what  Haven  is  her  mark? 

And,  almost  as  it  was  when  ships  were  rare, 

(From  time  to  time,  like  Pilgrims,  here  and  there 
Crossing  the  waters)  doubt,  and  something  dark. 

Of  the  old  Sea  some  reverential  fear. 

Is  with  me  at  thy  farewell,  joyous  Bark  ! 

*[In  the  same  spirit  Coleridge  speaks  of  " the  sacred  light  of 
Cliildhood.”— ‘The  Friend, ’Hi,  p.  46.  — II.  R.l 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


OO] 


XXXIV. 

XXXVII. 

With  Ships  the  Sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh, 
Like  stars  in  heaven,  and  joyously  it  showed  ; 

Some  lying  fast  at  anchor  in  the  road. 

Some  veering  up  and  down,  one  knew  not  why. 

A goodly  Vessel  did  I then  espy 
Come  like  a giant  from  a haven  brodd; 

And  lustily  along  the  Bay  she  strode, 

“ Her  tackling  rich,  and  of  apparel  high.” 

This  Ship  was  nought  to  me,  nor  I to  her. 

Yet  I pursued  her  with  a Lover’s  look ; 

This  Ship  to  all  the  rest  did  I prefer: 

When  will  she  turn,  and  whither"!  She  will  brook 
No  tarrying;  where  she  comes  the  winds  must  stir: 
On  went  She,  and  due  north  her  journey  took. 

How  sw’eet  it  is,  w'hen  mother  Fancy  rocks 
The  wayward  brain,  to  saunter  through  a wood ! 

An  old  place,  full  of  many  a lovely  brood. 

Tall  trees,  green  arbours,  and  ground-flowers  in  flocks 
And  wild  rose  tip-toe  upon  hawthorn  stocks. 

Like  a bold  Girl,  who  plays  her  agile  pranks 
At  Wakes  and  Fairs  with  wandering  Mountebanks,  — 
When  she  stands  cresting  the  Clown’s  head,  and  mocks 
The  crowd  beneath  her.  Verily  I think. 

Such  place  to  me  is  sometimes  like  a dream 
Or  map  of  the  whole  world  : thoughts,  link  by  link. 
Enter  through  ears  and  eyesight,  with  such  gleam 
Of  all  things,  that  at  last  in  fear  I shrink. 

And  leap  at  once  from  the  delicious  stream. 

XXXVIII. 

XXXV. 

PERSONAL  TALK. 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ; late  and  soon. 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers : 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours ; 

We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a sordid  boon ! 
This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon ; 

The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours. 

And  are  uj>-gathered  now  like  sleeping  flowers ; 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune; 

It  moves  us  not.  — Great  God ! I ’d  rather  be 
A Pagan  suckled  in  a creed  outworn ; 

So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea. 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea ; 

Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 

I AM  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight 
To  season  my  fireside  with  personal  talk, — 

Of  Friends,  who  live  within  an  easy  walk. 

Or  Neighbours,  daily,  weekly,  in  my  sight: 

And,  for  my  chance-acquaintance.  Ladies  bright. 
Sons,  Mothers,  Maidens  withering  on  the  stalk. 
These  all  wear  out  of  me,  like  Forms,  with  chalk 
Painted  on  rich  men’s  floors,  for  one  feast-night. 
Better  than  such  discourse  doth  silence  long. 
Long,  barren  silence,  square  with  my  desire; 

To  sit  without  emotion,  hope,  or  aim. 

In  the  loved  presence  of  my  cottage-fire, 

And  listen  to  the  flapping  of  the  flame. 

Or  kettle  whispering  its  faint  under-song. 



XXXIX. 

XXXVI. 

CONTINUED. 

A VOLANT  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found, 

Who,  while  the  flattering  Zephyrs  round  them  play. 

On  “ coigncs  of  vantage”  hang  their  nests  of  clay  ; 
How  quickly  from  that  aery  hold  unbound. 

Dust  for  oblivion!  To  the  solid  ground 
Of  nature  trusts  the  Mind  that  builds  for  aye ; 
Convinced  that  there,  there  only,  she  can  lay 
Secure  foundations.  As  the  year  runs  round. 

Apart  she  toils  within  the  chosen  ring ; 

While  the  stars  shine,  or  while  day’s  purple  eye 
Is  gently  closing  with  the  flowers  of  spring  : 

Where  even  the  motion  of  an  Angel’s  wing 

Would  interrupt  the  intense  tranquillity 

Of  silent  lills,  and  more  than  silent  sky.  1 

“ Yet  life,”  you  say,  “ is  life  ; we  have  seen  and  see. 
And  with  a living  pleasure  we  describe; 

And  fits  of  sprightly  malice  do  but  bribe 
The  languid  mind  into  activity. 

Sound  sense,  and  love  itself,  and  mirth  and  glee 
Are  fostered  by  the  comment  and  the  gibe.” 

Even  be  it  so:  yet  still  among  your  tribe. 

Our  daily  world’s  true  Worldlings,  rank  not  me! 
Children  are  blest,  and  powerful ; their  w'orld  lies 
More  justly  balanced  ; partly  at  their  feet. 

And  part  far  from  them  ; — sweetest  melodies 
Are  those  that  are  by  distance  made  more  sweet  ; 
Whose  mind  is  but  the  mind  of  his  own  eyes. 

He  is  a Slave ; the  meanest  we  can  meet ! 

19* 

222  WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XL. 

CONTINUED. 

Wings  have  we,  — and  as  far  as  we  can  go 
We  may  find  pleasure  : wilderness  and  wood, 

Blank  ocean  and  mere  sky,  support  that  mood 
Which  with  the  lofty  sanctifies  the  low. 

Dreams,  Books,  are  each  a world  ; and  books,  we  know. 
Are  a substantial  world,  both  pure  and  good : 

Round  these,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 
Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  will  grow. 

There  find  I personal  themes,  a plenteous  store. 
Matter  wherein  right  voluble  I am. 

To  which  I listen  with  a ready  ear ; 

Two  shall  be  named,  pre-eminently  dear, — 

The  gentle  Lady  married  to  the  Moor ; 

And  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  Lamb. 


XLI. 

CONCLUDED. 

Nor  can  I not  believe  but  that  hereby 
Great  gains  are  mine ; for  thus  I live  remote 
From  evil-speaking  ; rancour  never  sought, 

Comes  to  me  not ; malignant  truth,  or  lie. 

Hence  have  I genial  seasons,  hence  have  1 
Smooth  passions,  smooth  discourse,  and  joyous  thought : 
And  thus  from  day  to  day  my  little  Boat 
Rocks  in  its  harbour,  lodging  peaceably. 

Blessings  be  with  them  — and  eternal  praise, 

Who  gave  us  nobler  loves,  and  nobler  cares  — 

The  Poets,  who  on  earth  have  made  us  Heirs 
Of  truth  and  pure  delight  by  heavenly  lays! 

Oh  ! might  my  name  be  numbered  among  theirs. 

Then  gladly  would  I end  my  mortal  days. 


XLII. 

I watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret. 

Yon  slowly-sinking  star — immortal  Sire 

(So  might  he  seem)  of  all  the  glittering  quire ! 

Blue  ether  still  surrounds  him  — yet  — and  yet; 

But  now  the  horizon’s  rocky  parapet 
Is  reached,  where,  forfeiting  his  bright  attire. 

He  burns  — transmuted  to  a sullen  fire. 

That  droops  and  dwindles,  — and,  the  appointed  debt 
To  the  flying  moments  paid,  is  seen  no  more. 

Angels  and  gods ! we  struggle  with  our  fate. 

While  health,  power,  glory,  pitiably  decline. 
Depressed  and  then  extinguished ; and  our  state. 

In  this,  how  diflerent,  lost  star,  from  thine. 

That  no  to-morrow  shall  our  beams  restore ! 


XLIII. 

TO  B.  R.  IIAYDON,  ESQ. 

High  is  our  calling.  Friend  ! — Creative  Art 
(Whether  the  instrument  of  words  she  use, 

Or  pencil  pregnant  with  ethereal  hues,) 
Demands  the  service  of  a mind  and  heart. 
Though  sensitive,  yet,  in  their  weakest  part, 
Heroically  fashioned  — to  infuse 
Faith  in  the  whispers  of  the  lonely  Muse, 
While  the  whole  world  seems  adverse  to  desert 
And,  oh  ! when  Nature  sinks,  as  oft  she  may. 
Through  long-lived  pressure  of  obscure  distress. 
Still  to  be  strenuous  for  the  bright  reward. 

And  in  the  soul  admit  of  no  decay. 

Brook  no  continuance  of  weak-mindedness  — 
Great  is  the  glory,  for  the  strife  is  hard ! 


XLIV. 

From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed. 

Spurning  the  unprofitable  yoke  of  care. 

Rise,  Gillies,  rise : the  gales  of  youth  shall  bear 
Thy  genius  forward  like  a winged  steed. 

Though  bold  Bellerophon  (so  Jove  decreed 
In  wrath)  fell  headlong  from  the  fields  of  air. 

Yet  a rich  guerdon  waits  on  minds  that  dare. 

If  aught  be  in  them  of  immortal  seed. 

And  reason  govern  that  audacious  flight 
Which  heavenward  they  direct. — Then  droop  nci 
thou. 

Erroneously  renewing  a sad  vow 

In  the  low  dell  ’mid  Roslin’s  faded  grove : 

A cheerful  life  is  what  the  Muses  love, 

A soaring  spirit  is  their  prime  delight. 


XLV. 

Fair  Prime  of  life ! were  it  enough  to  gild 
With  ready  sunbeams  every  straggling  shower; 

And,  if  an  unexpected  cloud  should  lower. 

Swiftly  thereon  a rainbow  arch  to  build 
For  Fancy’s  errands,  — then,  from  fields  half-tilled 
Gathering  green  weeds  to  mix  with  poppy  flower. 
Thee  might  thy  Minions  crown,  and  chant  thy  power 
Unpitied  by  the  wise,  all  censure  stilled. 

Ah!  show  that  worthier  honours  are  thy  due; 

Fair  Prime  of  Life ! arouse  the  deeper  heart ; 
Confirm  the  Spirit  glorying  to  pursue 
Some  path  of  steep  ascent  and  lofty  aim ; 

And,  if  there  be  a joy  that  slights  the  claim 
Of  grateful  memory,  bid  that  joy  depart. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2*23 


XLVI. 

1 HEARD  (alas!  ’twas  only  in  a dream) 

Strains  — which,  as  sage  Antiquity  believed, 

By  waking  ears  have  sometimes  been  received, 
Wafled  adown  the  wind  from  lake  or  stream ; 

A most  melodious  requiem,  a supreme 
And  perfect  harmony  of  notes,  achieved 
By  a fair  Swan  on  drowsy  billows  heaved. 

O’er  which  her  pinions  shed  a silver  gleam. 

For  is  she  not  the  votary  of  Apollo  1 
And  knows  she  not,  singing  as  he  inspires. 

That  bliss  awaits  lier  which  the  ungonial  hollo\v* 

Of  the  dull  earth  partakes  not,  nor  desires  1 
Mount,  tuneful  Bird,  and  join  the  immortal  quires ! 
She  soared — and  I awoke,  struggling  in  vain  to  follow. 


XLVII. 

RETIREMENT. 

If  the  whole  weight  of  what  we  think  and  feel, 
Save  only  far  as  thought  and  feeling  blend 
With  action,  were  as  nothing,  patriot  Friend  ! 

From  thy  remonstrance  would  be  no  appeal ; 

But  to  promote  and  fortify  the  weal 
Of  our  own  Being  is  her  paramount  end  ; 

A truth  which  they  alone  shall  comprehend 
Who  shun  the  mischief  which  they  cannot  heal. 
Peace  in  these  feverish  times  is  sovereign  bliss ; 
Here,  with  no  thirst  but  what  the  stream  can  slake, 
And  startled  only  by  the  rustling  brake. 

Cool  air  I breathe ; while  the  unincumbered  Mind 
By  some  weak  aims  at  services  assigned 
To  gentle  Natures,  thanks  not  Heaven  amiss. 


XLVIII. 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  RAISLEY  CALVERT. 

Calvert!  it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them 
Who  may  respect  my  name,  that  I to  thee 
Owed  many  years  of  early  liberty. 

This  care  was  thine  when  sickness  did  condemn 
Thy  youth  to  hopeless  wasting,  root  and  stem  : 

That  I,  if  frugal  and  severe,  might  stray 
Where’er  I liked ; and  finally  array 
My  temples  with  the  Muse’s  diadem. 

Hence,  if  in  freedom  I have  loved  the  truth. 

If  there  be  aught  of  pure,  or  good,  or  great. 

In  my  past  verse;  or  shall  be,  in  the  lays 
Of  higher  mood,  which  now  I meditate,  — 

It  gladdens  me,  O worthy,  short-lived  Youth ! 

To  think  how  much  of  this  will  be  thy  praise. 

* See  the  Phedo  of  Plato,  by  which  this  Sonnet  was  suggested. 


PART  SECOND. 


I. 

Scorn  not  the  Sonnet ; Critic,  you  have  frowned 
Mindless  of  its  just  honours ; with  this  Key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart;  the  melody  • 

Of  this  small  Lute  gave  ease  to  Petrarch’s  wound  , 
A thousand  times  this  Pipe  did  Tasso  sound; 
Camoens  soothed  with  it  an  Exile’s  grief ; 

The  Sonnet  glittered  a gay  myrtle  Leaf 
Amid  the  cypress  with  which  Dante  crowned 
His  visionary  brow : a glow-worm  Lamp, 

It  cheered  mild  Spenser,  called  from  Faery-land 
To  struggle  Uirough  dark  ways ; and,  when  a damp 
Fell  round  the  path  of  Milton,  in  his  hand 
The  Thing  became  a Trumpet,  whence  he  blew 
Soul-animating  strains  — alas,  too  few  1 


II. 

Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell 
Of  civil  conflict,  nor  the  wrecks  of  change. 

Nor  Duty  struggling  with  afflictions  strange. 
Not  these  alone  inspire  the  tuneful  shell; 

But  where  untroubled  peace  and  concord  dwell. 
There  also  is  the  Muse  not  loth  to  range. 
Watching  the  blue  smoke  of  the  elmy  grange. 
Skyward  ascending  from  the  twilight  dell. 
Meek  aspirations  please  her,  lone  endeavour. 
And  sage  content,  and  placid  melancholy ; 

She  loves  to  gaze  upon  a crystal  river. 
Diaphanous,  because  it  travels  slowly ; 

Sort  is  the  music  that  would  charm  for  ever ; 
The  flower  of  sweetest  smell  is  shy  and  lowly. 


III. 

SEPTEMBER,  1815. 

While  not  a leaf  seems  faded,  — while  the  fields, 
With  ripening  harvest  prodigally  fair. 

In  brightest  sunshine  bask,  — tliis  nipping  air. 

Sent  from  some  distant  clime  where  Winter  wields 
His  icy  scimitar,  a foretaste  yields 
Of  bitter  change  — and  bids  the  Flowers  beware ; 
And  whispers  to  the  silent  Birds,  “Prepare 
Against  the  threatening  Foe  your  trustiest  shields.’’ 
For  me,  who  under  kindlier  laws  belong 
To  Nature’s  tuneful  quire,  this  rustling  dry 
Through  leaves  yet  green,  and  yon  crystalline  sky. 
Announce  a season  potent  to  renew, 

’Mid  frost  and  snow,  the  instinctive  joys  of  song. 
And  nobler  cares  than  listless  summer  knew. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


224 


IV. 

VII. 

NOVEMBER  1. 

IIow  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright 
The  effluence  from  yon  distant  mountain’s  head, 
Which,  strewn  with  snow  smooth  as  the  heaven  can 
shed. 

Shines  like  another  Sun  — on  mortal  sight 
Uprisen,  as  if  to  check  approaching  night. 

And  all  her  twinkling  stars.  Who  now  would  tread, 
If  so  he  might,  yon  mountain’s  glittering  head — 
Terrestrial  — but  a surface,  by  the  flight 
Of  sad  mortality’s  earth-sullying  wing. 

Unswept,  unstained?  Nor  shall  the  aerial  Powers 
Dissolve  that  beauty  — destined  to  endure. 

White,  radiant,  spotless,  exquisitely  puret 
Through  all  vicissitudes  — till  genial  spring 
Have  filled  the  laughing  vales  with  welcome  flowers. 

COMPOSED  A FEW  DAYS  AFTER  THE  FOREGOING 

When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie. 

And  grandeur  crouches  like  a guilty  thing. 

Oft  shall  the  lowly  weak,  till  nature  bring 

Mature  release,  in  fair  society 

Survive,  and  Fortune’s’  utmost  anger  try ; 

Like  these  frail  snow-drops  that  together  cling. 

And  nod  their  helmets,  smitten  by  the  wing 
Of  many  a furious  whirl-blast  sweeping  by. 

Observe  the  faithful  flowers!  if  small  to  great 
May  lead  the  thoughts,  thus  struggling  used  to  stand 
The  Emathian  phalanx,  nobly  obstinate ; , 

And  so  the  bright  immortal  Theban  band. 

Whom  onset,  fiercely  urged  at  Jove’s  command. 

Might  overwhelm,  but  could  not  separate  ! 

V. 

VIII. 

COMPOSED  DURING  A STORM. 

One  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul 
Yet  failed  to  seek  the  sure  relief  of  prayer. 

Went  forth  — his  course  surrendering  to  the  care 
Of  the  fierce  wind,  while  mid-day  lightnings  prowl 
Insidiously,  untimely  thunders  growl ; 

While  trees,  dim  seen,  in  frenzied  numbers,  tear 
Tlie  lingering  remnant  of  their  yellow  hair. 

And  shivering  wolves,  surprised  with  darkness,  howl 
As  if  the  sun  were  not.  He  raised  his  eye 
Soul-smitten,  for,  that  instant,  did  appear 
Large  space,  ’mid  dreadful  clouds,  of  purest  sky. 

An  azure  orb  — shield  of  Tranquillity, 

Invisible,  unlooked-for  minister 
Of  providential  goodness  ever  nigh! 

The  Stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature’s  hand. 
The  sun  is  peopled ; and  with  Spirits  blest : 

Say,  can  the  gentle  Moon  be  unpossessed  ? 

Huge  Ocean  shows,  within  his  yellow  strand, 

A Habitation  marvellously  planned. 

For  life  to  occupy  in  love  and  rest ; 

All  that  we  see  — is  dome,  or  vault,  or  nest. 

Or  fort,  erected  at  her  sage  command. 

Glad  thought  for  every  season  I but  the  Spring 
Gave  it  while  cares  were  weighing  on  my  heart, 
’Mid  song  of  birds,  and  insects  murmuring; 

And  while  the  youthful  year’s  prolific  art  — 

Of  bud,  leaf,  blade,  and  flower — was  fashioning 
Abodes  where  self-disturbance  hath  no  part. 

VI. 

IX. 

TO  A SNOW-DROP. 

TO  THE  LADY  BEAUMONT. 

Ix)NE  Flower,  hemmed  in  with  snows  and  white  as  they. 
But  hardier  far,  once  more  I see  thee  bend 
Thy  forehead,  as  if  fearful  to  offend. 

Like  an  unbidden  guest.  Though  day  by  day. 

Storms,  sallying  from  the  mountain-tops,  waylay 
The  rising  sun,  and  on  the  plains  descend  ; 

Yet  art  thou  welcome,  welcome  as  a friend 
Whose  zeal  outruns  his  promise  ! Blue-eyed  May 
Shall  soon  behold  this  border  thickly  set 
With  bright  jonquils,  their  odours  lavishing 
On  the  soft  west-wind  and  his  frolic  peers ; 

Nor  will  I then  thy  modest  grace  forget, 

Chaste  Snow-drop,  venturous  harbinger  of  Spring, 

And  pensive  monitor  of  fleeting  years ! 

Lady  ! the  songs  of  Spring  were  in  the  grovo 
While  I was  shaping  beds  for  winter  flowers; 
While  I was  planting  green  unfading  bowers. 
And  shrubs  to  hang  upon  the  warm  alcove. 

And  sheltering  wall ; and  still,  as  Fancy  wove 
The  dream,  to  time  and  nature’s  blended  powers 
I gave  this  paradise  for  winter  hours, 

A labyrinth.  Lady  ! which  your  feet  shall  rove. 
Yes!  when  the  sun  of  life  more  feebly  shines. 
Becoming  thoughts,  I trust,  of  solemn  gloom 
Or  of  high  gladness,  you  shall  hither  bring; 

And  these  perennial  bowers  and  murmuring  pines 
Be  gracious  as  the  music  and  the  bljom 
And  all  the  mighty  ravishment  of  spring. 

POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2‘25 


X. 

TO  THE  LADY  MARY  LOWTHER, 

With  a selection  from  the  Poems  of  Anne,  Countess  of  Win- 
chelsea;  and  extracts  of  similar  character  from  other  writers; 
transcribed  by  a female  friend. 

Lady  ! I rifled  a Parnassian  Cave 
(But  seldom  trod)  of  mildly-gleaming  ore  ; 

And  culled,  from  sundry  beds,  a lucid  store 
Of  genuine  crystals,  pure  as  those  that  pave 
The  azure  brooks  where  Dian  joys  to  lave 
Her  spotless  limbs ; and  ventured  to  explore 
Dim  shades  — for  reliques,  upon  Lethe’s  shore, 

Cast  up  at  random  by  the  sullen  wave. 

To  female  hands  the  treasures  were  resigned ; 

And  lo,  this  Work  1 a grotto  bright  and  clear 
From  stain  or  taint ! in  which  thy  blameless  mind 
May  feed  on  thoughts  though  pensive  hot  austere ; 

Or,  if  thy  deeper  spirit  be  inclined 
To  holy  musing,  it  may  enter  here. 


XI. 

There  is  a pleasure  in  poetic  pains 
Which  only  Poets  know  ; — ’t  was  rightly  said  ; 
Whom  could  the  Muses  else  allure  to  tread 
Their  smoothest  paths,  to  wear  their  lightest  chains'? 
When  happiest  Fancy  has  inspired  the  Strains, 

How  oft  the  malice  of  one  luckless  word 
Pursues  the  Enthusiast  to  the  social  board, 

Haunts  him  belated  on  the  silent  plains ! 

Yet  he  repines  not,  if  his  thought  stand  clear. 

At  last,  of  hinderance  and  obscurity. 

Fresh  as  the  Star  that  crowns  the  brow  of  Morn  ; 
Bright,  speckless,  as  a softly  moulded  tear 
The  moment  it  has  left  the  Virgin’s  eye. 

Or  rain-drop  lingering  on  the  pointed  Thorn. 


XII. 

The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said, 

“ Bright  is  thy  veil,  O Moon,  as  thou  art  bright !” 
Forthwith,  that  little  Cloud,  in  ether  spread. 

And  penetrated  all  with  tender  light. 

She  cast  away,  and  showed  her  fulgent  head 
Uncovered ; — dazzling  the  Beholder’s  sight 
As  if  to  vindicate  her  beauty’s  right. 

Her  beauty  thoughtlessly  disparaged. 

Meanwhile  that  Veil,  removed  or  thrown  aside, 
Went,  floating  from  her,  darkening  as  it  went; 
And  a huge  Mass,  to  bury  or  to  hide, 
■Approached  this  glory  of  the  firmament; 

Who  meekly  yields,  and  is  obscured  ; — eontent 
With  one  calm  triumph  of  a modest  pride. 


XIII. 

Haii,,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour  ! 

Not  dull  art  Thou,  as  undiscerning  Night ; 

But  studious  only  to  remove  from  sight 
Day’s  mutable  distinctions.  — Ancient  Power ! 

Thus  did  the  waters  gleam,  the  mountains  lower. 

To  the  rude  Briton,  when,  in  wolf-skin  vest 
Here  roving  wild,  he  laid  him  down  to  rest 
On  the  bare  rock,  or  through  a leafy  bower 
Looked  ere  his  eyes  were  closed.  By  him  was  seen 
The  self-same  Vision  wdiieh  we  now  behold. 

At  thy  meek  bidding,  shadowy  Power!  brought  forth; 
These  mighty  barriers,  and  the  gulf  between ; 

The  floods,  — the  stars,  — a spectacle  as  old 
As  the  beginning  of  the  heavens  and  earth ! 


XIV. 

With  how  sad  stops,  O Moon,  thou  climbest  the  sky. 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a face  ! * 

Where  art  thou?  Thou  whom  I have  seen  on  high 
Running  among  the  clouds  a wood-nymph’s  race  ' 
Unhappy  Nuns,  whose  common  breath’s  a sigh 
Which  they  would  stifle,  move  at  such  a pace ! 

The  northern  Wind,  to  call  thee  to  the  chase. 
Must  blow  to-nigbt  his  bugle  horn.  Had  I 
The  power  of  Merlin,  Goddess  ! this  should  be  : 

And  the  keen  Stars,  fast  as  the  clouds  were  riven, 
Should  sally  forth,  an  emulous  Company, 

All  hurrying  with  thee  through  the  clear  blue  heaven 
But,  Cynthia ! should  to  thee  the  palm  be  given. 
Queen  both  for  beauty  and  for  majesty. 


XV. 

Eve\  as  a dragon’s  eye  that  feels  the  stress 
Of  a bedimming  sleep,  or  as  a lamp 
Suddenly  glaring  through  sepulchral  damp, . 
So  burns  yon  Taper  ’mid  a black  recess 
Of  mountains,  silent,  dreary,  motionless: 

The  I.ake  below  reflects  it  not ; the  sky,  - 
Muffled  in  clouds,  affords  no  company 
To  mitigate  and  cbeer  its  loneliness. 

Yet,  round  the  body  of  that  joyless  Thing 
Which  sends  so  far  its  melancholy  light. 
Perhaps  are  seated  in  domestic  ring 
A gay  society  with  faces  bright. 

Conversing,  reading,  laughing;  — or  they  sing. 
While  hearts  and  voices  in  the  song  unite. 

• From  a Sonnet  of  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


226 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XVI. 

Mark  the  concentred  Hazels  that  enclose 
Yon  old  gray  Stone,  protected  from  the  ray 
Of  noontide  suns  : — and  even  the  beams  that  play 
■And  glance,  wdiile  wantonly  the  rough  wind  blows. 
Are  seldom  free  to  touch  the  moss  that  grows 
Upon  that  roof,  amid  embowering  gloom, 

The  very  image  framing  of  a Tomb, 

In  which  some  ancient  Chieftain  finds  repose 
Among  the  lonely  mountains.  — Live,  ye  Trees! 
And  Thou,  gray  Stone,  the  pensive  likeness  keep 
Of  a dark  chamber  where  the  Mighty  sleep : 

For  more  than  Fancy  to  the  influence  bends 
When  solitary  Nature  condescends 
To  mimic  Time’s  forlorn  humanities. 


XVII. 

CAPTIVITY. 

“As  the  cold  aspect  of  a sunless  way 
Strikes  through  the  Traveller’s  frame  with  deadlier 
chill, 

Oft  as  appears  a grove,  or  obvious  hill. 

Glistening  with  unparticipated  ray, 

Or  shining  slope  where  he  must  never  stray  ; 

So  joys,  remembered  without  wish  or  will. 

Sharpen  the  keenest  edge  of  present  ill,  — 

On  the  crushed  heart  a heavier  burthen  lay. 

Just  Heaven,  contract  the  compass  of  my  mind 
To  fit  proportion  with  my  altered  state ! 

Quench  those  felicities  whose  light  I find 
Reflected  in  my  bosom  all  too  late ! — 

O be  my  spirit,  like  my  thraldom,  strait; 

And,  like  mine  eyes  that  stream  with  sorrow,  blind  !’’ 


XVIII. 

Brook!  whose  society  the  Poet  seeks. 

Intent  his  wasted  spirits  to  renew ; 

And  whom  the  curious  Painter  doth  pursue 
Through  rocky  passes,  among  flowery  creeks. 

And  tracks  thee  dancing  down  thy  water-brakes  ; 
If  wish  were  mine  some  type  of  thee  to  view. 
Thee,  — and  not  thee  thyself,  I would  not  do 
Like  Grecian  Artists,  give  thee  human  cheeks. 
Channels  for  tears ; no  Naiad  should’st  thou  be,  — 
Have  neither  limbs,  feet,  feathers,  joints  nor  hairs : 
It  seems  the  Eternal  Soul  is  clothed  in  thee 
With  purer  robes  than  those  of  flesh  and  blood. 
And  hath  bestowed  on  thee  a better  good  ; 
Unwearied  'oy,  and  life  without  its  cares. 


XIX. 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A ROCKY  STREAM 

Dogmatic  Teachers,  of  the  snow-white  fur! 

Ye  wrangling  Schoolmen,  of  the  scarlet  hood  ! 

Who,  with  a keenness  not  to  be  withstood. 

Press  the  point  home,  — or  falter  and  demur. 

Checked  in  your  course  by  many  a teasing  burr ; 
These  natural  council-seats  your  acrid  blood 
Might  cool ; — and,  as  the  Genius  of  the  flood 
Stoops  willingly  to  animate  and  spur 
Each  lighter  function  slumbering  in  the  brain. 

Yon  eddying  balls  of  foam  — these  arrowy  gleams, 
That  o’er  the  pavement  of  the  surging  streams 
Welter  and  flash  — a synod  might  detain 
With  subtle  speculations,  haply  vain. 

But  surely  less  so  than  your  far-fetched  themes ! 

XX. 

This,  and  tlie  two  following,  were  suggested  by  Mr.  W.  Westall  9 
Views  of  the  Caves,  etc.  in  Yorkshire. 

Pure  element  of  waters  ! wheresoe’er 
Thou  dost  forsake  thy  subterranean  haunts. 

Green  herbs,  bright  flowers,  and  berry-bearing  plants. 
Rise  into  life  and  in  thy  train  appear  : 

And,  through  the  sunny  portion  of  the  year. 

Swift  insects  shine,  thy  hovering  pursuivants : 

And,  if  thy  bounty  fail,  the  forest  pants ; 

And  hart  and  hind  and  hunter  with  his  spear. 

Languish  and  droop  together.  Nor  unfelt 
In  man’s  perturbed  soul  thy  sway  benign ; 

And,  haply,  far  within  the  marble  belt 
Of  central  earth,  where  tortured  Spirits  pine 
For  grace  and  goodness  lost,  thy  murmurs  melt 
Their  anguish,  — and  they  blend  sweet  songs  with 
thine.* 


XXL 

MALHAM  COVE. 

Was  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  guile. 

When  giants  scooped  from  out  the  rocky  ground 
— Tier  under  tier — this  semicirqtie  profound! 

(Giants  — the  same  who  built  in  Erin’s  isle 
That  Causeway  with  incomparable  toil !) 

O,  had  this  vast  theatric  structure  wound 
With  finished  sweep  into  a perfect  round. 

No  mightier  work  had  gained  the  plausive  smile 
Of  all-beholding  Phoebus ! But,  alas. 

Vain  earth  ! — false  world  ! — Foundations  must  be  laid 
In  Heaven ; for,  ’mid  the  wreck  of  is  and  was. 
Things  incomplete  and  purposes  betrayed 

* W'aters  (as  Mr.  Westall  informs  us  in  the  letter-press  prefixed 
to  his  admirable  views)  are  invariably  found  to  flow  through 
these  caverns. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


227 


Make  sadder  transits  o’er  truth’s  mystic  glass 
Than  noblest  objects  utterly  decayed. 


XXII. 

GORDALE. 

At  early  dawn,  or  rather  when  the  air 
Glimmers  with  fading  light,  and  shadowy  Eve 
Is  busiest  to  confer  and  to  bereave. 

Then,  pensive  Votary ! let  thy  feet  repair 

To  Gordale-chasm,  terrific  as  the  lair 

Where  the  young  lions  couch ; — for  so,  by  leave 

Of  the  propitious  hour,  thou  may’st  perceive 

The  local  Deity,  with  oozy  hair 

And  mineral  crown,  beside  liis  jagged  urn. 

Recumbent : Him  thou  may’st  behold,  who  hides 
His  lineaments  by  day,  yet  there  presides. 

Teaching  the  docile  waters  how  to  turn  ; 

Or,  if  need  be,  impediment  to  spurn, 

And  force  their  passage  to  the  salt-sea  tides ! 

XXIII. 

THE  MONUMENT  COMMONLY  CALLED  LONG  MEG  AND 
HER  DAUGHTERS,  NEAR  THE  RIVER  EDEN.* 

A WEIGHT  of  awe  not  easy  to  be  borne 
Fell  suddenly  upon  my  Spirit — cast 
From  the  dread  bosom  of  the  unknown  past. 

When  first  I saw  that  Sisterhood  forlorn ; 

And  Her,  whose  massy  strength  and  stature  scorn 
The  power  of  years  — pre-eminent,  and  placed 
Apart  — to  overlook  the  circle  vast 
Speak,  Giant-mother  ! tell  it  .to  the  Morn 
While  she  dispels  the  cumbrous  shades  of  night; 

Let  the  Moon  hear,  emerging  from  a cloud. 

At  whose  behest  uprose  on  British  ground 
Thy  Progeny ; in  hieroglyphic  round 
Forth-shadowing,  some  have  deemed,  the  infinite. 

The  inviolable  God,  that  tames  the  proud  ! 


XXIV. 

COMPOSED  AFTER  A JOURNEY  .\CROSS  THE  HAM- 
BLETON  HILLS,  YORKSHIRE. 

Dark  and  more  dark  the  shades  of  evening  fell ; 

The  wished-for  point  was  reached,  hut  late  the  hour ; 


* The  Daughters  of  I.ong  Meg,  placed  in  a perfect  circle  eighty 
yanis  in  diameter,  are  .seventy-two  in  number,  and  their  height 
is  from  three  feet  to  so  many  yards  above  ground  ; a little  way 
out  of  tho  circle  stands  Long  Meg  herself,  a single  Slone,  eighteen 
feet  high.  When  the  Author  first  saw  this  Monument,  as  he 
came  upon  it  by  surprise,  he  might  over-rate  its  importance  as 
an  object;  but,  though  it  will  not  bear  a comparison  with  Stone- 
henge, he  must  say,  ho  has  not  seen  any  other  Relique  of  those 
dark  ages,  which  can  pretend  to  rival  it  in  singularity  and  digni- 
ty of  appearance. 


And  little  could  be  gained  from  all  that  dower 
Of  prospect,  w'hereof  many  tliousands  tell. 

Yet  did  the  glowing  west  in  all  its  power 
Salute  us ; — there  stood  Indian  Citadel, 
Temple  of  Greece,  and  Minster  with  its  tower 
Substantially  e.xpressed  — a place  for  bell 
Or  clock  to  toll  from.  Many  a tempting  Isle, 
With  Groves  that  never  were  imagined,  lay 
’Mid  seas  how  steadfast ! objects  all  for  the  eye 
Of  silent  rapture;  but  we  felt  the  while 
We  should  forget  them;  they  are  of  the  sky. 
And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away. 


XXV. 


“ they  are  of  the  sky, 

And  from  our  earthly  memory  fade  away.” 


These  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood 
We  turned,  departing  from  that  solemn  sight: 

A contrast  and  reproach  to  gross  delight. 

And  life’s  unspiritual  pleasures  daily  wooed  ! 
But  now  upon  this  thought  I cannot  brood  ; 

It  is  unstable  as  a dream  of  night; 

Nor  will  I praise  a Cloud,  however  bright. 
Disparaging  Man’s  gifts,  and  proper  food. 

Grove,  Isle,  with  every  shape  of  sky-built  dome. 
Though  clad  in  colours  beautiful  and  pure. 

Find  in  the  heart  of  man  no  natural  home : 

The  immortal  Mind  craves  objects  that  endure: 
These  cleave  to  it ; from  these  it  cannot  roam. 
Nor  they  from  it : their  fellowship  is  secure. 


XXVI. 

COMPOSED  UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE, 
SEPT.  3,  1803. 

Earth  has  not  any  thing  to  show  more  fiiir : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 

This  City  now  doth  like  a garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  ; silent,  bare. 

Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatre.s,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky ; 

All  blight  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill; 

Ne’er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a calm  so  deep 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will : 

Dear  God  ! the  very  houses  seem  asleep  ; 

And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 


228 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXVIl. 

OXFORD.  xMAY  30,  1820. 

Ye  sacred  N’urscries  of  blooming  Youth  ! 

In  whose  collegiate  shelter  England’s  Flowers 
E.xpand  — enjoying  through  their  vernal  hours 
i'he  air  of  liberty,  the  light  of  truth; 

IMuch  have  ye  suffered  from  Time’s  gnawing  tooth, 
Yet,  O ye  Spires  of  Oxford  ! Domes  and  Towers ! 
Gardens  and  Groves ! your  presence  overpowers 
The  soberness  of  Reason  ; till,  in  sooth. 
Transformed,  and  rushing  on  a bold  exchange, 

I slight  my  own  beloved  Cam,  to  range 
Where  silver  Isis  leads  my  stripling  feet ; 

Pace  the  long  avenue,  or  glide  adown 

The  strearn-like  windings  of  that  glorious  street, 

— An  eager  Novice  robed  in  fluttering  gown ! 


XXVIII. 

OxXFORD,  MAY  30,  1820. 

Sn.vME  on  this  faithless  heart ! that  could  allow 
Such  transport  — though  but  for  a moment’s  space; 
Not  while  — to  aid  the  spirit  of  the  place  — 

The  crescent  moon  clove  with  its  glittering  prow 
The  clouds,  or  night-bird  .sang  from  shady  bough. 
But  in  plain  daylight:  — She,  too,  at  my  side. 

Who,  with  her  heart’s  experience  satisfied. 
Maintains  inviolate  its  slightest  vow  ! 

Sweet  Fancy ! other  gifts  must  I receive ; 

Proofs  of  a higher  sovereignty  I claim  ; 

Take  from  her  brow  the  withering  flowers  of  eve. 
And  to  that  brow  Life’s  morning  wreath  restore ; 
Lot  her  be  comprehended  in  the  frame 
Of  these  illusions,  or  they  please  no  more. 


XXIX. 

RECOLLECTION  OP  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  KING  HENRY 
EIGHTH,  TRINITY  LODGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 

The  imperial  Stature,  the  colossal  stride. 

Are  yet  before  me;  yet  do  I behold 

The  broad  full  visage,  chest  of  amplest  mould. 

The  vestments  ’broidered  with  barbaric  pride : 

And  lo!  a poniard,  at  the  Monarch’s  side. 

Hangs  ready  to  be  grasped  in  sympathy 
With  the  keen  threatenings  of  that  fulgent  eye. 
Below  the  white-rimmed  bonnet,  far  descried. 

Who  trembles  now  at  thy  capricious  mood  1 
’Mid  those  surrounding  worthies,  haughty  King, 

We  rather  think,  with  grateful  mind  sedate. 

How  Providence  educeth,  from  the  spring 
Of  lawless  will,  unlooked-for  streams  of  good. 

Which  neither  force  shall  check,  nor  time  abate ! 


XXX. 

OxN  THE  DEATH  OF  HIS  MAJESTY,  (GEORGE 
THE  THIRD.) 

Ward  of  the  Law! — dread  Shadow  of  a King  ! 
Whose  realm  had  dwindled  to  one  stately  room ; 
Whose  universe  was  gloom  immersed  in  gloom. 
Darkness  as  thick  as  Life  o’er  Life  could  fling. 

Save  haply  for  some  feeble  glimmering 
Of  Faith  and  Hope;  if  thou,  by  nature’s  doom. 

Gently  hast  sunk  into  the  quiet  tomb. 

Why  should  we  bend  in  grief,  to  sorrow  cling. 

When  thankfulness  were  best ! — Fresh-flowing  tears 
Or,  where  tears  flow  not,  sigh  succeeding  sigh. 

Yield  to  such  after-thought  the  sole  reply 
Which  justly  it  can  claim.  The  Nation  hears 
In  this  deep  knell  — silent  for  threescore  years, 

An  unexampled  voice  of  awful  memory ! 

XXXI. 

JUNE,  1820. 

Fa.me  tells  of  Groves  — from  England  far  away  — 

* Groves  that  inspire  the  Nightingale  to  trill 
And  modulate,  with  subtle  reach  of  skill 
Elsewhere  unmatched,  her  ever-varying  lay ; 

Such  bold  report  I venture  to  gainsay ; 

For  I have  heard  the  choir  of  Richmond  hill 
Chanting,  with  indefatigable  bill. 

Strains  that  recalled  to  mind  a distant  day; 

When,  haply  under  shade  of  that  same  wood. 

And  scarcely  conscious  of  the  dashing  oars 
Plied  steadily  between  those  willowy  shores. 

The  sweet-souled  Poet  of  the  Seasons  stood  — 
Listening,  and  listening  long,  in  rapturous  mood. 

Ye  heavenly  Birds  ! to  your  Progenitors. 


XXXII. 

A PARSONAGE  IN  OXFORDSHIRE.t 
Where  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed  ends. 

Is  marked  by  no  distinguishable  line; 

The  turf  unites,  the  pathways  intertwine ; 

And,  wheresoe’er  the  stealing  footstep  tends. 

Garden,  and  that  domain  where  Kindred,  Friends, 
And  Neighbours  rest  together,  here  confound 
Their  several  features,  mingled  like  the  sound 
Of  many  waters,  or  as  evening  blends 
With  shady  night.  Soft  airs,  from  shrub  and  flower, 
Waft  fragrant  greetings  to  each  silent  grave; 

And  while  those  lofty  Poplars  gently  wave 
Their  tops,  between  them  comes  and  goes  a sky 
Bright  as  the  glimpses  of  Eternity, 

To  Saints  accorded  in  their  mortal  hour. 


* Wallacliia  is  the  country  alluded  to. 
+ See  Note.  23,  p.  324. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2£9 


XXXIII. 

COMPOSED  AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  A CASTLE 
IN  NORTH  WALES. 

Through  shattered  galleries,  ’mid  roofless  halls, 
Wandering  with  timid  footstep  ofl.  betrayed. 

The  Stranger  sighs,  nor  scruples  to  upbraid 
Old  Time,  though  He,  gentlest  among  the  Thralls 
Of  Destiny,  upon  these  wounds  hatli  laid 
His  lenient  touches,  soft  as  light  that  falls. 

From  the  wan  Moon,  upon  the  Towers  and  Walls, 
Light  deepening  the  profoundest  sleep  of  shade. 

Relic  of  Kings!  Wreck  of  forgotten  wars, 

To  winds  abandoned  and  the  prying  stars. 

Time  loves  Thee ! at  his  call  the  Seasons  twine 
Lu.xuriant  wreaths  around  thy  forehead  hoar; 

And,  though  past  pomp  no  changes  can  restore, 

A soothing  recompense,  his  gill,  is  Tiiine ! 

XXXIV. 

TO  THE  LADY  E.  B.  AND  THE  IION.  MISS  P. 
COMPOSED  IN  THE  GROUNDS  OF  PLASS  NEWIDD,  NEAR 
LLANGOLLIN,  1834. 

A Stream  to  mingle  with  your  favourite  Dee, 

Along  the  Vale  of  Meditation*  flows; 

So  styled  by  those  fierce  Britons,  pleased  to  see 
In  Nature’s  face  the  e.xpression  of  repose  ; 

Or  haply  there  some  pious  Hermit  chose 
To  live  and  die,  the  peace  of  Heaven  his  aim; 

To  whom  the  wild  sequestered  region  owes. 

At  this  late  day,  its  sanctifying  name. 

Glyn  Cafaillg.vrocii,  in  the  Cambrian  tongue. 

In  ours  the  Vale  of  Friendship,  let  this  spot 
Bo  named;  where,  faithful  to  a low-roofed  Cot, 

On  Deva’s  banks,  ye  have  abode  so  long; 

Sisters  in  love  — a love  allowed  to  climb. 

Even  on  this  earth,  above  the  reach  of  Time ! 


XXXV. 

TO  THE  TORRENT  AT  THE  DEVIL’S  BRIDGE, 
NORTH  WALES. 

How  art  thou  named  I In  search  of  what  strange  land 
From  what  huge  height,  descending?  Can  such  force 
Of  waters  issue  from  a British  source. 

Or  hath  not  Pindus  fed  Thee,  where  the  band 
Of  Patriots  scoop  their  freedom  out,  with  hand 
Desperate  as  thine?  Or  come  the  incessant  shocks 
From  that  young  Stream,  that  smites  the  throbbing  rocks 
Of  Viamala?  There  I seem  to  stand. 

As  in  Life’s  Morn ; permitted  to  behold. 

From  the  dread  chasm,  woods  climbing  above  woods; 
In  pomp  that  fades  not;  everlasting  snows; 

And  skies  that  ne’er  relinquish  their  repose; 

Such  power  possess  the  F’amily  of  floods 
Over  the  minds  of  Poet.s,  young  or  old  I 
•Glyn  Myi  vr. 


XXXVI. 


“ gives  to  airy  notliing 

A local  habitation  and  a name.” 

Though  narrow  be  that  Old  Man’s  cares,  and  near. 
The  poor  Old  Man  is  greater  than  he  seems : 

For  lie  hath  waking  empire,  wide  as  dreams; 

An  ample  sovereignty  of  eye  and  ear. 

Rich  are  his  walks  with  supernatural  cheer; 

The  region  of  his  inner  spirit  teems 
With  vital  sounds  and  monitory  gleams 
Of  high  astonishment  and  pleasing  fear. 

He  the  seven  birds  hath  seen,  that  never  part. 

Seen  the  Seven  Whistlers  in  their  nightly  rounds. 

And  counted  them:  and  oftentimes  will  start 

For  overhead  are  sweeping  Gabriel’s  Hounds, 
Doomed,  with  their  impious  Lord,  the  flying  Hart 
To  chase  for  ever,  on  aerial  grounds! 


XXXVII. 

Strange  visitation  ! at  Jemima' s lip 
Thus  hadst  thou  pecked,  wild  Redbreast!  Love  minh 
say, 

A half-blown  rose  had  tempted  thee  to  sip 
Its  glistening  dews;  but  hallowed  is  the  clay 
Which  the  Muse  warms ; and  I,  whose  head  is  gray. 
Am  not  unworthy  of  thy  fellowship; 

Nor  could  I let  one  thought  — one  motion slip 

That  might  thy  sylvan  confidence  betray. 

For  are  we  not  all  His  without  whose  care 
Vouchsafed  no  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  ? 

Who  gives  his  Angels  wings  to  speed  through  air, 
And  rolls  the  planets  through  the  blue  profound; 

Then  peck  or  perch,  fond  Flutterer ! nor  forbear 
To  trust  a Poet  in  still  vision  bound. 


XXXVIII. 

When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  Isle 

Lay  couched;  — upon  that  breathle.ss  Monument, 

On  him,  or  on  his  fearful  bow  unbent. 

Some  wild  Bird  oft  might  settle  and  beguile 
The  rigid  features  of  a transient  smile. 

Disperse  the  tear,  or  to  the  sigh  give  vent. 
Slackening  the  pains  of  ruthless  banishment 
From  home  affections,  and  heroic  toil. 

Nor  doubt  that  spiritual  Creatures  round  us  move, 
Griefs  to  allay  that  Reason  cannot  heal ; 

And  very  Reptiles  have  sufficed  to  prove 
To  fettered  ^V'retchedness,  that  no  Bastilc 
Is  deep  enough  to  c.xclude  the  light  of  love. 
Though  Man  for  Brother  Man  has  ceased  to  feel. 
20 


WORDSWORTH’S  ROETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXIX. 

While  they,  who  once  were  Anna’s  Playmates,  tread 
The  mountain  turf  and  river’s  flowery  marge ; 

Or  float  with  music  in  the  festal  barge; 

Rein  the  proud  steed,  or  through  the  dance  are  led  ; 
Her  doom  it  is  to  press  a weary  bed  — 

Till  oft  her  guardian  Angel,  to  some  Charge 
IMore  urgent  called,  will  stretch  his  wings  at  large. 
And  Friends  too  rarely  prop  the  languid  head. 

Vet  Genius  is  no  feeble  comforter: 

The  presence  even  of  a stuffed  Owl  for  her 
Can  cheat  the  time ; sending  her  fancy  out 
To  ivied  castles  and  to  moonlight  skies, 

Though  he  can  neither  stir  a plume,  nor  shout ; 

Nor  veil,  with  restless  film,  his  staring  eyes. 


XL. 

TO  THE  CUCKOO. 

Not  the  whole  warbling  grove  in  concert  heard 
When  sunshine  follows  shower,  the  breast  can  thrill 
Like  the  first  summons,  Cuckoo ! of  thy  bill. 

With  its  twin  notes  inseparably  paired. 

The  Captive  ’mid  damp  vaults  unsunned,  unaired, 
Measuring  the  periods  of  his  lonely  doom, 

That  cry  can  reach;  and  to  the  sick  man’s  room 
Rends  gladness,  by  no  languid  smile  declared. 

The  lordly  Eagle-race  through  hostile  search 
May  perish ; time  may  come  when  never  more 
The  wilderness  shall  hear  the  Lion  roar ; 

Rut,  long  as  Cock  shall  crow  from  household  perch 
To  rouse  the  dawn,  soft  gales  shall  speed  thy  wing. 
And  thy  erratic  voice  be  faithful  to  the  Spring! 


XLI. 

THE  INFANT  M M . 

Unquiet  Childhood  here  by  special  grace 
Forgets  her  nature,  opening  like  a flower 
That  neither  feeds  nor  wastes  its  vital  power 
In  painful  struggles.  Months  each  other  chase. 

And  nought  untunes  that  Infant’s  voice;  a trace 
Of  fretful  temper  sullies  not  her  cheek ; 

Prompt,  lively,  self-sufficing,  yet  so  meek 
That  one  enrapt  with  gazing  on  her  face 
(Which  even  the  placid  innocence  of  Death 
Could  scarcely  make  more  placid.  Heaven  more  bright) 
Might  learn  to  picture,  for  the  eye  of  faith. 

The  Virgin,  as  she  shone  with  kindred  light; 

A Nursling  couched  upon  her  Mother’s  knee, 

Beneath  some  shady  Palm  of  Galilee. 


XLII. 

TO  ROTH  A Q . 

Roth.\,  my  Spiritual  Child  ! this  head  was  gray 
When  at  the  sacred  Font  for  Thee  I stood ; 

Pledged  till  thou  reach  the  verge  of  womanhood 
And  shaft  become  thy  own  sufficient  stay : 

Too  late,  I feel,  sweet  Orplian ! was  tlie  day 
For  steadfast  hope  the  contract  to  fulfil ; 

Yet  shall  my  blessing  hover  o’er  thee  still. 
Embodied  in  tlie  music  of  this  Lay, 

Breathed  forth  beside  the  peaceful  mountain  Stream* 
Whose  murmur  soothed  thy  languid  Mother’s  ear 
After  her  throes,  tiiis  Stream  of  name  more  dear 
Since  thou  dost  bear  it,  — a memorial  theme 
For  others ; for  thy  future  self  a spell 
To  summon  fancies  out  of  Time’s  dark  cell. 


XLIII. 

TO , IN  HER  SEVENTIETH  YEAR. 

Such  age  how  beautiful ! O Lady  bright. 

Whose  mortal  lineaments  seem  all  refined 
By  favouring  Nature  and  a saintly  Mind 
To  something  purer  and  more  exquisite 
Than  flesh  and  blood ; whene’er  thou  meet’st  my  sight 
When  I behold  thy  blanched  unwithered  cheek. 

Thy  temples  fringed  with  locks  of  gleaming  white. 
And  head  that  droops  because  the  soul  is  meek. 

Thee  with  the  welcome  Snowdrop  I compare; 

That  Child  of  Winter,  prompting  thoughts  that  climb 
From  desolation  toward  the  genial  prime; 

Or  with  the  Moon  conquering  earth’s  misty  air. 

And  filling  more  and  more  with  crystal  light 
As  pensive  Evening  deepens  into  night 


XLIV. 

A GRAVESTONE  UPON  THE  FLOOR  IN  THE  CLOISTERS 
OF  WORCESTER  CATHEDRAL. 

“ Miserrimus  !”  and  neither  name  nor  date. 

Prayer,  text,  or  symbol,  graven  upon  the  stone ; 
Nought  but  that  word  assigned  to  the  unknown. 

That  solitary  word  — to  separate 

From  all,  and  cast  a cloud  around  the  fate 

Of  him  who  lies  beneath.  Most  wretched  one, 

W/io  chose  his  Epitaph!  Himself  alone 
Could  thus  have  dared  the  grave  to  agitate. 

And  claim,  among  the  dead,  this  awful  crown ; 

Nor  doubt  that  lie  marked  also  for  his  own. 

Close  to  these  cloistral  steps  a burial-place. 

That  every  foot  might  fall  witli  heavier  tread. 
Trampling  upon  his  vileness.  Stranger,  pass 
Softly  ! — To  save  the  contrite,  Jesus  bled. 

* The  River  Rotlia,  that  flows  into  Windermere  from  tha 
Lakes  of  Gra.sraere  and  Rydal. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2C1 


XLV. 

A TKADITION  OF  DARLEY  DALE,  DERBYSHIRE. 
’T  IS  said  that  to  the  brow  of  yon  fair  hill 
Two  Brothers  clomb,  and,  turning  face  from  face, 
Nor  one  look  more,  exchanging,  grief  to  still 
Or  feed,  each  planted  on  that  lolly  place 
A chosen  Tree;  then,  eager  to  fulfil 
Their  courses,  like  two  new-born  rivers,  they 
In  opposite  directions  urged  their  way 
Down  from  the  far-seen  mount  No  blast  might  kill 
Or  blight  that  fond  memorial ; — the  trees  grew, 

And  now  entwine  their  arms;  but  ne’er  again 
Embraced  those  Brothers  upon  earth’s  wide  plain; 
Nor  aught  of  mutual  joy  or  sorrow  knew 
Until  their  spirits  mingled  in  the  sea 
That  to  itself  takes  all  — Eternity. 


XLVI. 

FILIAL  PIETY. 

U.NTOUCHED  through  all  severity  of  cold. 

Inviolate,  whate’er  the  cottage  hearth 
Might  need  for  comfort,  or  for  festal  mirth. 

That  Pile  of  Turf  is  half  a century  old : 

Yes,  Traveller!  fifty  winters  have  been  told 
Since  suddenly  the  dart  of  deatli  went  forth 
’Gainst  him  who  raised  it,  — his  last  work  on  earth ; 
Thence  by  his  Son  more  prized  than  aught  which  gold 
Could  purchase — watched,  preserved  by  his  own  hands, 
That,  faithful  to  the  Structure,  still  repair 
Its  waste. — Though  crumbling  with  each  breath  of  air. 
In  annual  renovation  thus  it  stands  — 

Rude  IMausoleum  I but  wrens  nestle  there. 

And  red-breasts  warble  when  sweet  sounds  are  rare. 


XLYII. 

TO  B.  R.  II  AY  DON,  ESQ., 

ON  SEEING  Ills  PICTURE  OF  NAPOLEON  BUONAPARTE 
ON  THE  ISLAND  OF  ST.  HELENA. 

IIaydo.n!  let  worthier  judges  praise  the  skill 
Here  by  thy  pencil  shown  in  truth  of  lines 
And  charm  of  colours;  /applaud  those  signs 
Of  thought,  that  give  the  true  poetic  thrill ; 

That  unencumbered  whole  of  blank  and  still. 

Sky  without  cloud  — ocean  without  a wave ; 

And  the  one  Man  that  laboured  to  enslave 
The  World,  sole-standing  liigh  on  the  bare  hill  — 

Back  turned,  arms  folded,  the  unapparent  fiice 

Tinged,  we  may  fancy,  in  this  dreary  place 

With  light  reflected  from  the  invisible  sun 

Set  like  his  fortunes;  but  not  set  for  aye 

Like  them.  The  img-iilty  Power  pursues  his  way,  ] 

And  before  him  doth  dawn  perpetual  run.  1 


XLVIIl. 

Chatsworth  ! thy  stately  mansion,  and  the  pride 
Of  thy  domain,  strange  contrast  do  present 
To  house  and  home  in  many  a craggy  rent 
Of  the  wild  Peak ; where  new-born  waters  glide 
Through  fields  wdiose  thritly  Occupants  abide 
As  in  a dear  and  chosen  banishment. 

With  every  semblance  of  entire  content ; 

So  kind  is  simple  Nature,  fairly  tried ! 

Yet  He  whose  heart  in  childhood  gave  her  troth 
To  pastoral  dales,  thin  set  with  modest  farms, 

May  learn,  if  judgment  strengthen  with  his  growth, 
That,  not  for  Fancy  only,  pomp  hath  charms ; 

And,  strenuous  to  protect  from  lawless  harms 
The  extremes  of  favoured  life,  may  honour  both. 


XLIX. 

Desponding  Father ! mark  this  altered  bou?'.’. 

So  beautiful  of  late,  with  sunshine  warmed. 

Or  moist  with  dews  ; what  more  unsightly  now. 
Its  blossoms  shrivelled,  and  its  fruit,  if  formed, 
Invisible  1 yet  Spring  her  genial  brow 
Knits  not  o’er  that  discolouring  and  decay 
As  false  to  expectation.  Nor  fret  thou 
At  like  unlovely  process  in  the  May 
Of  human  life : a Stripling’s  graces  blow. 

Fade  and  are  shed,  that  from  their  timely  fall 
(Misdeem  it  not  a cankerous  change)  may  grow 
Rich  mellow  bearings,  that  for  thanks  shalj  call ; 
In  all  men,  sinful  is  it  to  be  slow 
To  hope  — in  Parents,  sinful  above  all. 


L. 

ROMAN  ANTIQUITIES  DISCOVERED, 
AT  BISHOPSTONE,  HEREFORDSHIRE. 

While  poring  Antiquarians  search  the  ground 
Upturned  with  curious  pains,  the  Bard,  a Seer, 

Takes  fire: — The  men  that  have  been  reappear; 
Romans  for  travel  giit,  for  business  gowned. 

And  some  recline  on  couclie.®,  myrtle-crowned. 

In  festal  glee : why  not  ? For  fresh  and  clear, 

As  if  its  hues  were  of  tlie  passing  year. 

Dawns  this  time-buried  pavement.  From  that  mound 
Hoards  may  come  forth  of  'rrajan.s,  Maximins, 

Shrunk  into  coins  with  all  their  warlike  toil; 

Or  a fierce  impress  issues  with  its  fiiil 
Of  tenderness  — the  Wolf,  whose  suckling  Twins 
The  unlettered  Ploiighboy  pities  when  he  wins 
The  casual  treasure  from  the  furrowed  soil. 


232 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


LI. 

Sr.  CATHERINE  OF  LEDBURY 

When  human  touch,  as  monkish  books  attest, 

Nor  was  applied  nor  could  be,  Ledbury  bells 
Broke  forth  in  concert  flung  adovvn  the  dells. 

And  upward,  high  as  Malvern’s  cloudy  crest ; 

Sweet  tones,  and  caught  by  a noble  Lady  blest 
To  rapture  ! Mabel  listened  at  the  side 
Of  her  loved  Mistress : soon  the  music  died. 

And  Catherine  said,  “ Here  I set  up  my  rest.” 
Warned  in  a dream,  the  Wanderer  long  had  sought 
A home  that  by  such  miracle  of  sound 
Must  be  revealed  : — she  heard  it  now,  or  felt 
The  deep,  deep  joy  of  a confiding  thought ; 

And  there,  a saintly  Anchoress,  she  dwelt 
Till  she  exchanged  for  heaven  that  happy  ground. 


Lir. 

Why  art  thou  silent ! Is  thy  love  a plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  1 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

Vet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant 
(As  would  my  deeds  have  been)  with  hourly  care. 
The  mind’s  least  generous  wish  a mendican 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 
Speak,  though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to  hold 
A thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine. 

Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 
Than  a forsaken  bird’s-nest  filled  with  snow 
’Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine  ; 

Speak,  tlrat  my  torturing  doubts  their  e.nd  may  know ! 


LIII. 

Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein 
Whirled  us  o’er  sunless  ground  beneath  a sky 
As  void  of  sunshine,  when,  from  that  wide  Plain, 
Clear  tops  of  far-off  Mountains  we  descry. 

Like  a Sierra  of  cerulean  Spain, 

All  light  and  lustre.  Did  no  heart  reply  ? 

Yes,  there  was  One  ; — for  One,  asunder  fly 
The  thousand  links  of  that  ethereal  chain ; 

And  green  vales  open  out,  with  grove  and  field. 
And  the  fair  front  of  many  a happy  Home ; 

Such  tempting  spots  as  into  vision  come 
While  Soldiers,  of  the  weapons  that  they  wield 
Weary,  and  sick  of  strifeful  Christendom, 

Gaze  on  the  moon  by  parting  clouds  revealed. 


LIV. 

TO  THE  AUTHOR’S  PORTRAIT. 

[Painted  at  Rydal  Mount,  by  VV.  Pickersgill,  Esq.,  for  St.  John’s 
College,  Cambridge.] 

Go,  faithful  Portrait ! and  where  long  hath  knelt 
Margaret,  the  saintly  Foundress,  take  thy  place ; 

And,  if  Time  spare  the  colours  for  the  grace 
Which  to  the  work  surpassing  skill  hath  dealt. 

Thou,  on  thy  rock  reclined,  though  Kingdoms  melt. 
And  States  be  torn  up  by  the  roots,  wilt  seem 
To  breathe  in  rural  peace,  to  hear  the  stream. 

To  think  and  feel  as  once  the  Poet  felt.  ' 
Whate’er  thy  fate,  those  features  have  not  grown 
Unrecognized  through  many  a household  tear. 

More  prompt  more  glad  to  fall  than  drops  of  dew 
By  morning  shed  around  a flower  half  blown ; 

Tears  of  delight,  that  testified  how  true 
To  life  thou  art,  and,  in  thy  truth,  how  dear  ! 


LV. 

CONCLUSION. 

TO  

If  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muses’  art 
Produced  as  lonely  Nature  or  the  strife 
That  animates  the  scenes  of  public  life 
Inspired,  may  in  thy  leisure  claim  a part  ; 

And  if  these  Transcripts  of  the  private  heart 
Have  gained  a sanction  from  thy  falling  tears. 
Then  I repent  not : but  my  soul  hath  fears 
Breathed  from  eternity ; for  as  a dart 
Cleaves  the  blank  air.  Life  flies : now  every  dav 
Is  but  a glimmering  spoke  in  the  swift  wheel 
Of  the  revolving  week.  Away,  away. 

All  fitful  cares,  all  transitory  zeal ; 

So  timely  Grace  the  immortal  wing  may  heal. 
And  honour  rest  upon  the  senseless  clay. 


LVI. 

In  my  mind’s  eye  a Temple,  like  a cloud 
Slowly  surmounting  some  invidious  hill, 

Rose  out  of  darkness:  the  bright  Work  stood  still. 
And  might  of  its  own  beauty  have  been  proud. 

But  it  was  fashioned  and  to  God  was  vowed 
By  Virtues  that  diffused,  in  every  part. 

Spirit  divine  through  forms  of  human  art: 

Faith  had  her  arch  — her  arch,  when  winds  blow  loud 
Into  the  consciousness  of  safety  thrilled  ; 

And  Love  her  towers  of  dread  foundation  laid 
Under  the  grave  of  things;  Hoe  had  her  spire 
Star-high,  and  pointing  still  to  something  higher; 
Trembling  I gazed,  but  heard  a voice — it  said. 
Hell-gates  are  powerless  Phantoms  when  we  build. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


233 


PART  THIRD. 


I. 

Though  the  bold  wings  of  poesy  affect 

The  clouds,  and  wheel  around  tlie  mountain  tops 

Rejoicing,  from  her  loftiest  height  she  drops 

Well  pleased  to  skim  the  plain  with  wild  flowers  deckt. 

Or  muse  in  solemn  grove  whose  shades  protect 

The  lingering  dew  — there  steals  along,  or  stops 

Watching  the  least  small  bird  that  round  her  hops. 

Or  creeping  worm,  with  sensitive  respect. 

Her  functions  are  they  therefore  less  divine. 

Her  thoughts  less  deep,  or  void  of  grave  intent 
Her  simplest  fancies'!  Should  that  fear  he  thine, 
Aspiring  votary,  ere  thy  hand  present 
One  offering,  kneel  before  her  modest  shrine. 

With  brow  in  penitential  sorrow  bent! 


II. 

A Poet ! — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school. 

Nor  dares  to  move  unpropped  upon  the  staff 
Wliich  art  hath  lodged  within  his  hand  — must  laugh 
By  precept  only,  and  shed  tears  by  rule. 

Thy  art  be  nature ; the  live  current  quaff. 

And  let  the  groveller  sip  his  stagnant  pool. 

In  fear  that  else,  when  critics  grave  and  cool 
Have  killed  him,  scorn  should  write  his  epitaph. 

How  does  the  meadow-flower  its  bloom  unfold! 
Because  the  lovely  little  flower  is  free 
Down  to  its  root,  and,  in  that  freedom,  bold ; j 
And  so  the  grandeur  of  the  forest-tree  / 

Comes  not  by  casting  in  a formal  mould,  / 

But  from  its  own  divine  vitality. 


TO  

[Miss  not  the  occasion : by  tlie  forelock  take 
That  subtle  Power,  the  never  halting  Time, 

Lest  a mere  moment's  putting  off  should  make 
Mischance  almost  as  heavy  as  a crime.] 

III. 

“ Wait,  pritbee,  wait  I”  this  answer  Lesbia  threw 
Forth  to  her  dove,  and  took  no  further  heed. 

Her  eye  was  busy,  while  her  fingers  flew 
Across  the  harp,  with  soul-engrossing  speed ; 

But  from  that  bondage  when  her  thoughts  were  freed 
She  rose,  and  toward  the  close-shut  casement  drew. 
Whence  the  poor  unregarded  favourite,  true 
To  old  affections,  had  been  heard  to  plead 
With  flapping  wing  for  entrance.  What  a shriek 
Forced  from  that  voice  so  lately  tuned  to  a strain 
Of  harmony!  — a shriek  of  terror,  pain. 

And  self-reproach  ! for,  from  aloft,  a kite 
Bounced, — and  the  dove,  which  from  its  ruthless  beak 
Slie  could  not  rescue,  perished  in  her  sight ! 

2E 


IV. 

The  most  alluring  clouds  that  mount  the  sky 
Owe  to  a troubled  element  their  forms. 

Their  hues  to  sunset.  If  with  raptured  eye 
We  watch  tiieir  splendour,  shall  we  covet  storms. 
And  wish  the  lord  of  day  his  slow  decline 
Would  hasten,  that  such  pomp  may  float  on  high! 
Behold,  already  they  forget  to  shine. 

Dissolve  — add  leave  to  him  who  gazed  a sigh. 

Not  loth  to  thank  each  moment  for  its  boon 
Of  pure  delight,  come  whensoe’er  it  may, 

Peace  let  us  seek,  — to  steadfast  things  attune 
Calm  expectations,  leaving  to  the  gay 
And  volatile  their  love  of  transient  bovvers. 

The  house  that  cannot  pass  away  be  ours. 

V. 

ON  A PORTRAIT  OF  THE  DUKE  OF  WELLINGTON  UPON 
THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO.  BY  HAYDON. 

By  art’s  bold  privilege  Warrior  and  War-horse  stand 
On  ground  yet  strewn  with  their  last  battle’s  wreck ; 
Let  the  steed  glory  while  his  master’s  hand 
Lies  fixed  for  ages  on  his  conscious  neck  ; 

But  by  the  chieftain’s  look,  though  at  his  side 
Hangs  that  day’s  treasured  sword,  how  firm  a check 
Is  given  to  triumph  and  all  human  pride  ! 

Yon  trophied  mound  shrinks  to  a shadowy  speck 
In  his  calm  presence!  Him  the  mighty  deed 
Elates  not,  brought  far  nearer  the  grave’s  rest, 

As  shows  that  time-worn  face,  for  he  such  seed 
Has  sown  as  yields,  we  trust,  the  fruit  of  fame 
In  Heaven;  hence  no  one  blushes  for  thy  name. 
Conqueror,  mid  some  sad  thoughts,  divinely  blest! 

VI. 

COMPOSED  ON  A MAY  MORNING,  1838. 

Life  with  yon  lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun. 

Yet  nature  seems  to  them  a lieavenly  guide. 

Does  joy  approach!  they  meet  the  coming  tide; 

And  sullenness  avoid,  as  now  they  shun 

Pale  twilight’s  lingering  glooms,  — and  in  the  sun 

Couch  near  their  dams,  with  quiet  satisfied  ; 

Or  gambol  — each  with  his  shadow  at  his  side. 

Varying  its  shape  wherever  he  may  run. 

As  they  from  turf  yet  hoar  with  sleepy  dew 
All  turn,  and  court  the  shining  and  the  green. 

Where  herbs  look  up,  and  opening  flowers  are  seen; 
Why  to  God’s  goodness  cannot  we  be  true. 

And  so.  His  gifts  and  promises  between, 

Feed  to  the  last  on  pleasures  ever  new! 


VII. 

Lo  ! where  she  stands  fixed  in  a saint-like  trance, 
One  upward  hand,  as  if  she  needed  rest 
From  rapture,  lying  softly  on  her  breast ! 

Nor  wants  her  eyeball  an  ethereal  glance; 

20* 


234 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  not  the  less  — nay  more  — tliat  countenance, 
While  thus  illumined,  tells  of  painful  strife 
For  a sick  heart  made  weary  of  this  life 
By  love,  long  crossed  with  adverse  circumstance. 

— VVonld  she  were  now  as  when  she  hoped  to  pass 
At  God’s  appointed  hour  to  them  who  tread 
Heaven’s  sapphire  pavement,  yet  breathed  well  content. 
Well  pleased,  her  foot  should  print  earth’s  common 
grass, 

Lived  thankful  for  day’s  light,  for  daily  bread. 

For  health,  and  time  in  obvious  duty  spent. 


VIII. 

TO  A PAINTER. 

All  praise  the  likeness  by  thy  skill  portrayed; 

But  ’tis  a fruitless  task  to  paint  for  me. 

Who,  yielding  not  to  changes  time  has  made. 

By  the  habitual  liglit  of  memory  see 

Eyes  unbedimmed,  see  bloom  tliat  cannot  fade. 

And  smiles  tliat  from  their  hirth-jilace  ne'er  shall  flee 
Into  the  land  where  ghosts  and  phantoms  be ; 

And,  seeing  this,  own  nothing  in  its  stead. 

Couldst  thou  go  back  into  far-distant  years. 

Or  share  with  me,  fond  thought!  that  inward  eye. 
Then,  and  then  only,  painter ! could  thy  art 
The  visual  powers  of  nature  satisfy, 

’Which  hold,  whate’er  to  common  sight  appears. 

Their  sovereign  empire  in  a faithful  heart. 


IX. 

ON  THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 

Though  I beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise 
This  work,  I now  have  gazed  on  it  so  long 
I see  its  truth  with  unreluctant  eyes; 

O,  my  beloved  ! I have  done  thee  wrong. 
Conscious  of  blessedness,  but,  whence  it  sprung. 
Ever  too  heedless,  as  I now  perceive: 

Morn  into  noon  did  pass,  noon  into  eve. 

And  the  old  day  was  welcome  as  the  young. 

As  welcome,  and  as  beautiful  — in  sooth 
More  beautiful,  as  being  a thing  more  holy: 
Thanks  to  thy  virtues,  to  the  eternal  youth 
Of  all  thy  goodness,  never  melancholy ; 

To  thy  large  heart  and  humble  mind,  that  cast 
Into  one  vision,  future,  present,  past. 


X. 

Hark!  ’tis  the  thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest. 

By  twilight  premature  of  cloud  and  rain  ; 

Nor  does  that  roaring  wind  deaden  his  strain 
Who  carols  thinking  of  his  love  and  nest. 

And  seems,  as  more  incited,  still  more  blest. 

Thanks;  thou  hast  snapped  a fire-side  prisoner’s  chain. 
Exulting  warbler!  eased  a fretted  brain. 


I And  in  a moment  charmed  my  cares  to  test. 

■ Yes,  I will  forth,  bold  bird  ! and  front  the  blast, 
That  we  may  sing  together,  if  thou  wilt, 

So  loud,  so  clear,  my  partner  through  life’s  day. 
Mute  in  her  nest  love-chosen,  if  not  love-built 
Like  thine,  shall  gladden,  as  in  seasons  past. 
Thrilled  by  loose  snatches  of  the  social  lay. 
Eydal  Mount,  1S38. 


XI. 

’Ti,s  he  whose  yester-evening’s  high  disdain 
Beat  back  the  roaring  storm  — but  how  subdued 
His  day-break  note,  a sad  vicissitude! 

Does  the  hour’s  drowsy  weight  his  glee  restrain? 
Or,  like  the  nightingale,  her  joyous  vein 
Pleased  to  renounce,  does  this  dear  thrush  attune 
His  voice  to  suit  the  temper  of  yon  moon 
Doubly  depressed,  setting,  and  in  her  wane? 

Rise,  tardy  sun  ! and  let  the  songster  prove 
(The  balance  trembling  between  night  and  morn 
No  longer)  with  what  ecstasy  upborne 
He  can  pour  forth  his  spirit.  In  heaven  above, 

; And  earth  below,  they  best  can  serve  true  gladness 
Who  meet  most  feelingly  the  calls  of  sadness. 


XII. 

Oh  what  a wreck!  how  changed  in  mien  and  speech ! 
Yet  — though  dread  Powers,  that  work  in  mystery 
spin 

Entanglings  of  the  brain ; though  shadows  stretch 
O’er  the  chilled  heart  — reflect;  far,  far  within 
Hers  is  a holy  being,  freed  from  sin. 

She  is  not  what  she  seems,  a forlorn  wretch. 

But  delegated  Spirits  comfort  fetch 

To  her  from  heights  that  reason  may  not  win. 

Like  children,  she  is  privileged  to  hold 
Divine  communion;  both  do  live  and  move, 

Whate’er  to  shallow  faith  tlieir  ways  unfold. 

Inly  illumined  by  Heaven’s  pitying  love; 

Love  pitying  innocence  not  long  to  last. 

In  them  — in  her  our  sins  and  sorrows  past. 


XIII. 

Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake 
Yon  busy  little-ones  rejoice  that  soon 
A poor  old  dame  will  ble.ss  them  for  the  boon : 
Great  is  their  glee  while  flake  they  add  to  flake 
With  rival  earnestness;  far  other  strife 
Than  will  hereafter  move  them,  if  they  make 
Pastime  their  idol,  give  their  day  of  life 
To  pleasure  snatched  for  reckless  pleasure’s  sake. 
Can  pomp  and  show  allay  one  heart-born  grief? 
Pains  which  the  world  inflicts  can  she  requite’ 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


235 


Not  for  an  interval  however  brief ; 

The  silent  thoughts  that  search  for  stedfast  light, 

Love  from  her  depths,  and  duty  in  her  might. 

And  faith  — these  only  yield  secure  relief. 

March  8th,  1S42. 

XIV. 

ILLUSTRATED  BOOKS  AND  NEWSPAPERS. 
Discourse  was  deemed  man’s  noblest  attribute. 

And  written  words  the  glory  of  his  hand ; 

Then  followed  printing  with  enlarged  command 
For  thought  — dominion  vast  and  absolute 
For  spreading  truth,  and  making  love  e.xpand. 

Now  prose  and  verse  sunk  into  disrepute 
Must  lacquey  a dumb  art  that  best  can  suit 
The  taste  of  this  once  intellectual  land. 

A backward  movement  surely  have  we  here. 

From  manhood  — back  to  childhood;  for  the  age  — 
Back  towards  caverned  life’s  first  rude  career. 

Avaunt  this  vile  abuse  of  pictured  page  ! 

Must  eyes  be  all  in  all,  the  tongue  and  ear 
Nothing!  Heaven  keep  us  from  a lower  stage. 

1S46. 

XV. 

A PLEA  FOR  AUTHORS,  MAY  1838. 

Failing  impartial  measure  to  dispense 
To  every  suitor,  equity  is  lame; 

And  social  justice,  stript  of  reverence 
F'or  natural  rights,  a mockery  and  a shame ; 

Law  but  a servile  dupe  of  false  pretence. 

If,  guarding  grossest  things  from  common  claim 
Now  and  for  ever,  she,  to  works  that  came 
From  mind  and  spirit,  grudge  a short-lived  fence. 
“Whatl  lengthened  privilege,  a lineal  tie. 

For  Books  Yes,  heartless  ones,  or  be  it  proved 
That  ’tis  a fault  in  us  to  have  lived  and  loved 
Like  others,  with  like  temporal  hopes  to  die; 

No  public  harm  that  genius  from  her  course 
Be  turned  ; and  streams  of  truth  dried  up,  even  at  their 
source ! 

XVI. 

A POET  TO  ms  GRANDCHILD. 

(sequel  to  the  foregoing.) 

“Son  of  my  buried  son  ! while  thus  thy  hand 
“Is  clasping  mine,  it  saddens  me  to  think 
“IIow  want  may  press  thee  down,  and  with  thee  sink 
“Thy  children,  left  unfit,  through  vain  demand* 


* The  author  of  an  animated  article,  printed  in  the  Law 
Magazine,  in  favour  of  the  principle  of  Sergeant  Talfourd’s 
Copyriglit  Hill,  precedes  me  in  the  public  expression  of  this 
feeling;  which  had  been  forced  too  often  upon  my  own 
mind,  by  remembering  how  few  descendants  of  men  emi- 
nent in  literature  are  even  known  to  e-xist. 


' “Of  culture,  even  to  feel  or  understand 
j “ My  simplest  lay  that  to  their  memory 
“May  cling.  — Hard  fate  which  haply  may  not  be, 
“Did  justice  mould  the  statutes  of  the  land. 

I “ A book  time-cherished  and  an  honoured  name 
“Are  high  rewards;  but  bound  they  nature’s  claim 
I “Or  reason’s]  No.  — Hopes  spun  in  timid  line 
“ From  out  the  bosom  of  a modest  home, 

I “ E.xtend  through  unambitious  years  to  come, 

“ My  careless  little  one  for  thee  and  thine  !” 

May  23<I. 

XVII. 

TO  THE  REV.  CHRISTOPHER  WORDSWORTH,  D.  D. 

MASTER  OF  H.\RROW  SCHOOL, 

After  the  perusal  of  his  Tlicopliilus  Aiiglicanus,  recently  publisheel. 

Enlightened  teacher,  gladly  from  thy  hand 
Have  I received  this  proof  of  pains  bestowed 
j By  thee  to  guide  thy  pupils  on  the  road 
That,  in  our  native  isle,  and  every  land. 

The  Church,  when  trusting  in  divine  command 
And  in  her  Catholic  attributes,  hath  trod  : 

O may  these  lessons  be  with  profit  scanned 
To  thy  heart’s  wish,  thy  labour  blest  by  God  ! 

So  the  bright  faces  of  the  young  and  gay 

Shall  look  more  bright  — the  happy,  happier  still ; 

Catch,  in  the  pauses  of  their  keenest  play, 

Motions  of  thought  which  elevate  the  will 
And,  like  the  spire  that  from  your  classic  hill 
Points  heavenward,  indicate  the  end  and  way. 

Ryd.^l  Mount,  Dec,  II,  1843. 

XVIII. 

TO  THE  PLANET  VENUS. 

Upon  its  approximation  (as  an  Evening  Star)  to  the  Earth,  Jan.  I, 83a 

What  strong  allurement  draw's,  what  spirit  gtiides. 
Thee,  Vesper!  brightening  still,  as  if  the  nearer 
Thou  com’st  to  matt’s  abode  the  spot  grew  dearer 
Night  after  night]  True  is  it  nature  hides 
Her  treasures  less  and  less.  — Man  now  pre.sides 
In  power,  where  once  he  trembled  in  his  weakness; 
Science  advances  with  gigantic  strides; 

But  are  we  aught  enriched  in  love  and  meekness] 
Aught  dost  thou  see,  bright  star!  of  pure  and  wise 
More  than  in  humbler  times  graced  human  story; 

That  makes  our  hearts  more  apt  to  sympathise 
With  heaven,  our  souls  more  fit  for  future  glory. 

When  earth  shall  vanish  from  our  closing  eyes. 

Ere  w'e  lie  down  in  our  last  dormitory  ] 

XIX. 

AT  DOVER. 

From  the  pier’s  head,  musing,  and  with  increase 
Of  wonder,  I have  watched  this  sea-side  town. 

Under  the  white  clilf’s  battlemented  crow'ii. 

Hushed  to  a depth  of  more  than  sabbath  peace; 


236 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  streets  and  quays  are  thronged,  but  why  disown 
Their  natural  utterance:  whence  this  strange  release 
From  social  noise  — silence  elsewhere  unknown?  — 
A spirit  whispered,  “Let  all  wonder  cease; 

Ocean’s  o’erpowering  murmurs  have  set  free 
Thy  sense  from  pressure  of  life’s  common  din; 

As  tlie  dread  voice  that  speaks  from  out  the  sea 
Of  God’s  eternal  Word,  the  voice  of  time 
Doth  deaden,  sliocks  of  tumult,  shrieks  of  crime, 

The  shouts  of  folly,  and  the  groans  of  sin.” 


XX. 

Wansfei.l!*  this  household  has  a favoured  lot. 

Living  with  liberty  on  thee  to  gaze. 

To  watch  while  morn  first  crowns  thee  with  her  rays, 
Or  when  along  thy  breast  serenely  float 
Evening’s  angelic  clouds.  Yet  ne’er  a note 
Hath  sounded  (shame  upon  the  bard  !)  thy  praise 
For  all  that  thou,  as  if  from  heaven,  hast  brought 
Of  glory  lavished  on  our  quiet  days. 

Bountiful  son  of  earth  ! when  we  are  gone 
From  every  object  dear  to  mortal  sight,  . 

As  soon  we  shall  be,  may  these  words  attest 
How  oft,  to  elevate  our  spirits,  shone 
Thy  visionary  majesties  of  light. 

How  in  thy  pensive  glooms  our  hearts  found  rest. 

Dec.  24,  1842. 

XXI. 

Whiee  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high. 
Deep  in  the  vale  a little  rural  town  f 
Breathes  forth  a cloud-like  creature  of  its  own. 

That  mounts  not  toward  the  radiant  morning  sky. 

But,  with  a less  ambitious  sympathy. 

Hangs  o’er  its  parent  waking  to  the  cares 
Troubles  and  toils  that  every  day  prepares. 

So  fancy,  to  the  musing  poet’s  eye. 

Endears  that  lingerer.  And  how  blest  her  sway 
(Like  influence  never  may  my  soul  reject) 

If  the  calm  Heaven,  now  to  its  zenith  decked 
With  glorious  forms  in  numberless  array. 

To  the  lone  shepherd  on  the  hills  disclose 
Gleams  from  a world  in  which  the  saints  repose. 

Jan.  1,  1843. 

XXII. 

ON  THE  PROJECTED  KENDAI,  AND  WINDERMERE 
RAir.WAY. 

Is  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure 
From  rash  assault?  f Schemes  of  retirement  sown 
In  youth,  and  mid  the  busy  world  kept  pure 
As  when  their  earliest  flowers  of  hope  w’ere  blown, 

* The  hill  that  rises  to  the  south-east,  above  Ambleside. 
t Ambleside. 

t The  degree  and  kind  of  attachment  which  many  of  the 


Must  perish ; — how  can  they  this  blight  endure  ? 
And  must  he  too  the  ruthless  change  bemoan 
Who  scorns  a false  utilitarian  lure 
Mid  his  paternal  fields  at  random  thrown? 

Baffle  the  threat,  bright  scene  from  Orrest-hcad 
Given  to  the  pausing  traveller’s  rapturous  glance: 
Plead  for  thy  peace,  thou  beautiful  romance 
Of  nature ; and,  if  human  hearts  be  dead. 

Speak,  passing  winds;  ye  torrents,  with  your  strong 
And  constant  voice,  protest  against  the  wrong. 

October  1844. 


XXIII. 

Proud  were  ye,  mountains,  when,  in  times  of  old. 
Your  patriot  sons,  to  stem  invasive  war. 

Intrenched  your  brows;  ye  gloried  in  each  scar: 
Now,  for  your  shame,  a power,  the  thirst  of  gold. 
That  rules  o’er  Britain  like  a baneful  star. 

Wills  that  your  peace,  your  beauty,  shall  be  sold. 
And  clear  way  made  for  her  triumphal  car 
Through  the  beloved  retreats  your  arms  enfold  ! 
Heard  ye  that  whistle?  As  her  long-linked  train 
Swept  onwards,  did  the  vision  cross  your  view? 

Yes,  ye  were  startled  ; — and,  in  balance  true. 
Weighing  the  mischief  with  the  promised  gain. 
Mountains,  and  vales,  and  floods,  I call  on  you 
To  share  the  passion  of  a just  disdain. 

XXIV. 

AT  FURNESS  ABBEY. 

Here,  where,  of  havoc  tired  and  rasli  undoing, 

Man  left  this  structure  to  become  time’s  prey 

A soothing  spirit  follows  in  the  way 

That  Nature  takes,  her  counter-work  pursuing. 

See  how  her  ivy  clasps  the  sacred  ruin 
Fall  to  prevent  or  beautify  decay ; 

And,  on  the  mouldered  walks,  how  bright,  how  gay. 
The  flowers  in  pearly  dews  their  bloom  renewing! 
Thanks  to  the  place,  blessings  upon  the  hour; 

Even  as  I speak  the  rising  sun’s  first  smile 
Gleams  on  the  grass-crowned  top  of  yon  tall  tower 
Whose  cawing  occupants  with  joy  proclaim 
Prescriptive  title  to  the  shattered  pile 
Where,  Cavendish,  Ihine  seems  nothing  but  a name! 


yeomanry  feel  to  (heir  small  inheritances  can  scarcely  be 
over-rated.  Near  the  house  of  one  of  them  stands  a mag- 
nificent tree,  which  a neighbour  of  the  owner  advised  him 
to  fell  for  profit’s  sake.  “ Fell  it !”  exclaimed  the  yeoman, 
“ I had  rather  fall  on  my  knees  and  worship  it.”  It  hap- 
pens, I believe,  that  the  intended  railway  would  pass 
through  this  little  property,  and  I hope  that  an  apology  for 
the  answer  will  not  be  thought  neeessary  by  one  who 
enters  into  the  strength  of  the  feeling. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


237 


XXV. 

AT  FURNESS  ABBEY. 

Well  have  yon  railway  labourers  to  this  ground 
Withdrawn  for  noontide  rest.  They  sit,  they  walk 
Among  the  ruins,  but  no  idle  talk 
Is  heard ; to  grave  demeanour  all  are  bound  ; 

And  from  one  voice  a hymn  with  tuneful  sound 
Hallows  once  more  the  long-deserted  quire 
And  thrills  the  old  sepulchral  earth,  around. 

Others  look  up,  and  with  fixed  eyes  admire 

That  wide-spread  arch,  wondering  how  it  was  raised. 

To  keep,  so  high  in  air,  its  strength  and  grace: 

All  seem  to  feel  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

And  by  the  general  reverence  God  is  praised : 

Profane  despoilers,  stand  ye  not  reproved. 

While  thus  these  simple-hearted  men  are  moved  ? * 
June  21s(,  1845. 


XXVI. 

VALEDtCTORY  SONNET. 

j Closing  the  Volume  of  Sonnets  published  in  1838. t 

Serving  no  haughty'  muse,  my  hands  have  here 
Disposed  some  cultured  flowerets  (drawn  from  spots 
Where  they  bloomed  singly,  or  in  scattered  knots), 
Each  kind  in  several  beds  of  one  parterre; 

Both  to  allure  the  casual  loiterer, 

And  that,  so  placed,  my  nurslings  may  requite 
, Studious  regard  with  opportune  delight, 

Nor  be  unthanked,  unless  I fondly  err. 

But  metaphor  dismissed,  and  thanks  apart, 

, Reader,  farewell ! My  last  words  let  them  be  — 

I If  in  this  book  fancy  and  truth  agree; 

If  simple  nature  trained  by  careful  art 
Through  it  have  found  a passage  to  thy  heart ; 

I Grant  me  thy  love,  I crave  no  other  fee  ! 


MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  1803. 


I. 

DEPARTURE. 

FROM  THE  VALE  OF  GRASMERE.  AOQDST,  1803. 

The  gentlest  shade  that  walked  Elysian  plains 
Might  sometimes  covet  dissoluble  chains; 

Even  for  the  tenants  of  the  zone  that  lies 
Beyond  the  stars,  celestial  Paradise, 

Methinks  ’twould  heighten  joy,  to  overleap 
At  will  the  crystal  battlements,  and  peep 
Into  some  other  region,  though  less  fair, 

To  see  how  things  are  made  and  managed  there. 
Change  for  the  worse  might  please,  incursion  bold 
Into  the  tracts  of  darkness  and  of  cold  ; 

O’er  Limbo  lake  with  aery  flight  to  steer. 

And  on  the  verge  of  Chaos  hang  in  fear. 

Such  animation  often  do  I find, 

Power  in  my  breast,  wings  growing  in  my  mind. 
Then,  when  some  rock  or  hill  is  overpast. 
Perchance  without  one  look  behind  me  cast, 

Some  barrier  with  which  nature,  from  the  birth 
Of  things,  has  fenced  this  fairest  spot  on  earth. 

O,  pleasant  transit,  Grasmere  ! to  resign 
Such  happy  fields,  abodes  so  calm  as  thine; 

Not  like  an  outcast  with  himself  at  strife; 

The  slave  of  business,  time,  or  care  for  life 
But  moved  by  choice ; or,  if  constrained  in  part. 
Yet  still  with  nature’s  freedom  at  the  heart;  — 

To  cull  contentment  upon  wildest  shore.s. 

And  luxuries  extract  from  bleakest  moors; 

With  prompt  embrace  all  beauty  to  enfold. 

And  having  rights  in  all  that  we  behold. 

* See  Note. 


— Then  why  these  lingering  steps?  — A bright  adieu. 
For  a brief  absence,  proves  that  love  is  true ; 

Ne’er  can  the  way  be  irksome  or  forlorn 
That  winds  into  itself  for  sweet  return. 


II.  (1.) 

AT  THE  GRAVE  OP  BURNS. 

7803. 

SEVEN  TEARS  AFTER  HIS  DEATH. 

I SHIVER,  spirit  fierce  and  bold. 

At  thought  of  what  I now  behold  ; 

As  vapours  breathed  from  dungeons  cold 
Strike  pleasure  dead, 

So  sadness  comes  from  out  the  mould 
Where  Burns  is  laid. 

And  have  I then  thy  bones  so  near. 

And  thou  forbidden  to  appear? 

As  if  it  were  thyself  that ’s  here 
I shrink  with  pain  ; 

And  both  my  wishes  and  my  fear 
Alike  are  vain. 

Off  weight — nor  press  on  w'eight!  — away 
Dark  thoughts  ! — they  came,  but  not  to  stay; 

[t  In  a brief  advertisement  to  the  Volume  of  Sonnets,  the 
author  said  : 

“My  admiration  of  some  of  tlie  sonnets  of  Milton,  first 
tempted  me  to  write  in  that  form.  The  fact  is  not  men- 
tioned from  a notion  that  it  will  be  deemed  of  any  import- 
ance by  the  reader,  but  merely  as  a public  acknowledgment 
of  one  of  the  innumerable  obligations,  which,  as  a poet 
and  a man,  I am  under  to  our  great  fellow-countryman 
Rydal  Mount,  May  21st,  1838.’’  — II.  R.l 


238 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  chastened  feeling^s  would  I pay  j 

The  tribute  due 

To  him,  and  aug^ht  that  hides  his  clay 

From  mortal  view.  ! 

Fresli  as  the  flower,  whose  modest  worth  » 
lie  sang,  his  genius  ‘ glinted’  forth. 

Rose  like  a star  that  touching  earth, 

For  so  it  seems. 

Doth  glorify  its  humble  birth 
With  matchless  beams. 

The  piercing  eye,  the  thoughtful  brow, 

The  struggling  heart,  where  be  they  now!  — 

Full  soon  the  aspirant  of  the  plough. 

The  prompt,  the  brave,  I 

SlepCwith  the  obscurest,  in  the  low 
And  silent  grave. 

I mourned  with  thousands,  but  as  one 
More  deeply  grieved,  for  he  was  gone 
Whose  light  I hailed  when  first  it  shone. 

And  showed  my  youth 
How  verse  may  build  a princely  throne 
On  humble  truth. 

Alas ! where’er  the  current  tends. 

Regret  pursues  and  with  it  blends, — 

Huge  Criffel’s  hoary  top  ascends 

By  Skiddaw  seen, — j 

Neighbours  we  were,  and  loving  friends  j 

We  might  have  been ; I 

True  friends  though  diversely  inclined ; 

But  heart  with  lieart  and  mind  with  mind,  | 

Where  the  main  fibres  are  entwined,  ] 

Through  nature’s  skill,  j 

]\Iay  even  by  contraries  be  joined  j 

]\Iore  closely  still. 

The  tear  will  start,  and  let  it  flow;  1 

Thou  ‘ poor  inhabitant  below,’  j 

At  this  dread  moment  — even  so — I 

Might  we  together 

Have  sate  and  talked  where  gowans  blow,  j 

Or  on  wild  heather.  j 

What  treasures  would  have  then  been  placed 
Within  my  reach;  of  knowledge  graced 
By  fancy  what  a rich  repast ! 

But  wliy  go  onl  — 

Oh  ! spare  to  sweep,  thou  mournful  blast. 

His  grave  grass-grown. 

There,  too,  a son,  his  joy  and  pride, 

(Not  three  weeks  past  the  stripling  died,) 

Lies  gathered  to  his  father’s  side. 

Soul-moving  sight ! 

Yet  one  to  which  is  not  denied 

Some  sad  delight.  j 

For  he  is  safe,  a quiet  bed  ! 

Hath  early  found  among  tlie  dead,  , 


Harboured  where  none  can  be  misled. 
Wronged  or  distrest; 

And  surely  here  it  may  be  said 
That  such  are  blest. 

And  oh  for  thee,  by  pitying  grace 
Checked  oft-times  in  a devious  race. 
May  He  who  halloweth  the  place 
Where  man  is  laid 
Receive  thy  spirit  in  the  embrace 
For  which  it  prayed  ! 

Sighing  I turned  away ; but  ere 
Night  fell  I heard,  or  seemed  to  hear,, 
Music  that  sorrow  comes  not  near, 

A ritual  hymn, 

Chaunted  in  love  that  casts  out  fear 
By  Seraphim. 


II.  (2.) 

THOUGHTS 

SUGGESTED  THE  DAY  FOLLOWING,  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  NITH,  NEAP 
THE  POET’S  RESIDENCE. 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow 
That  must  have  followed  when  his  brow 
Was  wreathed — “The  Vision”  tells  us  how  — 
With  holly  spray. 

He  faultered,  drifted  to  and  fro. 

And  passed  away. 

Well  might  such  thoughts,  dear  sister,  throng 
Our  minds  when,  lingering  all  too  long. 

Over  the  grave  of  Burns  we  hung 
In  social  grief — 

Indulged  as  if  it  were  a wrong 
To  seek  relief. 

But,  leaving  each  unquiet  theme 
Where  gentlest  judgments  may  misdeem. 

And  prompt  to  welcome  every  gleam 
Of  good  and  fair. 

Let  us  beside  this  limpid  stream 
Breathe  hopeful  air. 

Enough  of  sorrow,  wreck,  and  blight ; 

Think  rather  of  those  moments  bright 
When  to  the  consciousness  of  right 
His  course  was  true. 

When  wisdom  prospered  in  his  sight 
And  virtue  grew. 

Yes,  freely  let  our  hearts  expand. 

Freely  as  in  youth’s  season  bland. 

When  side  by  side,  his  book  in  hand, 

VVe  wont  to  stray. 

Our  pleasure  varying  at  command 
Of  each  sweet  lay. 

How  oft  inspired  must  he  have  trod 
These  pathways,  yon  far-stretching  road ! 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


239 


There  Jerks  his  home;  in  that  abode, 

With  mirth  elate, 

Or  in  his  nobly- pensive  mood. 

The  rustic  sate. 

Proud  thoughts  that  image  overawes. 
Before  it  humbly  let  us  pause. 

And  ask  of  Nature,  from  what  cause 
And  by  what  rules 

She  trained  her  Burns  to  win  applause 
That  shames  the  schools. 

Through  busiest  street  and  loneliest  glen 
Are  felt  the  flashes  of  his  pen ; 

He  rules  mid  winter  snows,  and  when 
Bees  fill  their  hives; 

Deep  in  the  general  heart  of  men 
His  power  survives. 

What  need  of  fields  in  some  far  clime 
Where  Heroes,  Sages,  Bards  sublime. 

And  all  that  fetched  the  flowing  rhyme 
From  genuine  springs. 

Shall  dwell  together  till  old  Time 
Folds  up  his  wings  1 

Sweet  Mercy  ! to  the  gates  of  Heaven 
This  minstrel  lead,  his  sins  forgiven; 

The  rueful  conflict,  the  heart  riven 
With  vain  endeavour. 

And  memory  of  earth’s  bitter  leaven. 
Effaced  for  ever. 

But  why  to  him  confine  the  prayer. 

When  kindred  thoughts  and  yearnings  bear 
On  the  frail  heart  the  purest  share 
With  all  that  live!  — 

The  best  of  what  we  do  and  are. 

Just  God,  forgive  ! * 


[•  In  a letter  from  Wordsworth  to  the  Editor,  dated 
Rydai  Mount,  Dec.  23d,  1839,  this  poem  is  referred  to  as 
follows:  “*  * * There  is  a difiierence  of  more  than  the 
length  of  your  life,  I believe,  between  our  ages.  I am  now 
standing  on  the  brink  of  that  vast  ocean  I must  sail  so  soon 
— I must  speedily  lose  sight  of  the  shore  ; and  I could  not 
once  have  conceived  how  little  I now  am  troubled  by  the 
thought  of  how  long  or  short  a time  they  who  remain  upon 
that  shore  may  have  sight  of  me.  The  other  day  I chanced 
to  be  looking  over  a MS.  poem  belonging  to  the  year  1803, 
though  not  actually  composed  till  many  years  afterwards. 
It  was  suggested  by  visiting  the  neighbourhood  of  Dumfries, 
in  which  Burns  had  resided,  and  where  he  died : it  con- 
cluded thus  : 

Sweet  Mercy  ! to  the  gates  of  Heaven,  &c. 

I instantly  added,  the  other  day. 

But  why  to  him  confine  the  prayer,  &c. 

The  more  I reflect  upon  this  last  exclamation,  the  more  I 
feel,  and  perhaps  it  may  in  some  degree  be  the  same  with 
you,  justified  in  attaching  comparatively  small  importance^ 
to  any  literary  monument  that  I may  be  enabled  to  leave 
behind.  It  is  well,  however,  I am  convinced  that  men  ' 
think  otherwise  in  the  earlier  part  of  their  lives,  and  why 
it  is  so,  is  a point  I need  not  touch  upon  in  writing  to  you.” 
-II.  R.] 


II.  (3.) 

TO  THE  SONS  OF  BURNS, 

AFTER  VISITING  THE  GRAVE  OF  THEIR  FATHER. 

“ The  poet’s  grave  is  in  a corner  of  the  churchyard.  We  looked  at 
it  with  melancholy  and  painful  reflections,  repealing  to  each  other 
his  own  verses  — 

* Is  there  a man  whose  judgment  clear,’  &c.” 

Extract  from  the  Journal  of  my  Fellouj'travcllerJ 

’Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns 
I sought  the  untimely  grave  of  Burns ; 

Sons  of  the  Bard,  my  heart  still  mourns 
With  sorrow  true ; 

And  more  would  grieve,  but  that  it  turns 
Trembling  to  you  ! 

Through  twilight  shades  of  good  and  ill 
Ye  now  are  panting  up  life’s  hill. 

And  more  than  common  strength  and  skill 
Must  ye  display ; 

If  ye  would  give  the  better  will 
Its  lawful  sway. 

Hath  Nature  strung  your  nerves  to  bear 
Intemperance  with  less  harm,  beware  ! 

But  if  the  poet’s  wit  ye  share. 

Like  him  can  speed 
The  social  hour  — of  tenfold  care 
There  will  be  need ; 

For  honest  men  delight  will  take 
To  spare  your  failings  for  his  sake. 

Will  flatter  you,  — and  fool  and  rake 
Your  steps  pursue ; 

And  of  your  father’s  name  will  make 
A snare  for  you. 

Far  from  their  noisy  haunts  retire. 

And  add  your  voices  to  the  quire 
That  sanctify  the  cottage  fire 
With  service  meet ; 

There  seek  the  genius  of  your  sire. 

His  spirit  greet; 

Or  where,  ’mid  “ lonely  heights  and  hows,” 

He  paid  to  nature  tuneful  vows ; 

Or  wiped  his  honourable  brows 
Bedewed  with  toil, 

W’^hile  reapers  strove,  or  busy  ploughs 
Upturned  the  soil ; 

His  judgment  with  benignant  ray 
Shall  guide,  his  fancy  cheer,  your  way; 

But  ne’er  to  a seductive  lay 
Let  faith  be  given  ; 

Nor  deem  that  “ light  which  leads  astray, 

Is  light  from  Heaven.” 

Let  no  mean  hope  your  souls  enslave ; 

Be  independent,  generous,  brave ; 

Your  father  such  example  gave. 

And  such  revere ; 

But  be  admonished  by  his  grave. 

And  think  and  fear ! 


tSee  Note. 


240 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


III. 

ELLEN  IRWIN; 

OR 

THE  BRAES  OF  KIRTLE.* 

Fair  Ellen  Irwin,  when  she  sate 
Upon  the  Braes  of  Kirtle, 

Was  lovely  as  a Grecian  Maid 
Adorned  with  wreaths  of  myrtle ; 

Yountr  Adam  Brnce  beside  her  lay, 

And  there  did  they  beguile  the  day 
With  love  and  gentle  speeches, 

Beneath  the  budding  beeches. 

From  many  Knights  and  many  Squires 
The  Bruce  had  been  selected ; 

And  Gordon,  fairest  of  them  all, 

By  Ellen  was  rejected. 

Sad  tidings  to  that  noble  Youth  ! 

For  it  may  be  proclaimed  with  truth, 

If  Bruce  hath  loved  sincerely, 

That  Gordon  loves  as  dearly. 

But  what  is  Gordon’s  beauteous  face. 

And  what  are  Gordon’s  crosses. 

To  them  who  sit  by  Kirtle’s  Braes 
Upon  the  verdant  mosses'! 

Alas  that  ever  he  was  born ! 

The  Gordon,  couched  behind  a thorn. 

Sees  them  and  their  caressing; 

Beholds  them  blest  and  blessing. 

Proud  Gordon  cannot  bear  the  thoughts 
That  through  his  brain  are  travelling, — 
And,  starting  up,  to  Bruce’s  heart 
He  lanched  a deadly  javelin ! 

Fair  Ellen  saw  it  when  it  came. 

And,  stepping  forth  to  meet  the  same. 

Did  with  her  body  cover 
The  Youth,  her  chosen  Lover. 

And,  falling  into  Bruce’s  arms. 

Thus  died  the  beauteous  Ellen, 

Thus,  from  the  heart  of  her  True-love, 

The  mortal  spear  repelling. 

And  Bruce,  as  soon  as  he  had  slain 
The  Gordon,  sailed  away  to  Spain  ; 

And  fought  with  rage  incessant 
Against  the  Moorish  Crescent. 

But  many  days,  and  many  months. 

And  many  years  ensuing. 

This  wretched  Knight  did  vainly  seek 
The  death  that  he  was  wooing. 

• The  Kirtle  is  a River  in  the  Southern  part  of  Scotland,  on 
whose  banks  the  events  here  related  took  place. 


So  coming  his  last  help  to  crave. 
Heart-broken,  upon  Ellen’s  grave 
His  body  he  extended. 

And  there  his  sorrow  ended. 

Now  ye,  who  willingly  have  hoard 
The  tale  I have  been  telling. 

May  in  Kirkonnel  churchyard  view 
The  grave  of  lovely  Ellen : 

By  Ellen’s  side  the  Bruce  is  laid; 
And,  for  the  stone  upon  his  head. 
May  no  rude  hand  deface  it. 

And  its  forlorn  Hic  jacet  !* 


IV. 

TO  A HIGHLAND  GIRL. 

(AT  INVERSNEYDE,  UPON  LOCH  LOMONDJ 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a very  shower 
Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  1 
Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 
Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head: 

And,  these  gray  Rocks;  this  household  Lawn; 
These  Trees,  a veil  just  half  withdrawn; 
This  fall  of  water,  that  doth  make 
A murmur  near  the  silent  Lake; 

This  little  Bay,  a quiet  Road 
That  holds  in  shelter  thy  Abode ; 

In  truth  together  do  ye  seem 

Like  something  fashioned  in  a dream  ; 

Such  Forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 
When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep ! 

Yet,  dream  and  vision  as  thou  art, 

I bless  thee  with  a human  heart : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years ! 

I neither  know  thee  nor  thy  peers ; 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  filled  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I am  far  away : 

For  never  saw  I mien,  or  face. 

In  which  more  plainly  I could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 

Here  scattered  like  a random  seed. 

Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrassed  look  of  shy  distress. 

And  maidenly  shamefacedness: 

Thou  wear’ St  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a Mountaineer: 

A face  with  gladness  overspread ! 

Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred ! 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays; 

♦See  Nj,e. 


POEMS  OF  TFIE  IMAGINATION. 


241 


With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 

A bondage  sweetly  brooked,  a strife 
Tliat  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind. 

Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind. 

Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  1 

0 happy  pleasure ! here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell; 

Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 

A Shepherd,  thou  a Shepherdess! 

But  I could  frame  a wish  for  tliee 
More  like  a grave  reality: 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a wave 
Of  the  wild  sea : and  I would  have 
Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 
What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see ! 

Thy  elder  Brother  I would  be. 

Thy  Father,  any  thing  to  thee  I 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven!  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place. 

Joy  have  I had ; and  going  hence 

1 bear  away  my  recompense. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes: 
Tiien,  why  should  I be  loth  to  stir  I 
I feel  this  place  was  made  for  her; 

To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past. 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 

Nor  am  I loth,  though  pleased  at  heart. 
Sweet  Highland  Girl!  from  Thee  to  part; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I grow  old. 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold. 

As  I do  now,  the  Cabin  small. 

The  Lake,  the  Bay,  the  Waterfall ; 

And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 


V 

GLEN-ATAIAIN ; Olt,  THE  NARROW  GLEN. 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men. 

Sleeps  O.ssian,  in  the  Nariiow  Glen  ; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 
But  one  meek  Streamlet,  only  one : 

He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 
Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death ; 

And  should,  methink.s,  when  all  was  past. 
Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 
2F 


Where  rocks  were  rudely  heaped,  and  rent 
As  by  a spirit  turbulent ; 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 
And  every  thing  unreconciled ; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat. 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet; 

But  this  is  calm ; there  cannot  be 
A more  entire  tranquillity. 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed  ? 

Or  is  it  but  a groundless  creed  1 
What  matters  it  ? — I blame  them  not 
Whose  Fancy  in  this  lonely  Spot 
Mas  moved;  and  in  such  way  expressed 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 

A Convent,  even  a Hermit’s  Cell 
Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell : 

It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease; 

But  something  deeper  far  than  these : 

The  separation  that  is  here 
Is  of  the  grave;  and  of  austere 
Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead: 

And,  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 
That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  ! ‘ 

Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 


VI. 

STEPPING  WESTWARD. 

While  my  Fellow-traveller  and  I were  walking  by  the  side 
of  Loch  Ketterine,  one  fine  evening  after  sunset,  in  our  road  to 
a Hut  where  in  the  course  of  our  Tour  we  had  been  hospitably 
entertained  some  weeks  before,  we  met,  in  one  of  the  loneliest 
parts  of  that  solitary  region,  two  well-dressed  Women,  one  of 
whom  said  to  us  by  way  of  greeting,  “ What,  you  are  stepping  ■ 
westward  ?” 


“What,  you  are  stepping  westward !" — “Yea." 
— ’T  would  be  a wildish  destiny. 

If  we,  who  thus  together  roam 

In  a strange  Land,  and  far  from  home. 

Were  in  this  place  the  guests  of  Chance: 

Yet  who  would  stop,  or  fear  to  advance. 
Though  home  or  shelter  he  had  none. 

With  such  a Sky  to  lead  him  on  I 
The  dewy  ground  was  dark  and  cold ; 

Behind,  all  gloomy  to  behold ; 

And  stepping  westward  snetned  to  be 
A kind  of  heavenly  destiny: 

I liked  the  greeting;  ’twas  a sotind 
Of  something  without  place  or  botind ; 

And  seemed  to  give  me  spiritual  right 
To  travel  through  that  region  bright. 

The  voice  was  soft,  and  she  who  spake 
Was  walking  by  her  native  Lake: 

21 


242 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  salutation  liad  to  me 
The  very  sound  of  courtesy: 

Its  power  was  felt;  and  while  my  eye 
Was  fixed  upon  the  glowing  sky, 

The  echo  of  the  voice  enwrought 
A human  sweetness  with  the  thought 
Of  travelling  through  the  world  that  lay 
Before  me  in  my  endless  way. 


vir. 

THE  SOLITARY  REAPER. 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field. 

Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 

Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 

Stop  here,  or  gently  pass ! 

Alone  she  cuts,  and  binds  the  grain, 

And  sings  a melanclioly  strain  ; 

0 listen ! for  the  Vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  Nightingale  did  ever  chant 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  Travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  Sands: 

Such  thrilling  voice  was  never  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  Cuckoo-bird, 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  1 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things. 

And  battles  long  ago: 

Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay. 

Familiar  matter  of  to-day  1 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain. 

That  has  been,  and  may  be  again ! 

Whate’er  the  theme,  the  Maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending; 

1 saw  her  singing  at  her  work. 

And  o’er  the  sickle  bending; — . 

I listened  — motionless  and  still  ; 

And  when  I mounted  up  the  hill. 

The  music  in  my  heart  I bore. 

Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more, 

VIII. 

ADDRESS 

TO 

MLCIIURX-CASTLE  UPON  LOCH  AWE. 

“From  the  top  of  the  hill  a most  impressive  scene  opened 
upon  our  view, — a ruined  Castle  on  an  Island  at  some  distance 
from  the  shore,  backed  by  a Cove  of  the  Mountain  Cruaehan, 
down  which  came  a fiaming  stretim.  The  Castle  occupied 
every  fool  of  the  Island  that  was  visible  to  us,  appearing  to  rise 
out  of  the  Water,  — mists  rested  upon  the  mountain  side,  with 
sjwts  of  sunshine ; there  was  a mild  desolation  in  the  low  I 
grounds,  a solemn  grandeur  in  the  mountains,  and  tlie  Castle  | 


was  wild,  yet  stately  — not  dismantled  of  Turrets —jior  the 
walls  broken  down,  though  obviously  a ruin.” 

Extract  from  the  Journal  of  my  Cortjanimu 

Child  of  loud-throated  War!  the  mountain  Stream 
Roars  in  thy  hearing;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 
Is  come,  and  thou  art  silent  in  thy  age ; 

Save  when  the  wind  sweeps  by  and  sounds  are  caught 
Ambiguous,  neither  wholly  thine  nor  theirs. 

Oh  I there  is  life  that  breathes  not ; Powers  there  are 
That  touch  each  other  to  the  quick  in  modes 
Which  the  gross  world  no  sense  hath  to  perceive. 

No  soul  to  dream  of.  What  art  Thou,  from  care 
Cast  off  — abandoned  by  thy  rugged  Sire, 

Nor  by  soft  Peace  adopted ; though,  in  place 
And  in  dimension,  such  that  thou  might’st  seem 
But  a mere  footstool  to  yon  sovereign  Lord, 

Huge  Cruaehan,  (a  thing  that  meaner  Hills 
Might  crush,  nor  know  that  it  had  suffered  harm;! 

Yet  he,  not  loth,  in  favour  of  thy  claims 
To  reverence,  suspends  his  own ; submitting 
All  that  the  God  of  Nature  hath  conferred. 

All  that  he  has  in  common  with  the  Stars, 

To  the  memorial  majesty  of  time 
Impersonated  in  tby  calm  decay ! 

Take,  then,  thy  seat.  Vicegerent  unreproved ! 

Now,  while  a farewell  gleam  of  evening  light 
Is  fondly  lingering  on  thy  shattered  front. 

Do  thou,  in  turn,  be  paramount ; and  rule 
Over  the  pomp  and  beauty  of  a scene 
Whose  mountains,  torrents,  lake,  and  woods,  unite 
To  pay  thee  homage ; and  with  these  are  joined. 

In  willing  admiration  and  respect. 

Two  Hearts,  which  in  thy  presence  might  be  called 
Youthful  as  Spring.  Shade  of  departed  Power, 
Skeleton  of  unffeshed  humanity. 

The  Chronicle  were  welcome  that  should  call 
Into  the  compass  of  distinct  regard 
The  toils  and  struggles  of  thy  infancy  ! 

Yon  foaming  flood  seems  motionless  as  Ice ; 

Its  dizzy  turbulence  eludes  the  eye. 

Frozen  by  distance ; so,  majestic  Pile, 

To  the  perception  of  this  Age,  appear 
Thy  fierce  beginnings,  softened  and  subdued 
And  quieted  in  character ; the  strife. 

The  pride,  the  fury  uncontrollable. 

Lost  on  the  aerial  heights  of  the  Crusades  !* 

IX. 

ROB  ROY’S  GRAVE. 

Tlie  history  of  Rob  Roy  is  sufficiently  known ; liis  grave  is 
near  the  head  of  Loch  Ketterine,  in  one  of  those  sin.all  pinfold, 
like  Burial-grounds,  of  neglected  and  desolate  appearance,  which 
the  Traveller  meets  with  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland. 

A FAMOUS  Man  is  Robin  Hood, 

The  English  Ballad-singer’s  joy  ! 

* The  Tradition  is,  that  the  Castle  was  built  by  a Lady  during 
the  absence  of  her  I/)id  in  Palestine. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


24.*= 


And  Scotland  has  a Thief  as  good, 

An  Outlaw  of  as  daring  mood ; 

She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy  ! 

Then  clear  the  weeds  from  off  his  Grave, 
And  let  us  chant  a passing  Stave, 

In  honour  of  that  Hero  brave ! 

Heaven  gave  Rob  Roy  a dauntless  heart. 
And  wondrous  length  and  strength  of  arm ; 
Nor  craved  he  more  to  quell  his  Foes, 

Or  keep  his  Friends  from  harm. 

Yet  was  Rob  Roy  as  wise  as  brave; 

Forgive  me  if  the  phrase  be  strong ; — 

A Poet  worthy  of  Rob  Roy 
Must  scorn  a timid  song. 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  wise  as  brave  ; 

As  wise  in  thought  as  bold  in  deed : 

For  in  the  principles  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 

Said  generous  Rob,  “ What  need  of  Books  1 
Burn  all  the  Statutes  and  their  shelves: 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  Kind ; 

And  worse,  against  Ourselves. 

We  have  a passion,  make  a law. 

Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control ! 

And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  of  soul. 

And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 
Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few: 

These  find  I graven  on  my  heart: 

Thai  tells  me  what  to  do. 

The  Creatures  see  of  flood  and  field. 

And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind ! 

With  them  no  strife  can  last;  they  live 
In  peace,  and  peace  of  mind. 

For  why  1 — because  the  good  old  Rule 
Sufficeth  them,  the  simple  Plan, 

That  they  should  take,  who  have  the  power. 
And  they  should  keep  who  can. 

A lesson  that  is  quickly  learned, 

A signal  this  which  all  can  see ! 

Thus  nothing  here  provokes  the  Strong 
To  wanton  cruelty. 

All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked ; 

He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires; 

While  to  the  measure  of  liis  might 
Each  fashions  his  desires. 

All  Kinds,  and  Creatures,  stand  and  fall 
By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit: 

’T  is  God’s  appointment  who  must  sway 
And  who  is  to  submit. 


Since,  then,  the  rule  of  right  is  plain. 

And  longest  life  is  but  a day ; 

To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights. 

I’ll  take  the  shortest  way.” 

And  thus  among  these  rocks  he  lived. 
Through  summer  heat  and  winter  snow 
The  Eagle,  he  was  Lord  above, 

And  Rob  was  Lord  below. 

So  was  it  — icoiild,  at  least,  have  been 
But  through  untowardness  of  fate; 

For  Polity  was  then  too  strong; 
lie  came  an  age  t(x»  late. 

Or  shall  we  say  an  age  too  soon'* 

For,  were  the  bold  Man  living  now. 

How  might  he  flourish  in  his  pride. 

With  buds  on  every  bough ! 

Then  rents  and  Factors,  rights  of  chase, 
Sheriff’s,  and  Lairds  and  their  domains, 

W’ould  all  have  seemed  but  paltry  things. 
Not  worth  a moment’s  pains. 

Rob  Roy  had  never  lingered  here, 

To  these  few  meagre  Vales  confined ; 

But  thought  how  wide  the  world,  the  times 
How  fairly  to  his  mind! 

And  to  his  Sword  he  would  have  said, 

“Do  Thou  my  sovereign  will  enact 
From  land  to  land  through  half  the  earth  I 
Judge  thou  of  law  and  fact! 

’Tis  fit  that  we  should  do  our  part; 
Becoming,  that  mankind  should  learn 
That  we  are  not  to  be  .surpassed 
In  fatherly  concern. 

Of  old  things  all  are  over  old. 

Of  good  things  none  are  good  enough 
We’ll  show  that  we  can  help  to  frame 
A world  of  other  stuff. 

I,  too,  will  have  my  Kings  that  take 
From  me  the  sign  of  life  and  death : 
Kingdoms  shall  shift  about,  like  clouds. 
Obedient  to  my  breath.” 

And,  if  the  word  had  been  fulfilled. 

As  might  have  been,  then,  thought  of  joy  ! 
France  would  have  had  her  present  boast; 
And  we  our  own  Rob  Roy ! 

Oh ! say  not  so ; compare  them  not ; 

I would  not  wrong  thee.  Champion  brave ! 
Would  wrong  thee  nowhere ; least  of  all. 
Here  standing  by  thy  Grave. 

For  Thou,  although  with  some  n Id  thoughts, 
Wild  Chieftain  of  a Savage  Clan ! 

Hadst  this  to  boast  of;  thou  didst  love 
The  liberty  of  Man. 


214 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And,  had  it  i/jen  tliy  lot  to  live 
With  us  who  now  behold  the  light, 

Thou  would’st  have  nobly  stirred  thyself, 

And  battled  for  the  Right. 

For  thou  wert  still  the  poor  lUan’s  stay. 

The  poor  man’s  heart,  the  poor  man’s  hand ; 
And  all  the  oppressed,  who  wanted  strength. 
Had  thine  at  their  command. 

Bear  witness  many  a pensive  sigh 
Of  thoughtful  Herdsman  when  he  strays 
Alone  upon  Loch  Veol’s  Heights, 

And  by  Loch  Lomond’s  Braes ! 

And,  far  and  near,  through  vale  and  hill. 

Are  faces  that  attest  the  same ; 

The  proud  heart  flashing  through  the  eyes. 
At  sound  of  Rob  Roy’s  name. 


X. 

COMPOSED  AT CASTLE. 

Deoenerate  Douglas!  oh,  the  unworthy  Lord  I 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please. 
And  love  of  havoc  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him)  that  he  could  send  forth  word 
To  leve.  with  the  dust  a noble  horde, 

\ brotherhood  of  venerable  Tree.®, 

I.caving  an  ancient  Dome,  and  Towers  like  these. 
Beggared  and  outraged  I — Many  hearts  deplored 
The  fate  of  those  old  Trees ; and  oft  with  pain 
The  Traveller,  at  this  day,  will  stop  and  gaze 
On  wrong.®,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed : 
For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays. 

And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 


XL 

YARROW  UNVISITED. 

(See  the  various  Poems  the  Scene  of  which  is  laid  upon 
the  Banks  of  the  Yarrow;  in  particular,  the  e.vquisile  Ballad  of 
•lamilton,  beginning 

“ Bu«k  ye,  busk  ye,  my  bonny,  bonny  BriHe, 

Busk  ye,  busk  ye,  my  winsome  Marrow 


From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravelled ; 

Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde,  and  Tay, 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travelled  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 

Then  said  my  “ winsome  Marrow," 

“ Whate’er  betide,  we’ll  turn  aside, 
“And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.” 


“ Let  Yarrow  Folk,  frae  Selkirk  Town, 

“Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 

“Go  back  to  Yarrow,  ’tis  their  own; 

“Each  Maiden  to  her  Dwelling! 

“ On  Yarrow’s  banks  let  herons  feed, 

“ Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow ! 

“ But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 

“Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

“There’s  Galla  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 

“ Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 

“ And  Dryborough,  where  with  the  chiming  Tweed 
“The  Lintwhites  sing  in  chorus; 

“There’s  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a land 
“Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow: 

“ Why  throw  away  a needful  day 
“ To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ] 

“What’s  Yarrow  but  a River  bare, 

“That  glides  the  dark  hills  under! 

“There  are  a thousand  such  elsewhere 
“ As  worthy  of  your  wonder.” 

— Strange  words  they  seemed  of  slight  and  scorn ; 
My  True-love  sighed  for  sorrow  ; 

And  looked  me  in  the  face,  to  think 
I thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

“Oh!  green,”  said  I,  “are  Yarrow’s  Holms 
“And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing! 

“ Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock*, 

“ But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 

“ O’er  hilly  path,  and  open  Strath, 

“ We  ’ll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 

“ But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
“ Into  the  Dale  of  Yarrow. 

“ Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
“ The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow ; 

“The  swan  on  still  St.  Mary’s  Lake 
“Float  double,  swan  and  shadow! 

“We  will  not  see  them;  will  not  go, 

“ To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 

“Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
“There’s  such  a place  as  Yarrow. 

“ Be  Yarrow  Stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 

“ It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it ; 

“ We  have  a vision  of  our  own  ; 

“ Ah  ! why  should  we  undo  it  1 
“ The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 
“We’ll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow! 

“For  when  we’re  there,  although  ’tis  fair, 
“’Twill  be  another  Yarrow! 

* See  Ilatnilton’s  Ballad,  as  above. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


245 


“ If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come, 
“ And  wandering  seem  but  folly,  — 

“ Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
“And  yet  be  melancholy; 

“Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 

“ ’T  will  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow, 

“That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 

“ The  bonny  Holms  of  Yarrow  !” 


XII. 

IN  THE  PASS  OF  KILLICRANKY. 

AN  INVASION  BEING  EXPECTED,  OCTOBER  1803. 

Six  thousand  Veterans  practised  in  War’s  game. 
Tried  Men,  at  Killicranky  were  arrayed 
Against  an  equal  Host  that  wore  the  Plaid, 
Sliepherds  and  Herdsmen.  — Like  a whirlwind  came 
The  Highlanders,  the  slaughter  spread  like  flame ; 
And  Garry,  thundering  down  his  mountain  road. 

Was  stopped,  and  could  not  breathe  beneath  the  load 
Of  the  dead  bodies.  — ’Twas  a day  of  shame 
For  them  whom  precept  and  the  pedantry 
Of  cold  mechanic  battle  do  enslave. 

O for  a single  hour  of  that  Dundee, 

W ho  on  that  day  the  word  of  onset  gave ! 

Like  conquest  would  the  Men  of  England  see ; 

And  her  Foes  find  a like  inglorious  Grave. 


XIII. 

THE  MATRON  OF  JEDBOROUGH, 

AND  HER  HUSBAND. 

At  Jedborough,  my  companion  and  I went  into  private  Lodg- 
ings for  a few  days^  and  the  following  Verses  were  called  forth 
by  the  character  and  domestic  situation  of  our  Hostess. 

Age!  twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  flowers. 
And  call  a train  of  laughing  Hours ; 

And  bid  them  dance,  and  bid  them  sing; 

And  thou,  too,  mingle  in  the  Ring ! 

Take  to  thy  heart  a new  delight; 

If  not,  make  merry  in  despite, 

That  there  is  One  wlio  scorns  thy  power:  — 

But  dance!  for  under  Jedborough  Tower, 

A Matron  dwells,  who  though  she  bears 
Our  mortal  complement  of  years, 

Lives  in  the  light  of  youthful  glee, 

And  she  will  dance  and  sing  with  thee. 

Nay  ! start  not  at  that  Figure  — there ! 

Him  who  is  rooted  to  his  chair! 

Look  at  him — look  again!  for  He 
Hath  long  been  of  thy  Family. 

With  legs  that  move  not,  if  they  can. 

And  useless  arms,  a Trunk  of  Man, 

He  sits,  and  with  a vacant  eye; 


A Sight  to  make  a stranger  sigh  ! 

Deaf,  drooping,  that  is  now  his  doom : 
His  world  is  in  this  single  room : 

Is  this  a place  for  mirthful  cheer  1 
Can  merry-making  enter  herel 

The  joyous  Woman  is  the  Mate 
Of  him  in  that  forlorn  estate  ! 

He  breathes  a subterraneous  damp; 

But  bright  as  Vesper  shines  her  lamp: 
He  is  as  mute  as  Jedborough  Tower; 

She  jocund  as  it  was  of  yore. 

With  all  its  bravery  on;  in  times 
When  all  alive  with  merry  chimes. 

Upon  a sun-bright  morn  of  May, 

It  roused  the  Vale  to  Holiday. 

I praise  thee.  Matron!  and  thy  due 
Is  praise,  heroic  praise,  and  true! 

With  admiration  I behold 

Thy  gladness  unsubdued  and  bold: 

Thy  looks,  thy  gestures,  all  present 
The  picture  of  a life  well  spent: 

This  do  I see;  and  something  more; 

A strength  unthought  of  heretofore ! 
Delighted  am  I for  thy  sake ; 

And  yet  a higher  joy  partake. 

Our  Human-nature  throws  away 
Its  second  Twilight,  and  looks  gay  ; 

A land  of  promise  and  of  pride 
Unfolding,  wide  as  life  is  wide. 

Ah ! see  her  helpless  Charge  ! enclosed 
Within  himself  as  seems,  composed ; 

To  fear  of  loss,  and  hope  of  gain, 

The  strife  of  happiness  and  pain, 

Utterly  dead  ! yet  in  the  guise 
Of  little  Infants,  when  their  eyes 
Begin  to  follow  to  and  fro 
The  persons  that  before  them  go. 

He  tracks  her  motions,  quick  or  slow. 
Her  buoyant  Spirit  can  prevail 
Where  common  cheerfulness  would  fail; 
She  strikes  upon  him  with  the  heat 
Of  July  Suns;  he  feels  it  sweet; 

An  animal  delight  though  dim! 

’T  is  all  that  now  remains  for  him ! 

The  more  I looked,  I wondered  more  — 
And,  while  I scanned  them  o’er  and  o’er, 
A moment  gave  me  to  espy 
A trouble  in  her  strong  black  eye; 

A remnant  of  uneasy  light, 

A flash  of  something  over-bright ! 

Nor  long  this  mystery  did  detain 
My  thoughts — she  tf)ld  in  pensive  strain 
That  she  had  borne  a heavy  yoke. 

Been  stricken  by  a twofold  stroke; 


246 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ill  health  of  body  ; and  had  pined 
Beneath  worse  ailments  of  the  mind. 

So  be  it ! — but  let  praise  ascend 
To  Him  who  is  our  Lord  and  Friend ! 
W’ho  from  disease  and  suffering’ 

Hath  called  for  thee  a second  Spring; 
Repaid  thee  for  that  sore  distress 
By  no  untimely  joyousness; 

Which  makes  of  thine  a blissful  state; 
And  cheers  thy  melancholy  Mate ! 


XIV. 

Fly,  some  kind  Spirit,  fly  to  Grasmere-dale, 

Say  that  we  come,  and  come  by  this  day’s  light; 
Glad  tidings!  — spread  them  over  field  and  height ; 
But  chiefly  let  one  Cottage  hear  the  tale ; 

There  let  a mystery  of  joy  prevail, 

The  happy  Kitten  bound  with  frolic  might. 

And  Rover  whine,  as  at  a second  sight 
Of  near-approaching  good  that  shall  not  fail ; — 
And  from  that  Infant’s  face  let  joy  appear; 

Yea,  let  our  Mary’s  one  Companion  Child, 

That  hath  her  six  weeks’  solitude  beguiled 
With  intimations  manifold  and  dear, 

While  we  have  wandered  over  wood  and  wild, 
Smile  on  his  Mother  now  with  bolder  cheer. 


XV. 

THE  BLIND  HIGHLAND  BOY. 

A TALE  TOLD  BY  THE  FIRE  SIDE,  AFTER  RETURNING 
TO  THE  VALE  OF  GRASMERE. 

Now  we  are  tired  of  boisterous  joy. 

Have  romped  enough,  my  little  Boy ! 

Jane  hangs  her  head  upon  my  breast. 

And  you  shall  bring  your  stool  and  rest ; 

* This  corner  is  your  own. 

There  I take  your  seat,  and  let  me  see 
That  you  can  listen  quietly  ; 

And,  as  I promised,  I will  tell 
That  strange  adventure  which  befel 
A poor  blind  Highland  Boy. 

A Highland  Boy! — why  call  him  so? 

Because,  my  Darlings,  ye  must  know. 

In  land  where  many  a mountain  towers, 

Far  higher  hills  than  these  of  ours  ! 

He  from  his  birth  had  lived. 

He  ne’er  had  seen  one  earthly  sight; 

The  sun,  the  day;  the  stars,  the  night; 

Or  tree,  or  butterfly,  or  flower. 

Or  fish  in  stream,  or  bird  in  bower, 

Or  woman,  man,  or  child. 


And  yet  he  neither  drooped  nor  pined, 
Nor  had  a melancholy  mind  ; 

For  God  took  pity  on  the  Boy, 

And  was  his  friend ; and  gave  him  joy 
Of  which  we  nothing  know. 

His  Mother,  too,  no  doubt,  above 
Her  other  Children  him  did  love  ; 

For,  was  she  heie,  or  was  she  there. 

She  thought  of  him  with  constant  care. 
And  more  than  Mother’s  love. 

And  proud  she  was  of  heart,  when  clad 
In  crimson  stockings,  tartan  plaid, 

And  bo- net  with  a feather  gay. 

To  Kirk  he  on  the  sabbath  day 

Went  hand  in  hand  with  her. 

A Dog,  too,  had  he ; not  for  need. 

But  one  to  play  with  and  to  feed ; 

Which  would  have  led  him,  if  brrefl 
Of  company  or  friends,  and  left 
Witliout  a better  guide. 

And  then  the  bagpipes  he  could  blow; 
And  thus  from  house  to  house  would  go, 
And  all  were  pleased  to  hear  and  see ; 

For  none  made  sweeter  melody 

Than  did  the  poor  blind  Boy. 

Yet  he  had  many  a restless  dream : 

Both  when  he  heard  the  Eagles  scream. 
And  when  he  heard  the  torrents  roar. 

And  heard  the  water  beat  the  shore 

Near  which  their  Cottage  stood. 

Beside  a lake  their  Cottage  stood, 

Not  small  like  ours,  a peaceful  flood; 

But  one  of  mighty  size,  and  strange ; 
That,  rough  or  smooth,  is  full  of  change. 
And  stirring  in  its  bed. 

For  to  this  Lake,  by  night  and  day, 

The  great  Sea-water  finds  its  W'ay 
Through  long,  long  windings  of  the  hills; 
And  drinks  up  all  the  pretty  rills. 

And  rivers  large  and  strong: 

Then  hurries  back  the  road  it  came  — 
Returns,  on  errand  still  the  same; 

This  did  it  when  the  earth  was  new ; 

And  this  for  evermore  will  do. 

As  long  as  earth  shall  last. 

And,  with  the  coming  of  the  Tide, 

Come  Boats  and  Ships  that  safely  ride. 
Between  the  woods  and  lofty  rocks: 

And  to  the  Shepherds  with  their  flocks 
Bring  tales  of  distant  Lands. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


247 


And  of  tliose  tales,  wliate’er  they  were, 

The  blind  Boy  always  had  his  share ; 
Whether  of  mighty  Towns,  or  Vales 
With  warmer  suns  and  softer  gales, 

Or  wonders  of  the  Deep. 

Yet  more  it  pleased  him,  more  it  stirred. 
When  from  the  water-side  he  heard 
The  shouting,  and  the  jolly  cheers. 

The  bustle  of  the  mariners 

In  stillness  or  in  storm. 

But  what  do  his  desires  availl 
For  he  must  never  handle  sail; 

Nor  mount  the  mast,  nor  row,  nor  float 
In  Sailor’s  ship,  or  Fisher’s  boat. 

Upon  the  rocking  waves. 

His  Mother  often  thought,  and  said. 

What  sin  would  be  upon  her  head 
If  she  should  suffer  this:  “My  Son, 
Whate’er  you  do,  leave  this  undone ; 

The  danger  is  so  great.’’ 

Thus  lived  he  by  Loch  Leven’s  side 
Still  sounding  with  the  sounding  tide. 

And  heard  the  billows  leap  and  dance, 
Without  a shadow  of  mischance. 

Till  he  was  ten  years  old. 

When  one  day  (and  now  mark  me  well. 

Ye  soon  shall  know  how  this  befel) 

He  in  a vessel  of  his  own. 

On  the  swift  flood  is  hurrying  down 
Towards  the  mighty  Sea. 

In  such  a vessel  never  more 

May  human  Creature  leave  the  shore! 

If  this  or  that  way  he  should  stir, 

Woe  to  the  poor  blind  Mariner! 

For  death  will  be  his  doom. 

But  say  what  bears  him!  — Ye  have  seen 
The  Indian’s  Bow,  his  arrows  keen. 

Rare  beasts,  and  bird's  with  plumage  bright; 
Gifts  which,  for  wonder  or  delight. 

Are  brought  in  ships  from  far. 

Such  gifts  had  those  seafaring  men 
Spread  round  that  Haven  in  the  glen; 

Each  hut,  perchance,  might  have  its  own. 
And  to  the  Boy  they  all  were  known; 

lie  knew  and  prized  them  all. 

The  rarest  was  a ’’I’lirtlo  Shell 
Which  he,  poor  Child,  had  studied  well; 

A Shell  of  ample  size,  and  light 
As  the  pearly  Car  of  Ainphitrite, 

That  sportive  Dolphins  drew. 


And,  as  a Coracle  that  braves 
On  Vaga’s  breast  the  fretful  waves. 

This  Shell  upon  the  deep  would  ssvira. 

And  gaily  lift  its  fearless  brim 

Above  the  tossing  surge 

And  this  the  little  blind  Boy  knew; 

And  he  a story  strange  yet  true 
Had  heard,  how  in  a Shell  like  this 
An  English  Boy,  O thought  of  bliss! 

Had  stoutly  launched  from  shore : 

Launched  from  the  margin  of  a bay 
Among  the  Indian  Isles,  where  lay 
His  Father’s  ship,  and  had  sailed  far. 

To  join  that  gallant  ship  of  war. 

In  his  delightful  Shell. 

Our  Highland  boy  oft  visited 
The  house  which  held  this  prize;  and,  led 
By  choice  or  chance,  did  thither  come 
One  day  when  no  one  was  at  home. 

And  found  the  door  unbarred. 

While  there  he  sate,  alone  and  blind. 

That  Story  flashed  upon  his  mind ; — 

A bold  thought  roused  him,  and  he  took 
The  Shell  from  out  its  secret  nook. 

And  bore  it  on  his  head. 

He  launched  his  Vessel  — and  in  pride 
Of  spirit,  from  L.och  Leven’s  side. 

Stepped  into  it — his  thoughts  all  free 
As  the  light  breezes  that  with  glee 

Sang  through  the  Adventurer’s  hair. 

A while  he  stood  upon  his  feet ; 

He  felt  the  motion  — took  his  seat ; 

Still  better  pleased  as  more  and  more 
The  tide  retreated  from  the  shore. 

And  sucked,  and  sucked  him  in. 

And  there  he  is  in  face  of  Heaven. 

How  rapidly  the  Child  is  driven ! 

The  fourth  part  of  a mile,  I ween, 
lie  thus  had  gone,  ere  he  was  seen 
By  any  human  eye. 

But  when  he  was  first  seen,  oh  me, 

What  shrieking  and  what  misery  ! 

For  many  saw;  among  the  rest 
His  Mother,  she  who  loved  him  best. 

She  saw  her  poor  blind  Boy. 

Rut  for  the  Child,  the  sightless  Boy, 

It  is  the  triumph  of  hi*  joy! 

I The  bravest  Traveller  in  balloon, 
j Mounting  as  if  to  reach  tlie  moon. 

Was  never  lialf  so  blessed. 


248 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  let  him,  let  him  go  hi3  way, 

Alone,  and  innocent,  and  gs.y ! 

For,  if  good  Angels  love  to  wait 
On  the  forlorn  unfortunate. 

This  Child  will  take  no  harm. 

But  now  the  passionate  lament. 

Which  from  the  crowd  on  shore  was  sent, 
Tlie  cries  which  broke  from  old  and  young 
In  Gaelic,  or  the  English  tongue. 

Are  stifled  — all  is  still. 

And  quickly  with  a silent  crew 
A Boat  is  ready  to  pursue ; 

And  from  the  shore  their  course  they  take. 
And  swiftly  down  the  running  Lake 
They  follow  the  blind  Boy. 

But  soon  they  move  with  softer  pace; 

So  have  ye  seen  the  fowler  chase 
On  Grasmere’s  clear  unruffled  breast 
A Youngling  of  the  wild-duck's  nest 
With  deftly-lifted  oar. 

Or  as  the  wily  Sailors  crept 
To  seize  (while  on  the  Deep  it  slept") 

The  hapless  Creature  which  did  dwell 
Erewhile  within  the  dancing  Shell, 

They  steal  uix>n  their  prey. 

With  sound  the  least  that  can  be  made. 
They  follow,  more  and  more  afraid. 

More  cautious  as  they  draw  more  near; 

But  in  his  darkness  he  can  hear. 

And  guesses  their  intent. 

“ Lci-gha  — Lei-gha"  — then  did  he  cry 
“ Lei-gha  — Lei-gha"  — most  eagerly  ; 

Thus  did  he  cry,  and  thus  did  pray. 

And  what  he  meant  was,  “Keep  away, 

And  leave  me  to  myself!” 

Alas!  and  when  he  felt  their  hands 

You’ve  often  heard  of  magic  Wands, 

That  with  a motion  overthrow 
A palace  of  the  proudest  show. 

Or  melt  it  into  air. 

So  all  his  dreams,  that  inward  light 
With  which  his  soul  had  shone  so  bright. 


All  vanished; — ’t  was  a heartfelt  cross 
To  him,  a heavy,  bitter  loss. 

As  he  had  ever  known. 

But  hark  ! a gratulating  voice. 

With  which  the  very  hills  rejoice : 

’Tis  from  the  crowd,  who  tremblingly 
Had  watched  the  event,  and  now  can  see 
That  he  is  safe  at  last. 

And  then,  when  he  was  brought  to  land. 

Full  sure  they  were  a happy  band, 

Which,  gathering  round,  did  on  the  banks 
Of  that  great  water  give  God  thanks,  ’ 

And  welcomed  the  poor  Child. 

And  in  the  general  joy  of  heart 
The  blind  Boy’s  little  Dog  took  part; 
lie  leapt  about,  and  oft  did  kiss 
Ills  master’s  hands  in  sign  of  bliss. 

With  sound  like  lamentation. 

But  most  of  all,  his  Mother  dear. 

She  who  had  fainted  with  her  fear. 

Rejoiced  when  waking  she  espies 
The  Child ; when  she  can  trust  her  eyes. 

And  touches  the  blind  Boy. 

She  led  him  home,  and  wept  amain. 

When  he  was  in  the  house  again : 

Tears  flov/ed  in  torrents  from  her  eyes: 

She  kissed  him  — how  could  she  chastise? 

She  was  too  happy  far. 

Thus,  after  he  had  fondly  braved 
The  perilous  Deep,  the  Boy  was  saved ; 

And,  though  his  fancies  had  been  wild. 

Yet  he  was  pleased  and  reconciled 
To  live  in  peace  on  shore. 

And  in  the  lonely  Highland  Dell 
Still  do  they  keep  the  Turtle  Shell ; 

And  long  the  Story  will  repeat 
Of  the  blind  Boy’s  adventurous  feat, 

And  how  he  was  preserved.’*' 

* It  is  recorded  in  Dampier’s  Voj-ages,  that  a boy,  the  .Son  of  a 
Captain  of  a Man-of-War,  seated  himself  in  a Turtle  Shell,  ai:d 
floated  in  it  from  the  shore  to  his  Father’s  ship,  which  lay  at 
anchor  at  the  distance  of  half  a mile.  In  deference  to  the  opini(Jt) 
of  a Friend,  I have  snbstituterl  such  a shell  for  the  less  eleaani 
Vessel  in  which  my  Blind  Voyager  did  actually  entnisl  himself 
to  the  dangerous  current  of  Loch  Leven,  as  was  related  to  me  hv 
an  eye-wiuioss. 


POEMS  OF  TFIE  IMAGINATION. 


249 


MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  1814. 


I. 

Suggested  by  a beautiful  Ruin  upon  one  of  the  Islands  of  Loch 
Lomond,  a place  chosen  for  the  retreat  of  a solitary  individual, 
from  whom  this  habitation  acquired  the  name  of 

THE  BROWNIE’S  CELL. 

To  barren  heath,  and  quaking  fen, 

Or  depth  of  labyrinthine  glen  ; 

Or  into  trackless  forest  set 

With  trees,  whose  lofly  umbrage  met; 

World-wearied  men  withdrew  of  yore,  — 

(Penance  their  trust,  and  Prayer  their  store ;) 

And  in  the  wilderness  were  bound 
To  such  apartments  as  they  found ; 

Or  with  a new  ambition  raised  ; 

That  God  might  suitably  be  praised. 

High  lodged  the  Warrior,  like  a bird  of  prey; 

Or  where  broad  waters  round  him  lay ; 

But  this  wild  Ruin  is  no  ghost 
Of  his  devices  — buried,  lost! 

Within  this  little  lonely  Isle 
There  stood  a consecrated  Pile ; 

Where  tapers  burned,  and  mass  was  sung. 

For  them  whose  timid  Spirits  clung 
To  mortal  succour,  though  the  tomb 
Had  fixed,  for  ever  fixed,  their  doom ! 

Upon  those  servants  of  another  world 
When  madding  Power  her  bolts  had  hurled, 

Their  habitation  shook ; — it  fell, 

And  perished  — save  one  narrow  Cell ; 

Whither,  at  length,  a Wretch  retired 
Who  neither  grovelled  nor  aspired : 
lie,  struggling  in  the  net  of  pride. 

The  future  scorned,  the  past  defied ; 

Still  tempering,  from  the  unguilty  forge 
Of  vain  conceit,  an  iron  scourge! 

Proud  Remnant  was  he  of  a fearless  Race, 

Who  stood  and  flourished  face  to  face 
With  their  perennial  hills; — but  Crime, 

Hastening  the  stern  decrees  of  Time, 

Brought  low  a Power,  which  from  its  home 
Burst,  when  repose  grew  wearisome; 

And,  taking  impulse  from  the  sword. 

And,  mocking  its  own  plighted  word. 

Had  found,  in  ravage  widely  dealt. 

Its  warfare’s  bourn,  its  travel’s  belt! 

All,  all  were  dispossessed,  save  him  whose  smile 
Shot  lightning  through  this  lonely  Isle  ! 


No  right  had  he  but  what  he  made 
To  this  small  spot,  his  leafy  shade  ; 

But  the  ground  lay  within  that  ring 
To  which  he  only  dared  to  cling  ; 

Renouncing  here,  as  worse  than  dead. 

The  craven  few  wlio  bowed  the  head 
Beneath  the  change,  who  heard  a claim 
How  loud ! yet  lived  in  peace  with  shame. 

From  year  to  year  this  shaggy  Mortal  went 
(So  seemed  it)  down  a strange  descent: 

Till  they,  who  saw  his  outward  frame. 

Fixed  on  him  an  unhallowed  name ; 

Him  — free  from  all  malicious  taint. 

And  guiding,  like  the  Patmos  Saint, 

A pen  unwearied  — to  indite. 

In  his  lone  Isle,  the  dreams  of  night; 

Impassioned  dreams,  that  strove  to  span 
The  faded  glories  of  his  Clan  ! 

Suns  that  through  blood  their  western  harbour  sought, 
And  stars  that  in  their  courses,  fought, — 

Towers  rent,  winds  combating  with  woods  — 

Lands  deluged  by  unbridled  floods. 

And  beast  and  bird  that  from  the  spell 
Of  sleep  took  import  terrible, — • 

These  types  mysterious  (if  the  show 
Of  battle  and  the  routed  foe 
Had  failed)  would  furnish  an  array 
Of  matter  for  the  dawning  day  ! 

How  disappeared  Hel  — ask  the  Newt  and  Toad, 
Inheritors  of  his  abode  ; 

The  Otter  crouching  undisturbed. 

In  her  dank  cleft  — but  be  thou  curbed, 

O froward  Fancy ! ’mid  a scene 
Of  aspect  winning  and  serene ; 

For  those  offensive  creatures  shun 
The  inquisition  of  the  sun  ! 

And  in  this  region  flowers  delight, 

And  all  is  lovely  to  the  sight. 

Spring  finds  not  here  a melancholy  breast. 

When  she  applies  her  annual  test 
To  dead  and  living;  when  her  breath 
Quickens,  as  now,  the  withered  heath  ; — 

Nor  flaunting  summer — when  he  throws 
His  soul  into  the  briar-rose ; 

Or  calls  the  lily  from  her  sleep 
Prolonged  beneath  the  bordering  deep; 

Nor  Autumn,  when  the  viewless  wren 
Is  warbling  near  the  Brownie’s  Den, 


250 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Wild  Relique ! beauteous  as  the  chosen  spot 
In  Nysa’s  Isle,  the  embellished  Grot; 
Whither,  by  care  of  Libyan  Jove, 

(High  Servant  of  paternal  Love,) 

Young  Bacchus  was  conveyed  — to  lie 
Safe  from  his  step-dame  Rhea’s  eye  ; 

Where  bud,  and  bloom,  and  fruitage,  glowed 
Close-crowding  round  the  Infant  God  ; 

All  colours,  and  the  liveliest  streak 
A foil  to  his  celestial  cheek! 


II. 

COMPOSED  AT  CORA  LINN, 

IN  SIGHT  OF  WALLACE’S  TOWER. 

“ — How  Wallace  foiiglil  for  Scotland,  left  the  name 
Of  Wallace  to  be  ftund,  like  a wild  flower, 

All  over  his  dear  Country;  left  the  deeds 
Of  Wallace,  like  a family  of  ghosts. 

To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks. 

Her  natural  sanctuaries,  w ith  a local  soul 
Of  independence  and  stern  liberty.” — 31S. 


Lord  of  the  Vale  ! astounding  Flood  ! 
The  dullest  leaf  in  this  thick  wood 
Quakes  — conscious  of  thy  power ; 

The  caves  reply  W'ith  hollow  moan ; 
And  vibrates,  to  its  central  stone. 

Yon  time-cemented  Tower ! 

And  yet  how  fair  the  rural  scene ! 

For  thou,  O Clyde,  hast  ever  been 
Beneficent  as  strong; 

Pleased  in  refreshing  dews  to  steep 
The  little  trembling  flowers  that  peep 
Thy  shelving  rocks  among. 

Hence  all  who  love  their  country,  love 
To  look  on  thee  — delight  to  rove 
Where  they  thy  voice  can  hear ; 

And,  to  the  Patriot-warrior’s  Shade, 
Lord  of  the  vale ! to  Heroes  laid 
In  dust,  that  voice  is  dear ! 

Along  thy  banks,  at  dead  of  night. 
Sweeps  visibly  the  Wallace  Wight ; 

Or  stands,  in  warlike  vest, 

Aloft,  beneath  the  Moon’s  pale  beam, 

A Champion  worthy  of  the  Stream, 

Yon  gray  tower’s  living  crest! 

But  clouds  and  envious  darkness  hide 
A Form  not  doubtfully  descried: — 
Their  transient  mission  o’er, 

O say  to  what  blind  region  flee 
These  Shapes  of  awful  phantasy  I 
To  wh?‘  untrodden  shore! 


Less  than  divine  command  they  spurn ; 

But  this  we  from  the  mountains  learn. 

And  this  the  valleys  show. 

That  never  will  they  deign  to  hold 
Communion  where  the  heart  is  cold 
To  human  weal  and  woe. 

The  man  of  abject  soul  in  vain 
Shall  walk  the  Marathonian  Plain ; 

Or  thrid  the  shadowy  gloom. 

That  still  invests  the  guardian  Pass, 

Where  stood,  sublime,  Leonidas 
Devoted  to  the  tomb. 

Nor  deem  that  it  can  aught  avail 
For  such  to  glide  with  oar  or  sail 
Beneath  the  piny  wood. 

Where  Tell  once  drew,  by  Uri’s  lake. 

His  vengeful  shafts  — prepared  to  slake 
Their  thirst  in  Tyrants’  blood. 

III. 

EFFUSION, 

IN  THE  PLEASURE-GROUND  ON  THE  BANKS  OF 
THE  BRAN,  NEAR  DUNKELD. 


“The  waterfall,  by  a loud  roaring,  warned  us  when  vve  mur 
expect  it.  We  were  first,  however,  conducted  int'.  4 small  apart 
ment  where  the  Gardener  desired  us  to  look  at  a picture  o: 
Ossian,  which,  while  he  was  telling  the  history  of  the  yoiin 
Artist  who  executed  the  work,  disappeared,  parting  in  the  mid 
die  — flying  asunder  as  by  the  touch  of  magic  — and  lo ! we  are 
at  the  entrance  of  a splendid  apartment,  which  xvas  almost  dizzy 
and  alive  with  waterfalls,  that  tumbled  in  all  directions;  the 
great  cascade,  opposite  the  window,  which  faced  us,  being  re- 
flected in  innumerable  mirrors  upon  the  ceiling  and  against  the 
walls.”  — Extract  from  the  Journal  of  my  Fellow-Traveller. 


What  He  — who,  ’mid  the  kindred  throng 
Of  Heroes  that  inspired  his  song. 

Doth  yet  frequent  the  hill  of  storms. 

The  Stars  dim-twinkling  through  their  forms  ! 
What ! Ossian  here  — a painted  Thrall, 

Mute  fixture  on  a stuccoed  wall ; 

To  serve  — an  unsuspected  screen 
For  show  that  must  not  yet  be  seen; 

And,  when  the  moment  comes,  to  part 
And  vanish,  by  mysterious  art 
Head,  Harp,  and  Body,  split  asunder, 

For  ingress  to  a world  of  wonder ; 

A gay  Saloon,  with  waters  dancing 
Upon  the  sight  wherever  glancing ; 

One  loud  Cascade  in  front,  and  lo! 

A thousand  like  it,  white  as  snow  — 

Streams  on  the  walls,  and  torrent-foam 
As  active  round  the  hollow  dome, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


‘251 


Illusive  cataracts!  of  their  terrors 
Not  stripped,  nor  voiceless  in  the  Mirrors, 
That  catch  the  pageant  from  the  Flood 
Thundering  adown  a rocky  wood! 

Strange  scene,  fantastic  and  uneasy 
As  ever  made  a Maniac  dizzy. 

When  disenchanted  from  tlie  mood 
That  loves  on  sullen  thoughts  to  brood ! 

0 Nature,  in  thy  changeful  visions. 

Through  all  thy  most  abrupt  transitions, 
Smooth,  graceful,  tender,  or  sublime. 

Ever  averse  to  Pantomime, 

Thee  neither  do  tliey  know  nor  us 
Thy  Servants,  who  can  trifle  thus; 

Else  verily  the  sober  powers 

Of  rock  that  frowns,  and  stream  that  roars, 

Exalted  by  congenial  sway 

Of  Spirits,  and  the  undying  Lay, 

And  names  that  moulder  not  away. 

Had  wakened  some  redeeming  thought 
More  worthy  of  this  favoured  Spot; 

Recalled  some  feeling  — to  set  free 
Tlie  Bard  from  such  indignity! 

"^The  effigies  of  a valiant  Wight 

1 once  beheld,  a Templar  Knight; 

Not  prostrate,  not  like  those  that  rest 
On  Tombs,  with  palms  together  prest. 

But  sculptured  out  of  living  stone. 

And  standing  upright  and  alone, 

Botli  hands  with  rival  energy 
Employed  in  setting  his  sword  free 
From  its  dull  slieath  — stern  Sentinel, 

Intent  to  guard  St.  Robert’s  Cell  ; 

As  if  with  memory  of  the  affray 
Far  distant,  when,  as  legends  say. 

The  Monks  of  Fountain’s  thronged  to  force 
From  its  dear  home  the  Hermit’s  corse, 

That  in  their  keeping  it  might  lie. 

To  crown  their  Abbey’s  sanctity. 

So  had  they  rushed  into  the  Grot 
Of  sense  despised,  a world  forgot. 

And  torn  him  from  his  loved  Retreat, 

Where  Altar-stone  and  rock-hewn  seat 
Still  hint  that  quiet  best  is  found. 

Even  by  the  Living,  under  ground ; 

But  a bold  Knight,  tlie  selfish  aim 
Defeating,  put  the  Monks  to  shame. 

There  where  you  see  his  image  stand 
Bare  to  the  sky,  with  threatening  brand 
\Vhich  lingering  Nid  is  proud  to  show 
Reflected  in  the  pool  below. 

Thus,  like  tlie  Men  of  earliest  days. 

Our  Sires  set  forth  their  grateful  praise; 

‘ On  die  banks  of  the  River  Nid,  near  Knarosliorough. 


Uncouth  the  workmanship,  and  rude ! 

But,  nursed  in  mountain  solitude. 

Might  some  aspiring  Artist  dare 
I’o  seize  whate’er,  through  misty  air, 

A Ghost,  by  glimpses,  may  present 
Of  imitable  lineament. 

And  give  the  Phantom  such  array 
As  less  should  scorn  the  abandoned  clay ; 
Then  let  him  hew  with  patient  stroke 
An  Ossian  out  of  mural  rock. 

And  leave  the  figurative  Man 
Upon  thy  margin,  roaring  Bran  ! 

Fixed,  like  the  Templar  of  the  steep. 

An  everlasting  watch  to  keep; 

With  local  sanctities  in  trust. 

More  precious  than  a Hermit’s  dust ; 

And  virtues  through  the  mass  infused. 

Which  old  Idolatry  abused. 

What  though  the  Granite  would  deny 
All  fervour  to  the  sightless  eye. 

And  touch  from  rising  Suns  in  vain 
Solicit  a Memnonian  strain ; 

Yet,  in  some  fit  of  anger  sharp, 

The  wind  might  force  the  deep-grooved  harp 
To  utter  melancholy  moans 
Not  unconnected  with  the  tones 
Of  soul-sick  flesh  and  weary  bones; 

Mdiile  grove  and  river  notes  would  lend. 
Less  deeply  sad,  with  these  to  blend  ! 

Yain  Pleasures  of  luxurious  life. 

For  ever  with  yourselves  at  strife  ; 

Through  town  and  country  both  deranged 
By  affectations  interchanged. 

And  all  the  perishable  gauds 
That  heaven-deserted  Man  applauds; 

When  will  your  hapless  patrons  learn 
To  watch  and  ponder  — to  discern 
The  freshness,  the  eternal  youth. 

Of  admiration  sprung  from  truth  ; 

From  beauty  infinitely  growing 
Upon  a mind  with  love  o’erflowing  — 

To  sound  the  depths  of  every  Art 
That  seeks  its  wisdom  through  the  heart! 

Thus,  (where  the  intrusive  Pile,  ill-graced. 
With  baubles  of  theatric  taste, 

O’erlooks  the  Torrent  breathing  showers 
On  motley  bands  of  alien  flowers. 

In  stiff  confusion  set  or  .sown. 

Till  Nature  cannot  find  her  own. 

Or  keep  a remnant  of  tlie  sod 
Which  Caledonian  Heroes  trod) 

I mused  ; and.  thirsting  for  redress, 

Recoiled  into  the  wilderness. 


252 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


IV. 

YARROW  VISITED, 

SEPTEMBER,  1814. 

And  is  tliis — Yarrow  1 — This  the  Stream 
Of  which  my  fancy  cherished, 

So  faithfully,  a waking  dream  7 
.\n  image  that  hath  perished ! 

O that  some  Minstrel’s  harp  were  near. 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness,  i 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why?  — a silvery  current  flows 
With  uncontrolled  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 
Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths.  Saint  Mary’s  Lake 
Is  visibly  delighted; 

For  not  a feature  of  those  hills 
Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 

A blue  sky  bends  o’er  Yarrow  vale. 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 
Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A tender  hazy  brightness; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise ! that  excludes 
All  profitless  dejection ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 
A pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 
Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding? 

Ilis  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 
On  which  the  herd  is  feeding: 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning. 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice  — 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  Lay  that  sings 
The  haunts  of  happy  Lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers  : 

And  Pity  sanctifies  the  verse 
That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow. 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love ; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow ! 

But  thou,  that  didst  appear  so  fair 
To  fond  Imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 
Her  delicate  creation: 


Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A softness  still  and  holy; 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decayed, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  Vale  unfolds 
Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature. 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 
Of  cultivated  nature  ; 

And,  rising  from  those  lofty  groves. 
Behold  a ruin  hoary ! 

The  shattered  front  of  Newark’s  Towers, 
Renowned  in  Border  story. 

Fair  scene;,  for  childhood’s  opening  bloom. 
For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in ; 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength  ; 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 

Yon  Cottage  seems  a bower  of  bliss, 

A covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there. 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet,  on  this  autumnal  day. 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather. 

And  on  niy  True-love’s  forehead  plant 
A crest  of  blooming  heather! 

And  what  if  I enwrcathed  my  own! 

’T  were  no  offence  to  reason ; 

The  sober  Hills  thus  deck  their  brows 
To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I see  — but  not  by  sight  alone. 

Loved  Y^arrow,  have  I won  thee ; 

A ray  of  Fancy  still  survives  — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 
A course  of  lively  pleasure; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe. 
Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  Heights, 
They  melt  — and  soon  must  vanish  ; 

One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine  — 
Sad  thought,  which  I would  banish. 

But  that  I know,  where’er  I go. 

Thy  genuine  image.  Yarrow  ! 

Will  dwell  with  me  — to  heighten  joy. 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


253 


POEMS  DEDICATED  TO  NATIONAL  INDEPENDENCE 
AND  LIBERTY. 


PART  FIRST. 


I. 

COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEA-SIDE,  NEAR  CALAIS, 
AUGUST,  1802. 

Fair  Star  of  Evening,  Splendour  of  the  West, 

Star  of  my  country  — on  the  horizon’s  brink 
Thou  hangest,  stooping,  as  might  seem,  to  sink, 

On  England’s  bosom  ; yet  well  pleased  to  rest, 
Meanwhile,  and  be  to  her  a glorious  crest 
Conspicuous  to  the  Nations.  Thou,  I think, 

Should’st  be  my  Country’s  emblem ; and  shoulds’t  wink. 
Bright  Star ! with  laughter  on  her  banners,  drest 
In  thy  fresh  beauty.  There!  that  dusky  spot 
Beneath  thee,  it  is  England  ; there  it  lies. 

Blessings  be  on  you  both  ! one  hope,  one  lot. 

One  life,  one  glory ! I with  many  a fear 
For  my  dear  Country,  many  heartfelt  sighs. 

Among  Men  who  do  not  love  her,  linger  here. 


II. 

CALAIS,  AUGUST,  1802. 

Is  it  a Reed  that’s  shaken  by  the  wind, 

Or  what  is  it  that  ye  go  forth  to  see  1 
Lords,  Lawyers,  Statesmen,  Squires  of  low'  degree. 
Men  knowm,  and  men  unknown,  Sick,  Lame,  and  Blind, 
Post  forward  all,  like  Creatures  of  one  kind, 

With  first-fruit  offerings  crowd  to  bend  the  knee 
In  France,  before  the  new-born  Majesty. 

’T  is  ever  thus.  Ye  men  of  prostrate  mind  ! 

A seemly  reverence  may  be  paid  to  power ; 

But  that’s  a loyal  virtue  never  sown 

In  haste,  nor  springing  with  a transient  shower  : 

When  truth,  when  sense,  when  liberty  were  flown. 
What  hardship  had  it  been  to  wait  an  Iiourl 
Shame  on  you,  feeble  Heads,  to  slavery  prone! 


III. 

TO  A FRIEND. 

COMPOSED  NE.\R  CAt.AIS,  ON  THE  RO.VD  LEADING  TO 
ANDRES,  AUGUST  7,  1802. 

.loNEs!  while  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I 
Urged  our  accordant  steps  this  public  Way 
Streamed  with  the  pomp  of  a too-credulous  day,* 

* Mill  July,  1790. 


When  faith  was  pledged  to  new-born  Liberty : 

A homeless  sound  of  joy  was  in  the  sky ; 

The  antiquated  Earth,  as  one  might  say, 

Beat  like  the  heart  of  Man : songs,  garlands,  play, 
Banners,  and  happy  faces,  far  and  nigh  ! 

And  now,  sole  register  that  these  things  were. 
Two  solitary  greetings  have  I heard, 

“ Good  morrow,  Citizen. a hollow  word, 

As  if  a dead  Man  spake  it!  Yet  despair 
Touches  me  not,  though  pensive  as  a Bird 
Whose  vernal  coverts  winter  hath  laid  bare. 


IV. 

1801. 

I GRIEVED  for  Buonaparte,  with  a vain 
And  an  unthinking  grief!  for,  who  aspires 
To  genuine  greatness  but  from  just  desires. 

And  knowledge  such  as  he  could  never  gain  1 
’T  is  not  in  battles  that  from  youth  we  train 
The  Governor  who  must  be  wise  and  good. 

And  temper  with  the  sternness  of  the  brain 
Thoughts  motherly,  and  weak  as  womanhood. 
Wisdom  doth  live  with  children  round  her  knees  : 
Books,  leisure,  perfect  freedom,  and  the  talk 
Jlan  holds  with  week-day  man  in  the  hourly  walk 
Of  the  mind’s  business:  these  are  the  degrees 
By  which  true  sway  doth  mount ; this  is  the  stalk 
True  Power  doth  grow  on;  and  her  rights  are  these, 

V. 

CALAIS,  AUGUST  l.'l,  1802. 
Festivals  have  I seen  that  wore  not  names: 

This  is  young  Buonaparte’s  natal  day,  . 

And  his  is  henceforth  an  established  sway. 

Consul  for  life.  With  worship  France  proclaims 
Her  approbation,  and  with  pomps  and  games. 

Heaven  grant  that  other  Cities  may  bo  gay  ! 

Calais  is  not : and  I have  bent  my  way 
To  the  sea-coast,  noting  that  each  man  frames 
His  business  as  he  likes.  Far  other  show 
My  youth  here  witnessed,  in  a prouder  time; 

The  senselessness  of  joy  was  then  sublime! 

Happy  is  he,  who,  caring  not  for  Pope, 

Consul,  or  King,  can  sound  himself  to  know 
The  destiny  of  Man,  and  live  in  hope. 

22 


254 


WORDSWOETH’S  POETIC AL  WORKS. 


VI. 

ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC. 

Once  did  she  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee ; 

And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West:  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 

Venice,  the  eldest  Child  of  Liberty. 

She  was  a Maiden  City,  bright  and  free; 

No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate; 

And,  when  She  took  unto  herself  a Mate, 

She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade. 

Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay; 

Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 
When  her  long  life  hath  reached  its  final  day : 

Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  Shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  passed  away. 

VII. 

THE  KING  OF  SWEDEN. 

The  Voice  of  Song  from  distant  lands  shall  call 
To  that  great  King ; shall  hail  the  crowned  Youth 
Wiio,  taking  counsel  of  unbending  Truth, 

By  one  example  hath  set  forth  to  all 
How  they  with  dignity  may  stand  ; or  fall. 

If  fall  they  must.  Now,  whither  doth  it  tend  1 
And  what  to  him  and  his  shall  be  the  end? 

That  thought  is  one  which  neither  can  appal 

Nor  cheer  him  ; for  the  illustrious  Swede  hath  done 

Tlie  thing  which  ought  to  be:  He  stands  above 

All  consequences : work  he  hath  begun 

Of  fortitude,  and  piety,  and  love 

Which  all  his  glorious  Ancestors  approve  : 

The  Heroes  bless  him,  him  their  rightful  Son. 


VIII. 

TO  TOUSSAINT  L’OUVERTURE. 

Touss/Vint,  the  most  unhappy  Man  of  Men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  Rustic  tend  his  plough 
Within  thy  hearing,  or  thy  head  be  now 
Pillowed  in  some  deep  dungeon’s  earless  den;  — 

O miserable  Chieftain  ! where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience?  Yet  die  not;  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a cheerful  brow  : 

Though  fallen  Thyself,  never  to  rise  again. 

Live,  and  take  comfort.  Thou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ; air,  earth,  and  skies ; 
There’s  not  a breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee;  thou  hast  great  allies; 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies. 

And  love,  and  Man’s  anconquerable  mind. 


IX. 

SEPTEMBER  1,  1802. 

Among  the  capricious  acts  of  Tyranny  that  disgraced  these  times, 
was  the  chasing  of  all  Negroes  from  France  by  decree  of  the  Govern- 
ment : we  had  a Fellow-passenger  who  was  one  of  the  expelled. 

Driven  from  the  soil  of  France,  a Female  came 
From  Calais  with  us,  brilliant  in  array, — 

A Negro  Woman,  like  a Lady  gay. 

Yet  downcast  as  a Woman  fearing  blame; 

Meek,  destitute,  as  seemed,  of  hope  or  aim 
She  sate,  from  notice  turning  not  away,  , 

But  on  all  proffered  intercourse  did  lay 
A weight  of  languid  speech,  or  at  the  same 
Was  silent,  motionless  in  eyes  and  face. 

Meanwhile  those  eyes  retained  their  tropic  fire. 
Which,  burning  independent  of  the  mind. 

Joined  with  the  lustre  of  her  rich  attire 
To  mock  the  Outcast  — O ye  Heavens,  be  kind ! 

And  feel,  thou  Earth,  for  this  afflicted  Race ! 


X. 

COMPOSED  IN  THE  VALLEY,  NEAR  DOVER 
ON  THE  DAY  OF  LANDING. 

Here,  on  our  native  soil,  we  breathe  once  more. 

The  Cock  that  crows,  the  Smoke  that  curls,  that  sound 
Of  Bells,  — those  Boys  who  in  yon  meadow-ground 
In  white-sleeved  shirts  are  playing, — and  the  roar 
Of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  chalky  shore, — 

All,  all  are  English.  Oft  have  I looked  round 
With  joy  in  Kent’s  green  vales;  but  never  found 
Myself  so  satisfied  in  heart  before. 

Europe  is  yet  in  bonds ; but  let  that  pass, 

Tliought  for  another  moment.  Thou  art  free. 

My  country  ! and ’t  is  joy  enough  and  pride 
For  one  hour’s  perfect  bliss,  to  tread  the  grass 
Of  England  once  again,  and  hear  and  see. 

With  such  a dear  Companion  at  my  side. 


XI. 

SEPTEMBER,  1802. 

Inland,  within  a hollow  vale,  I stood ; 

And  saw,  while  sea  was  calm  and  air  was  clear. 

The  Coast  of  France,  the  Coast  of  France  how  nearl 
Drawn  almost  into  frightful  neighbourhood. 

I shrunk,  for  verily  the  barrier  flood 
Was  like  a Lake,  or  River  bright  and  fair, 

A span  of  waters ; yet  what  power  is  there  ! 

What  mightiness  for  evil  and  for  good  ! 

Even  so  doth  God  protect  us,  if  we  be 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


255 


Virtuous  and  wise.  Winds  blow,  and  Waters  roll, 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  Power,  and  Deity, 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing ! One  decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the  Soul 
Only  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free.* 


XII. 

THOUGHT  OF  A BRITON  ON  THE  SUBJUGA- 
TION OF  SWITZERLAND. 

Two  Voices  are  there ; one  is  of  the  Sea, 

One  of  the  Mountains;  each  a mighty  Voice : 

In  both  from  age  to  age  Thou  didst  rejoice. 

They  were  thy  chosen  Music,  Liberty ! 

There  came  a Tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought’st  against  Him ; but  hast  vainly  striven : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven. 
Where  not  a torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft : 

Then  cleave,  O cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left; 

For,  high-souled  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 
That  mountain  Floods  should  thunder  as  before. 

And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore. 

And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  thee ! 


XIII. 

WRITTEN  IN  LONDON,  SEPTEMBER,  1802. 
O Friend  ! I know  not  which  way  I must  look 
For  comfort,  being,  as  I arn,  opprest. 

To  think  that  now  our  Life  is  only  drest 

For  show ; mean  handy-work  of  craftsman,  cook. 

Or  groom  ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a Brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest: 

The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best: 

No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.  Rapine,  avarice,  expense. 

This  is  idolatry;  and  these  we  adore: 

Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more: 

The  homely  beauty  of  tbe  good  old  cause 
Is  gone  ; our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence. 

And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws.f 


XIV. 

LONDON,  1802. 

Milton!  thou  should’st  be  living  at  this  hour: 
England  hath  need  of  thee:  she  is  a fen 
Of  stagnant  waters : altar,  sword,  and  pen. 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower. 
Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.  We  are  selfish  men: 
Oh  ! raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 


And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power 
Thy  soul  was  like  a Star,  and  dwelt  apart ; 

Thou  hadst  a voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea; 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free. 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life’s  common  way. 

In  cheerful  godliness;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 


XV. 

Great  Men  have  been  among  us;  hands  that  penned 
And  tongues  that  uttered  wisdom,  better  none: 

The  later  Sidney,  Marvel,  Harrington, 

Young  Vane,  and  others  who  called  Milton  Friend. 
These  Moralists  could  act  and  comprehend  : 

They  knew  how  genuine  glory  was  put  on ; 

Taught  us  how  rightfully  a nation  shone 
In  splendour : what  strength  was,  that  would  not  bend 
But  in  magnanimous  meekness.  France,  ’tis  strange. 
Hath  brought  forth  no  such  souls  as  we  had  tlien. 
Perpetual  emptiness!  unceasing  change! 

No  single  Volume  paramount,  no  code. 

No  master  spirit,  no  determined  road  ; 

But  equally  a want  of  Books  and  Men ! 


XVI. 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood 
Of  British  freedom,  which  to  the  open  Sea 
Of  the  world’s  praise  from  dark  antiquity 
Hath  flowed,  “with  pomp  of  waters  unwithstood,” 
Roused  though  it  be  full  often  to  a mood 
Which  spurns  the  check  of  salutary  bands. 

That  this  most  famous  Stream  in  Bogs  and  Sands 
Should  perish;  and  to  evil  and  to  good 
Be  lost  for  ever.  In  our  Halls  is  hung 
Armoury  of  the  invincible  Knights  of  old : 

We  must  be  free  or  die,  who  speak  the  tongue 
That  Shakspeare  spake;  the  faith  and  morals  hold 
Which  Milton  held.  — In  every  tiling  we  are  sprung 
Of  Earth’s  first  blood,  have  titles  manifold. 


XVII. 

When  I have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  Nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  Swords  for  Ledgers,  and  desert 
The  Student’s  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 
I had,  my  Country  ! — am  I to  be  blamed  1 
But  when  I think  of  Thee,  and  what  Tliou  art. 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee;  we  who  find 


See  Note. 


t See  Note. 


256 


WORDSWORTH’S  P 0 E TI C A L W 0 R K S. 


In  thee  a bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men ; 
And  I by  my  affection  was  beguiled: 
What  wonder  if  a Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
I'elt  for  thee  as  a Lover  or  a Child ! 


XVIII. 

OCTOBER,  1803. 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries 
Had  blasted  France  and  made  of  it  a land 
Unfit  for  men ; and  that  in  one  great  Band 
Her  sons  were  bursting  forth  to  dwell  at  ease. 

But  ’tis  a chosen  soil,  where  sun  and  breeze 
Shed  gentle  favours;  rural  works  are  there; 

And  ordinary  business  without  care  ! 

Spot  rich  in  all  things  that  can  soothe  and  please! 
How  piteous  then  that  there  should  be  such  dearth 
Of  knowledge;  that  whole  myriads  should  unite 
To  work  against  themselves  sucli  fell  despite: 
Should  come  in  phrensy  and  in  drunken  mirth, 
Impatient  to  put  out  the  only  light 
Of  Liberty  that  yet  remains  on  Earth  I 


XIX. 

There  is  a bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear 
Than  his  who  breathes,  by  roof,  and  floor,  and  wall, 
Pent  in,  a Tyrant’s  solitary  Thrall : 

’T  is  his  who  walks  about  in  the  open  air, 

One  of  a Nation  who,  henceforth,  must  wear 
Their  fetters  in  their  Souls.  For  who  could  be. 
Who,  even  the  best,  in  such  condition,  free 
From  self-reproach,  reproach  which  he  must  share 
With  human  nature?  Never  be  it  ours 
To  see  the  sun  how  brightly  it  will  shine. 

And  know  that  noble  Feelings,  manly  Powers, 
Instead  of  gathering  strength,  must  droop  and  pine. 
And  earth  with  all  her  pleasant  fruits  and  flowers 
Fade,  and  participate  in  Man’s  decline. 


XX. 

OCTOBER,  1803. 

These  times  touch  moneyed  Worldlings  with  dismay  : 
Even  rich  men,  brave  by  nature,  taint  the  air 
With  words  of  apprehension  and  despair: 

While  tens  of  thousands,  thinking  on  the  affray. 

Men  unto  whom  sufficient  for  the  day 
And  minds  not  stinted  or  untilled  are  given, 

Sound,  healthy  Children  of  the  God  of  Heaven, 

Are  cheerful  as  the  rising  Sun  in  May. 

M'hat  do  we  gather  hence  but  firmer  faith 

That  every  gift  of  noble  origin 

Is  breathed  upon  by  Hope’s  perpetual  breath  ; 

That  virtue  and  the  faculties  within 
Are  vital,  — and  that  riches  are  akin 
To  fear,  to  change,  to  cowardice,  and  death? 


XXL 

England  ! the  time  is  come  when  thou  should’st  wean 
Thy  heart  from  its  emasculating  food; 

The  truth  should  now  be  better  understood ; 

Old  things  have  been  unsettled ; we  have  seen 
Fair  seed-time,  better  harvest  might  have  been 
But  for  thy  trespasses;  and,  at  this  day. 

If  for  Greece,  Egypt,  India,  Africa, 

Aught  good  were  destined.  Thou  would’st  step  between. 
I England  ! all  nations  in  tliis  charge  agree. 

But  worse,  more  ignorant  m love  and  hate. 

Far,  far  more  abject  is  thine  Enemy: 

Therefore  the  wise  pray  for  thee,  though  the  freight 
Of  thy  offences  be  a heavy  weight : 

Oh  grief,  that  Earth’s  best  hopes  rest  all  with  thee ! 


XXII. 

OCTOBER,  1803. 

When,  looking  on  the  present  state  of  things, 

I see  one  Man,  of  Men  the  meanest  too ! 

Rai-sed  up  to  sway  the  world,  to  do,  undo. 

With  mighty  Nations  for  his  Underlings, 

The  great  events  with  which  old  story  rings 
Seem  vain  and  hollow;  I find  nothing  great: 
Nothing  is  left  which  I can  venerate; 

So  that  almost  a doubt  within  me  springs 
Of  Providence,  such  emptiness  at  length 
Seems  at  the  heart  of  all  things.  But,  great  God  ’ 
I measure  back  the  steps  which  I have  trod; 

And  tremble,  seeing  whence  proceeds  the  strength 
Of  such  poor  Instruments,  with  thoughts  sublime 
I tremble  at  the  sorrow  of  the  time. 


XXIII. 

TO  THE  MEN  OF  KENT.  — OCTOBER,  180S 

V.ANGU.ARD  of  Liberty,  ye  Men  of  Kent, 

Ye  Children  of  a soil  that  doth  advance 
Her  haughty  brow  against  the  coast  of  France, 

Now  is  the  time  to  prove  your  hardiment! 

To  France  be  words  of  invitation  sent! 

They  from  their  Fields  can  see  the  countenance 
Of  your  fierce  war,  may  ken  the  glittering  lance. 
And  hear  you  shouting  forth  your  brave  intent. 

Left  single,  in  bold  parley.  Ye,  of  yore. 

Did  from  the  Norman  win  a gallant  wreath; 
Confirmed  the  charters  that  were  yours  before;  — 
No  parleying  now  ! In  Britain  is  one  breath ; 

We  all  are  with  you  now  from  Shore  to  Shore : — 
Ye  Men  of  Kent,  ’t  is  Victory  or  Death  I 


POEMS  OP  THE  IMAGINATION. 


257 


XXIV. 

ANTICIPATION.  — OCTOBER,  1803. 

5hcut,  for  a mighty  Victory  is  won ! 

)n  British  ground  the  Invaders  are  laid  low; 
rhe  breath  of  Pleaven  has  drifted  them  like  snow, 

\nd  left  them  lying  in  the  silent  sun, 

'lever  to  rise  again ! — the  work  is  done  ! 
ilome  forth,  ye  Old  Men,  now  in  peaceful  show 
\nd  greet  your  Sons  ! drums  beat  and  trumpets  blow! 
Vlake  merry,  Wives  I ye  little  Children,  stun 
four  Grandames’  ears  with  pleasure  of  your  noise: 
illap,  Infants,  clap  your  hands  ! Divine  must  be 
Phat  triumph,  when  the  very  worst,  the  pain, 

\nd  even  the  prospect  of  our  Brethren  slain, 
lath  something  in  it  which  the  heart  enjoys:  — 
n glory  will  they  sleep  and  endless  sanctity. 

XXV. 

NOVEMBER,  1806. 

Another  year  I — another  deadly  blow  ! 

Another  mighty  empire  overthrown  ! 

Vnd  We  are  left,  or  shall  be  left,  alone; 
rhe  last  tiiat  dare  to  struggle  with  the  Foe. 
r is  well ! from  this  day  forward  we  shall  know 
i’hat  in  ourselves  our  safety  must  be  sought; 
i’hat  by  our  own  right  hand  it  must  be  wrought, 
i’hat  we  must  stand  unpropped,  or  be  laid  low. 

) Dastard  whom  such  foretaste  doth  not  cheer ! 

Ve  shall  exult,  if  They  who  rule  the  land 
?e  Men  who  hold  its  many  blessings  dear. 

Vise,  upright,  valiant;  not  a servile  Band, 

Vho  are  to  judge  of  danger  which  they  fear, 

Vnd  honour  which  they  do  not  understand. 


XXVI.  — ODE. 

Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine, 

^nd  binds  her  temples  with  the  civic  wreath! 

Vhat  joy  to  read  the  promise  of  her  mien  ! 
low  sweet  to  rest  her  wide-spread  wings  beneath ! 
But  they  are  ever  playing. 

And  twinkling  in  the  light, 

And,  if  a breeze  be  straying. 

That  breeze  she  will  invite; 

^nd  stands  on  tiptoe,  conscious  she  is  fair, 

Vnd  calls  a look  of  love  into  her  face, 

Vnd  spreads  her  arms  — as  if  the  general  air 
\lone  could  satisfy  her  wide  embrace. 

— Melt,  Principalities,  before  her  melt! 
ler  love  ye  hailed  — her  wrath  have  felt ! 

3ut  She  through  many  a change  of  form  hath  gone, 
Vnd  stands  amidst  you  now,  an  armed  Creature, 
.Vhose  panoply  is  not  a thing  put  on, 

2H 


But  the  live  scales  of  a portentous  nature; 

That,  having  wrought  its  way  from  birth  to  birth. 
Stalks  round  — abhorred  by  Heaven,  a terror  to  the 
Earth ! 

2. 

I marked  the  breathings  of  her  dragon  crest; 

My  Soul,  a sorrowful  Interpreter, 

In  many  a midnight  vision  bowed 
Before  the  ominous  aspect  of  her  spear  ; 

Whether  tlie  mighty  Beam  in  scorn  uplield. 
Threatened  her  foes,  or  pompously  at  rest. 

Seemed  to  bisect  her  orbed  shield. 

As  stretches  a blue  bar  of  solid  cloud 

Across  the  setting  Sun,  and  through  the  fiery  West. 

3. 

So  did  she  daunt  the  Earth,  and  God  defy ! 

And,  wheresoe’er  she  spread  her  sovereignty. 

Pollution  tainted  all  that  was  most  pure. 

— Have  we  not  known  — and  live  we  not  to  toll  — 
That  Justice  seemed  to  hear  her  final  knell  I 
Faith  buried  deeper  in  her  own  deep  breast 

Her  stores,  and  sighed  to  find  them  insecure  ! 

And  Hope  was  maddened  by  the  drops  that  felt 
From  shades,  her  chosen  place  of  short-lived  rest : 
Shame  followed  shame — and  woe  supplanted  woe  — 
Is  this  the  only  change  that  time  can  show  ^ 

How  long  shall  vengeance  sleep!  Ye  patient  Heavens, 
how  long! 

— Infirm  ejaculation  ! from  the  tongue 
Of  Nations  wanting  virtue  to  be  strong 
Up  to  the  measure  of  accorded  might. 

And  daring  not  to  feel  the  majesty  of  right ! 

4. 

Weak  Spirits  are  there  — who  would  ask 
Upon  the  pressure  of  a painful  thing. 

The  Lion’s  sinews,  or  the  Eagle’s  wing; 

Or  let  their  wishes  lose,  in  forest  glade. 

Among  the  lurking  powers 
Of  herbs  and  lowly  flowers. 

Or  seek,  from  Saints  above,  miraculous  aid  ; 

That  Man  may  be  accomplislied  for  a task 
Which  his  own  Nature  hath  enjoined  — and  why!' 

If,  when  that  interference  hath  relieved  him, 

He  must  sink  down  to  languish 
In  worse  than  former  helplessness  — and  lie 

Till  the  caves  roar,  — and,  imbecility 
Again  engendering  anguish. 

The  same  weak  wish  returns,  that  had  before  deceived 
him. 

5. 

But  Thou,  Supreme  Disposer ! may’st  not  speed 
The  course  of  things,  and  change  the  creed. 

Which  hath  been  left  aloft  before  Men’s  sight 
Since  the  first  framing  of  societies, 

22* 


258 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whither,  as  Bards  have  told  in  ancient  song, 
Built  up  by  soft  seducing  harmonies; 

Or  prest  together  by  the  appetite, 

And  by  the  power,  of  wrong  ! 


PART  SECOND. 

I. 

ON  A CELEBRATED  EVENT  IN  ANCIENT  HISTORY. 
A Roman  Master  stands  on  Grecian  ground. 

And  to  the  Concourse  of  the  Isthmian  Games 
He,  by  his  Herald’s  voice,  aloud  proclaims 
The  Liberty  of  Greece  : — the  words  rebound 
Until  all  voices  in  one  voice  are  drowned  ; 

Glad  acclamation  by  which  air  was  rent! 

And  birds,  high  flying  in  the  element. 

Dropped  to  the  earth,  astonished  at  the  sound ! 

— A melancholy  Echo  of  that  noise 

Doth  something  hang  on  musing  Fancy’s  ear: 

Ah  ! that  a Conqueror's  word  should  be  so  dear  : 

Ah  ! that  a boon  could  shed  such  rapturous  joys! 

A gift  of  that  wliich  is  not  to  be  given 

By  all  the  blended  powers  of  Earth  and  Heaven. 


II. 

UPON  THE  SAME  EVENT. 

When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of  morn 
The  tidings  passed  of  servitude  repealed. 

And  of  that  joy  which  shook  the  Isthmian  Field, 

The  rough  Altolians  smiled  with  bitter  scorn. 

“ ’T  is  known,”  cried  they,  “ that  he  who  would  adorn 
His  envied  temples  with  the  Isthmian  Crown, 

Must  either  win,  through  effort  of  his  own. 

The  prize,  or  be  content  to  see  it  worn 
By  more  deserving  brows.  — Yet  so  ye  prop. 

Sons  of  the  Brave  who  fought  at  Marathon  ! 

Your  feeble  Spirits.  Greece  her  head  hath  bowed. 

As  if  the  wreath  of  Liberty  thereon 
Would  fix  itself  as  smoothly  as  a cloud, 

Which,  at  Jove’s  will,  descends  on  Pelion’s  top.” 


HI. 

TO  THOMAS  CLARKSON, 

ON  THE  FINAL  PASSING  OF  THE  BILL  FOR  THE  ABOLI- 
TION OF  THE  SLAVE  TRADE,  MARCH,  1807. 

Clarkson  ! it  was  an  obstinate  Hill  to  climb : 

How  toilsome  — nay,  how  dire  it  was,  by  Thee 
Is  known,  — by  none,  perhaps,  so  feelingly ; 

But  Tliou,  who,  starting  in  thy  fervent  prime, 

Didst  first  lead  forth  this  pilgrimage  sublime. 

Hast  heard  the  constant  Voice  its  charge  repeat. 
Which,  out  of  thy  young  heart’s  oracular  scat, 
irst  roused  thee.  — O true  yoke-fellow  of  Time 


With  unabating  effort,  see,  the  palm 
Is  won,  and  by  all  Nations  shall  be  worn ! 

The  bloody  writing  is  for  ever  torn. 

And  Thou  henceforth  shalt  have  a good  Man’s  calm, 
A great  Man’s  happiness ; thy  zeal  shall  find 
Repose  at  length,  firm  Friend  of  human  kind  I 


IV. 

A PROPHECY.  — FEBRUARY,  1807. 
High  deeds,  O Germans,  are  to  come  from  you  ! 
Thus  in  your  Books  the  record  shall  be  found, 

“A  watchword  was  pronounced,  a potent  sound, 
Arminius!  — all  the  people  quaked  like  dew 
Stirred  by  the  breeze  — they  rose,  a Nation,  true. 
True  to  herself — the  mighty  Germany, 

She  of  the  Danube  and  the  Northern  sea. 

She  rose,  and  off  at  once  the  yoke  she  threw. 

All  power  was  given  her  in  the  dreadful  trance; 
Those  new-born  Kings  she  withered  like  a flame.” 
— Woe  to  them  all ! but  heaviest  woe  and  shame 
To  that  Bavarian  who  did  first  advance 
His  banner  in  accursed  league  with  France, 

First  open  Traitor  to  a sacred  name  ! 


V. 

Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars 
Through  the  gray  west ; and  lo ! these  waters,  steeled 
By  breezeless  air  to  smoothest  polish,  yield 
A vivid  repetition  of  the  stars: 

Jove  — Venus  — and  the  ruddy  crest  of  Mars, 

Amid  his  fellows  beauteously  revealed 
At  happy  distance  from  earth’s  groaning  field. 

Where  ruthless  mortals  wage  incessant  wars. 

Is  it  a mirror  ? — or  the  nether  sphere 
Opening  to  view  the  abyss  in  which  it  feeds 
Its  own  calm  fires'?  — But  list!  a voice  is  near  ; 

Great  Pan  himself  low-whispering  through  the  reeds 
“ Be  thankful,  thou ; for,  if  unholy  deeds 
Ravage  the  world,  tranquillity  is  here !” 


VI. 

Go  back  to  antique  Ages,  if  thine  eyes 
The  genuine  mien  and  character  would  trace 
Of  the  rash  Spirit  that  still  holds  her  place, 
Prompting  the  World’s  audacious  vanities  ! 
See,  at  her  call,  the  Tower  of  Babel  rise; 
The  Pyramid  extend  its  monstrous  base. 

For  some  Aspirant  of  our  short-lived  race, 
Anxious  an  aery  name  to  immortalize. 

There,  too,  ere  wiles  and  politic  dispute 
Gave  specious  colouring  to  aim  and  act, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2r)0 


See  the  first  mighty  Hunter  leave  the  brute  — 
To  chase  mankind,  with  men  in  armies  packed 
For  his  field  pastime,  high  and  absolute. 

While,  to  dislodge  his  game,  cities  are  sacked  ! 


VII. 

COMPOSED  WHILE  THE  AUTHOR  WAS  ENGAGED  IN  WRITING  A TRACT, 
OCCASIONED  BV  THE  CONVENTION  OF  CINTRA,  ISOS. 

Not  ’mid  the  World’s  vain  objects  ! that  enslave 
The  free-born  Soul, — that  World  whose  vaunted  skill 
In  selfish  interest  perverts  the  will. 

Whose  factions  lead^istray  the  wise  and  brave  ; 

Not  there ! but  in  dark  wood  and  rocky  cave, 

And  hollow  wave  which  foaming  torrents  fill 
With  Omnipresent  murmur  as  they  rave 
Down  their  steep  beds,  that  never  shall  be  still : 

Here,  mighty  Nature  ! in  this  school  sublime 
I weigh  the  hopes  and  fears  of  suflering  Spain  : 

For  her  consult  the  auguries  of  time, 

And  through  the  human  heart  explore  my  way. 

And  look,  and  listen  — gathering,  whence  I may, 
Triumph,  and  thoughts  no  bondage  can  restrain. 

VIIL 

COMPOSED  AT  THE  SAME  TIME,  AND  ON  THE  SAME 
OCCASION. 

I DROPPED  my  pen;  — and  listened  to  the  wind 
That  sang  of  trees  up-torn  and  vessels  tost ; 

A midnight  harmony,  and  wholly  lost 
To  the  general  sense  of  men  by  chains  confined 
Of  business,  care,  or  pleasure,  — or  resigned 
To  timely  sleep.  Thought  I,  the  impassioned  strain. 
Which,  without  aid  of  numbers,  I sustain, 

I, ike  acceptation  from  the  World  will  find. 

Yet  some  with  apprehensive  ear  shall  drink 
A.dirge  devoutly  breathed  o’er  sorrows  past. 

And  to  the  attendant  promise  will  give  heed  — 

The  prophecy,  — like  that  of  this  wild  blast. 

Which,  while  it  makes  the  heart  with  sadness  shrink. 
Tells  also  of  bright  calms-  that  shall  succeed. 


IX. 

* II  OFFER. 

Of  mortal  Parents  is  the  Hero  born 

By  whom  the  undaunted  Tyrolese  are  led  1 

Or  is  it  Tell’s  great  Spirit,  from  the  dead 

Returned  to  animate  an  age  forlorn  1 

He  comes  like  Phoebus  through  the  gates  of  morn 

When  dreary  darkness  is  discomfited 

Yet  mark  his  modest  state ! upon  his  head. 

That  simple  crest,  a heron’s  plume,  is  worn. 

O Liberty  ! they  stagger  at  the  shock ; 

The  Murderers  are  aghast ; they  strive  to  flee. 


And  half  their  Host  is  buried : — rock  on  rock 
Descends:  — beneath  this  godlike  Warrior,  sec ! 

Hills,  Torrents,  Woods,  embodied  to  bcmock 
The  Tyrant,  and  confound  his  cruelty. 

X. 

Advance  — come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground. 
Dear  Liberty  ! stern  Nymph  of  soul  untamed. 

Sweet  Nymph,  O rightly  of  the  mountains  named  ! 
Through  the  long  chain  of  Alps  from  mound  to  mouiiC 
And  o’er  the  eternal  snows,  like  Echo,  bound,  — 

Like  Echo,  when  the  Hunter-train  at  dawn 
Have  roused  her  from  her  sleep:  and  forest-lawn. 
Cliffs,  woods,  and  caves,  her  viewless  steps  resound 
And  babble  of  her  pastime  ! — On,  dread  Power ! 

With  such  invisible  motion  speed  thy  flight. 

Through  hanging  clouds,  from  craggy  height  to  height. 
Through  the  green  vales  and  through  the  Herdsman's 
bower. 

That  all  the  Alps  may  gladden  in  thy  might. 

Here,  there,  and  in  all  places  at  one  hour. 


XL 

FEELINGS  OF  THE  TYROLESE. 

The  Land  we  from  our  Fathers  had  in  trust, 

And  to  our  Children  will  transmit,  or  die: 

This  is  our  maxim,  this  our  piety; 

And  God  and  Nature  say  that  it  is  just. 

That  which  we  would  perform  in  arms  — we  must! 
We  read  the  dictate  in  the  Infant’s  eye  ; 

In  the  Wife’s  smile;  and  in  the  placid  sky; 

And,  at  our  feet,  amid  the  silent  dust 
Of  them  that  were  before  us,  sing  aloud 
Old  songs,  the  precious  music  of  the  heart ! 

Give,  Herds  and  flocks,  your  voices  to  the  wind  ! 
While  we  go  forth,  a self-devoted  crowd. 

With  weapons  in  the  fearless  hand,  to  assert 
Our  virtue,  and  to  vindicate  mankind. 


XII. 

Alas  ! what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest 
Of  moral  prudence,  sought  through  good  and  ill ; 
Or  pains  abstruse  — to  elevate  the  will. 

And  lead  us  on  to  that  transcendent  rest 
Where  every  passion  shall  the  sway  attest 
Of  Reason,  seated  on  her  sovereign  hill ; 

What  is  it  but  a vain  and  curious  skill. 

If  sapient  Germany  must  lie  deprest. 

Beneath  the  brutal  sword  1 Her  haughty  Schools 
Shall  blush ; and  may  not  we  with  sorrow  say, 

A few  strong  instincts  and  a few  plain  rules. 
Among  the  herdsmen  of  the  Alps,  have  wrought 
More  for  mankind  at  this  unhappy  day 
Than  all  the  pride  of  intellect  and  thought? 


260 


WORDSWORTH  S POETICAi.  WORKS. 


XIII. 

And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales, 

There,  and  there  only,  that  the  heart  is  true! 
And,  rising  to  repel  or  to  subdue, 

Is  it  by  rocks  and  woods  that  man  prevails  ? 

Ah,  no ! though  Nature’s  dread  protection  fails. 
There  is  a bulwark  in  the  soul.  This  knew 
Iberian  Burghers  when  the  sword  they  drew 
In  Zaragoza,  naked  to  the  gales 
Of  fiercely-breathing  war.  The  truth  was  felt 
By  Palafox,  and  many  a brave  Compeer, 

Like  him  of  noble  birth  and  noble  mind  ; 

By  Ladies,  meek-eyed  Women  without  fear ; 
And  Wanderers  of  the  street,  to  whom  is  dealt 
The  bread  which  without  industry  they  find. 


XIV. 

O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain. 
Dwells  in  the  affections  and  the  soul  of  man 
A Godhead,  like  the  universal  Pan, 

But  more  exalted,  with  a brighter  train : 

And  shall  his  bounty  be  dispensed  in  vain. 

Showered  equally  on  city  and  on  ffeld, 

'Vnd  neither  hope  nor  steadfast  promise  yield 
n these  usurping  times  of  fear  and  pain  1 
Such  doom  awaits  us.  Nay,  forbid  it  Heaven ! 

We  know  the  arduous  strife,  the  eternal  laws 
To  which  the  triumph  of  all  good  is  given. 

High  sacriffce,  and  labour  without  pause. 

Even  to  the  death : — else  wherefore  should  the  eye 
Of  man  converse  with  immortality  1 


XV. 

ON  THE  FINAL  SUBMISSION  OF  THE  TYROLESE. 

It  was  a moral  end  for  which  they  fought ; 

Else  how,  when  mighty  Thrones  were  put  to  shame. 
Could  they,  poor  Shepherds,  have  preserved  an  aim, 
A resolution,  or  enlivening  thought  1 
Nor  hath  that  moral  good  been  vainly  sought ; 

For  in  their  magnanimity  and  fame 

Powers  have  they  left,  an  impulse,  and  a claim 

Which  neither  can  be  overturned  nor  bought. 

Sleep,  Warriors,  sleep ! among  your  hills  repose  ! 
We  know  that  ye,  beneath  the  stern  control 
Of  awful  prudence,  keep  the  unvanquished  soul. 
And,  when  impatient  of  her  guilt  and  woes 
Europe  breaks  forth,  then.  Shepherds ! shall  ye  rise 
For  perfeo*  triumnh  o’er  your  Enemies. 


XVI. 

Hail,  Zaragoza  ! If  with  unwet  eye 
We  can  approach,  thy  sorrow  to  behold. 

Yet  is  the  heart  not  pitiless  nor  cold ; 

Such  spectacle  demands  not  tear  or  sigh. 

These  desolate  Remains  are  trophies  high 
Of  more  than  martial  courage  in  the  breast 
Of  peaceful  civic  virtue  :*  they  attest 
Thy  matchless  worth  to  all  posterity. 

Blood  ffowed  before  thy  sight  without  remorse : 
Disease  consumed  thy  vitals  ; War  upheaved 
Tlie  ground  beneath  thee  with  volcanic  force ; 
Dread  trials ! yet  encountered  and  sustained 
Till  not  a wreck  of  help  or  hope  remained. 

And  Law  was  from  necessity  received. 


XVII. 

Say  what  is  Honour  1 — ’T  is  the  finest  sense 
Of  justice  which  the  human  mind  can  frame. 
Intent  each  lurking  frailty  to  disclaim, 

And  guard  the  way  of  life  from  all  offence 
Suffered  or  done.  When  lawless  violence 
A Kingdom  doth  assault,  and  in  the  scale 
Of  perilous  war  her  weightiest  Armies  fail. 
Honour  is  hopeful  elevation  — whence 
Glory,  and  Triumph.  Yet  with  politic  skill 
Endangered  Stales  may  yield  to  terms  unjust. 
Stoop  their  proud  heads,  but  not  unto  the  dust,  — 
A Foe’s  most  ravourite  purpose  to  fulfil : 

Happy  occasions  oft  by  self-mistrust 
Are  forfeited ; but  infamy  doth  kill. 


XVIII. 

The  martial  courage  of  a day  is  vain. 

An  empty  noise  of  death  the  battle’s  roar, 

If  vital  hope  be  wanting  to  restore. 

Or  fortitude  be  wanting  to  sustain. 

Armies  or  Kingdoms.  We  have  hearo  a strain 
Of  triumph,  how  the  labouring  Danube  bore 
A weight  of  hostile  corses;  drenched  with  gore 
Were  the  wide  fields,  the  hamlets  heaped  witn  slain. 
Yet  see,  the  mighty  tumult  overpast, 

Austria  a Daughter  of  her  Throne  hath  sold  ' 

And  her.  Tyrolean  Champion  we  beliold 
Murdered  like  one  ashore  by  shipwreck  cast. 
Murdered  without  relief.  Oh  ! blind  as  bold, 

To  lliink  that  such  assurance  can  stand  fast ! 


• See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  THE  I M AGIN  ATIO.N  . 


2G1 


XIX. 

Brave  Scliill ! by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight 
From  Prussia’s  timid  region.  Go,  and  rest 
With  heroes,  ’mid  the  Islands  of  tlie  Blest, 

Or  in  the  Fields  of  empyrean  light. 

A meteor  wert  thou  in  a darksome  night; 

Yet  shall  thy  name,  conspicuous  and  sublime, 
Stand  in  the  spacious  firmament  of  time. 

Fixed  as  a star : such  glory  is  thy  right. 

Alas ! it  may  not  be : for  earthly  fiime 
Is  Fortune’s  frail  Dependant;  yet  there  lives 
A Judge,  who,  as  man  claims  by  merit,  gives ; 

To  whose  all-pondering  mind  a noble  aim. 
Faithfully  kept,  is  as  a noble  deed ; 

In  whose  pure  sight  all  virtue  doth  succeed. 


XX. 

Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate. 

Who  never  did  to  Fortune  bend  the  knee ; 

Who  slighted  fear,  rejected  steadfastly 
Temptation ; and  whose  kingly  name  and  state 
Have  “ perished  by  his  choice,  and  not  his  fate  !” 
Hence  lives  He,  to  his  inner  self  endeared ; 

And  hence,  wherever  virtue  is  revered. 

He  sits  a more  exalted  Potentate,  , 

Throned  in  the  hearts  of  men.  Should  Heaven  ordain 
That  this  great  Servant  of  a righteous  cause 
Must  still  have  sad  or  vexing  thoughts  to  endure. 

Yet  may  a sympathising  spirit  pause. 

Admonished  by  these  truths,  and  quench  all  pain 
In  thankful  joy  and  gratulation  pure.* 


XXI. 

Loon,  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid 
His  vows  to  Fortune;  who,  in  cruel  slight 
Of  virtuous  hope,  of  liberty,  and  right. 

Hath  followed  wheresoe’er  a way  was  made 
By  the  blind  Goddess;  — ruthless,  undismayed; 

And  so  hath  gained  at  length  a prosperous  Height, 
Round  which  the  Elements  of  worldly  might 
Beneath  his  haughty  feet,  like  clouds,  are  laid. 

O joyless  power  that  stands  by  lawless  force ! 

* In  this  and  a former  Sonnet,  in  honour  of  the  same  Sovereign, 
let  me  be  understood  as  a Poet  availing  himself  of  the  situation 
which  the  King  of  Sweden  occupied,  and  of  the  principles 
avowed  in  his  manifestoes ; as  laying  hold  of  these  advantages 
for  the  purpose  of  embodying  moral  truths.  This  remark 
might,  perhaps,  as  well  have  been  suppressed  ; for  to  those  who 
may  be  in  sympathy  with  the  course  of  these  Poems,  it  will  be 
superfluous;  and  will,  I fear,  be  thrown  away  upon  that  other 
class,  whose  besotted  admiration  of  the  intoxicated  despot  here 
placed  in  contrast  with  him,  is  the  most  melancholy  evidence 
if  degradation  in  British  feeling  and  intellect  which  the  times 
nave  furnished. 


Curses  are  his  dire  portion,  scorn,  and  hate. 
Internal  darkness  and  unqtiiet  breath; 

And,  if  old  judgments  keep  their  sacred  course. 
Him  from  tliat  Height  shall  Heaven  precipitate 
By  violent  and  ignominious  death. 


XXII. 

Is  there  a Pow'er  that  can  sustain  and  cheer 
The  captive  ChieftaifI,  by  a Tyrant’s  doom. 
Forced  to  descend  alive  into  his  tomb, 

A dungeon  dark  ! where  he  must  waste  the  year. 
And  lie  cut  off  from  all  his  heart  holds  dear; 
What  time  his  injured  Country  is  a stage 
Whereon  deliberate  Valour  and  the  Rage 
Of  rigliteous  vengeance  side  by  side  appear. 
Filling  from  morn  to  night  the  heroic  scene 
With  deeds  of  hope  and  everlasting  praise  ; 

Say,  can  he  tliink  of  this  with  mind  serene 
And  silent  fetters!  Yes,  if  visions  bright 
Shine  on  his  soul,  reflected  from  the  days 
When  he  himself  was  tried  in  open  light. 


XXIII.  — 1810. 

Ah  ! W’here  is  Palafox ! Nor  tongue  nor  pen 
Reports  of  him,  his  dw'elling  or  his  grave! 

Does  yet  the  unheard-of  Vessel  ride  the  wave! 

Or  is  she  swallowed  up,  remote  from  ken 
Of  pitying  human-nature ! Once  again 
Methinks  that  we  shall  liail  thee.  Champion  brave, 
Redeemed  to  baffle  that  imperial  Slave, 

And  through  all  Europe  cheer  desponding  men 
With  new-born  hope.  Unbounded  is  the  might 
Of  martyrdom,  and  fortitude,  and  right. 

Hark,  how  thy  Country  triumphs ! — Smilingly 
The  Eternal  looks  upon  her  sword  that  gleams. 
Like  his  own  lightning,  over  mountains  high. 

On  rampart,  and  the  banks  of  all  her  streams. 


XXIV. 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite. 

The  rude  Biscayans,  when  their  Children  lie 
Dead  in  the  sinless  time  of  infancy. 

Attire  the  peaceful  Corse  in  vestments  white ; 
And,  in  like  sign  of  cloudless  triumph  bright. 
They  bind  the  unoffending  Creature’s  brows 
With  happy  garlands  of  the  pure  white  rose: 
This  done,  a festal  Company  unite 
In  choral  song;  and,  while  the  uplifted  Cross 
Of  Jesus  goes  before,  the  Child  is  borne 
Uncovered  to  his  grave.  Her  piteous  loss 
The  lonesome  Mother  cannot  choose  but  mourn , 
Yet  soon  by  Christian  faith  is  grief  subdued. 

And  joy  attends  upon  her  fortitude. 


2G2 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXV. 

. FEELINGS  OF  A NOBLE  BISCAYAN  AT  ONE  OF 
THESE  FUNERALS.  — 1810. 

Yet,  yet,  Biscayans  ! we  must  meet  our  Foes 
With  firmer  soul,  yet  labour  to  regain 
Our  ancient  freedom  ; else ’t  were  worse  than  vaiir 
To  gather  round  the  Bier  these  festal  shows. 

V garland  fashioned  of  the  pure  white  rose 
Becomes  not  one  whose  Father  is  a slave : 

Oh,  bear  the  Infant  covered  to  his  Grave  ! 

These  venerable  mountains  now  enclose 
A People  sunk  in  apathy  and  fear. 

If  this  endure,  farewell,  for  us,  all  good ! 

The  awful  light  of  heavenly  Innocence 
Will  fail  to  illuminate  the  Infant’s  bier; 

And  guilt  and  shame,  from  which  is  no  defence, 
Descend  on  all  that  issues  from  our  blood. 

XXVI. 

THE  OAK  OF  GUERNICA. 

The  ancient  oak  of  Gueniica,  says  Laborde  in  his  account  of 
Biscay,  is  a most  venerable  natural  monument.  Ferdinand  and 
Isabella,  in  the  year  1476,  after  hearing  mass  in  the  Church  of 
Santa  Maria  de  la  Antigua,  repaired  to  this  tree,  under  which 
they  swore  to  the  Biscayans  to  m.aintain  their /uero.'s  (privileges.) 
What  other  interest  belongs  to  it  in  the  minds  of  this  People  will 
appear  from  the  following 

SUPPOSED  ADDRESS  OF  THE  SAME.— 1810. 

O.VK  of  Guernica  ! Tree  of  holier  power 
Than  that  which  in  Dodona  did  enshrine 
(So  faith  too  fondly  deemed)  a voice  divine. 

Heard  from  the  depths  of  its  aerial  bower. 

How  canst  thou  flourish  at  this  blighting  hour] 

What  hope,  what  joy  can  sunshine  bring  to  thee, 

Or  the  soft  breezes  from  the  Atlantic  sea. 

The  dews  of  morn,  or  April’s  tender  shower  T 
Stroke  merciful  and  welcome  would  that  be 
Which  should  extend  thy  branches  on  the  ground. 

If  never  more  within  their  shady  round 
Those  lolly-minded  Lawgivers  shall  meet. 

Peasant  and  Lord,  in  their  appointed  seat, 

Guardians  of  Biscay’s  ancient  liberty. 


XXVII. 

INDIGN.\TION  OF  A HIGH-MINDED  SPANIARD.— 1310. 

We  can  endure  that  He  should  waste  our  lands. 
Despoil  our  temples,  and  by  sword  and  flame 
Return  us  to  the  dust  from  which  w'e  came  ; 

Such  food  a Tyrant’s  appetite  demands : 

And  we  can  brook  the  thought  that  by  his  hands 


Spain  may  be  overpowered,  and  he  possess. 

For  his  delight,  a solemn  wilderness. 

Where  all  the  brave  lie  dead.  But,  when  of  bands 
Which  he  will  break  for  us  he  dares  to  speak, 

Of  benefits,  and  of  a future  day 
When  our  enlightened  minds  shall  bless  his  sw'aj', 
Then,  the  strained  heart  of  fortitude  proves  weak ; 
Our  groans,  our  blushes,  our  pale  cheeks  declare 
That  he  has  power  to  inflict  what  we  lack  strength  to 
bear.* 


XXVIII. 

.Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind 
In  men  of  low  degree,  all  smooth  pretence ! 

I better  like  a blunt  indifference 
And  self-respecting  slowness,  disinclined 
To  win  me  at  first  sight : and  be  there  joined 
Patience  and  temperance  with  this  high  reserve. 
Honour  that  knows  the  path  and  will  not  swerve ; 
Affections,  which,  if  put  to  proof,  are  kind; 

And  piety  towards  God.  Such  Men  of  old 

Were  England’s  native  growth  ; and,  throughout  Spain, 

Forests  of  such  do  at  this  day  remain : 

Then  for  that  Country  let  our  hopes  be  bold ; 

For  matched  with  these  shall  policy  prove  vain, 

Her  arts,  her  strength,  her  iron,  and  her  gold. 


XXIX.  — 1810. 

O’erweemng  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied 
On  fleets  and  armies,  and  external  wealth : 

But  from  within  proceeds  a Nation’s  health  ; 

Which  shall  not  fail,  though  poor  men  cleave  with  pride 
To  the  paternal  floor  ; or  turn  aside. 

In  the  thronged  City,  from  the  walks  of  gain. 

As  being  all  unworthy  to  detain 
A Soul  by  contemplation  sanctified. 

There  are  who  cannot  languish  in  this  strife, 
Spaniards  of  every  rank,  by  whom  the  good 
Of  such  high  course  was  felt  and  understood ; 

Who  to  their  Country’s  cause  have  bound  a life, 

Erewhile  by  solemn  consecration  given 

To  labour,  and  to  prayer,  to  nature,  and  to  Ileaven.f 


*friie  student  of  English  Poetry  will  call  to  mind  Cowley’s 
impas-sioned  expression  of  the  indignation  of  a Briton  under  the 
depression  of  disasters  somewhat  similar  : 

“ L(it  rather  Roman  come  again. 

Or  Saxon.  Norman,  or  the  Dane  ; 

In  all  the  bonds  we  ever  boro. 

We  grieved,  we  aigheil,  we  wept ; me  nntr  blushed  before.'' 

'Discourse  on  the  Government  of  Oliver  Cromwell. — H.  R.] 
t See  Laltorde’s  Character  of  the  Spanish  People : from  h’tj 
the  sentiment  of  these  last  two  lines  is  taken 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2G3 


XXX. 

niE  FRENCH  AND  THE  SPANISH  GUERILLAS. 
Hunger,  and  sultry  heat,  and  nipping  blast 
From  bleak  liill-top,  and  length  of  march  by  night 
Through  heavy  swamp,  or  over  snow-clad  height. 
These  hardsiiips  ill  sustained,  these  dangers  past, 

The  roving  Spanish  Bands  are  reached  at  last, 

( harged,  and  dispersed  like  foam  : but  as  a flight 
Of  scattered  quails  by  signs  do  reunite. 

So  these,  — and,  heard  of  once  again,  are  chased 

% 

With  combinations  of  long-practised  art 
And  newly-kindled  hope ; but  they  are  fled, 

Gone  are  they,  viewless  as  the  buried  dead ; 

\Vdiere  now  1 — Their  sword  is  at  the  Foeman’s  heart! 
And  thus  from  year  to  year  his  walk  they  tliwart. 

And  hang  like  dreams  around  his  guilty  bed. 


XXXIII.  — 1811. 

Here  pause;  the  poet  claims  at  least  this  praise. 
That  virtuous  Liberty  hatli  been  the  scope 
Of  his  pure  song,  which  did  not  shrink  from  hope 
In  the  worst  moment  of  these  evil  days  ; 

From  hope,  the  paramount  dutij  that  Heaven  lays. 
For  its  own  honour,  on  man’s  suffering  lieart.f 
Never  may  from  our  souls  one  truth  depart. 

That  an  accursed  thing  it  is  to  gaze 
On  prosperous  Tyrants  with  a dazzled  eye; 

Nor,  touclied  with  due  abhorrence  of  their  guilt 
For  whose  dire  ends  tears  flow,  and  blood  is  spilt. 
And  justice  labours  in  extremity. 

Forget  thy  weakness,  upon  which  is  built, 

O wretched  Man,  the  Throne  of  Tyranny  ! 


XXXI. 

SPANISH  GUERILLAS,  1811. 

They  seek,  are  sought;  to  daily  battle  led. 

Shrink  not,  though  far  outnumbered  by  their  Foes, 
For  they  have  learnt  to  open  and  to  close 
The  ridges  of  grim  War;  and  at  their  head 
Are  Captains  such  as  erst  their  Country  bred 
Or  fostered,  self-supported  Chiefs,  — like  those 
Whom  hardy  Rome  was  fearful  to  oppose. 

Whose  desperate  shock  the  Carthaginian  fled. 

In  one  who  lived  unknown  a Shepherd’s  life. 
Redoubted  Viriatus  breathes  again ; 

And  IMina,  nourished  in  the  studious  shade. 

With  that  great  Leader*  vies,  who,  sick  of  strife 
And  bloodshed,  longed  in  quiet  to  be  laid 
In  some  green  Island  of  the  western  main. 


XXXII.  — 1811. 

The  power  of  Armies  is  a visible  thing. 

Formal,  and  circumscribed  in  time  and  space; 
But  who  the  limits  of  that  power  shall  trace 
Which  a brave  People  into  light  can  bring 
Or  hide,  at  will,  — for  Freedom  combating 
By  just  revenge  inflamed  1 No  foot  may  chase. 
No  eye  can  follow,  to  a fatal  place 
That  power,  that  spirit,  whether  on  the  wing 
Like  the  strong  wind,  or  sleeping  like  the  wind 
Within  its  awful  caves.  — From  year  to  year 
Springs  this  indigenous  produce  far  and  near 
No  craft;  this  subtle  element  can  bind. 

Rising  like  water  from  the  soil,  to  find 
In  every  nook  a lip  that  it  may  cheer. 


XXXIV. 

THE  FRENCH  ARMY  IN  RUSSIA.  — 1812-13. 

Humanity,  delighting  to  behold 
A fond  reflection  of  her  own  decay. 

Hath  painted  Winter  like  a Traveller  — old. 

Propped  on  a staff — and,  through  the  sullen  day. 

In  hooded  mantle,  limping  o’er  the  Plain, 

As  though  his  weakness  were  disturbed  by  pain" 

Or,  if  a juster  fancy  should  allow 
An  undisputed  symbol  of  command. 

The  chosen  sceptre  is  a withered  bough. 

Infirmly  gras()ed  within  a palsied  hand. 

These  emblems  suit  the  helpless  and  forlorn. 

But  mighty  Winter  the  device  shall  scorn. 

For  he  it  was  — dread  Winter!  who  beset. 

Flinging  round  van  and  rear  his  ghastly  net. 

That  host,  — when  from  the  regions  of  the  Pole 
They  shrunk,  insane  ambition’s  barren  goal. 

That  Host,  as  huge  and  strong  as  e’er  defied 
Their  God,  and  placed  their  trust  in  human  pride ! 

As  fathers  persecute  rebellious  sons. 

He  smote  the  blossoms  of  their  warrior  youth  ; 

He  called  on  Frost’s  ine.Yorable  tooth 
Life  to  consume  in  manhood’s  firmest  hold  ; 

Nor  spared  the  reverend  blood  that  feebly  runs; 

For  why,  unless  for  liberty  enrolled 

And  sacred  home,  ah  ! why  should  hoary  Age  be  bold  ! 

Fleet  the  Tartar’s  reinless  steed. 

But  fleeter  far  the  pinions  of  the  Wind, 

Which  from  Siberian  caves  the  Monarch  freed. 

And  sent  him  forth,  with  squadrons  of  his  kind, 

t[“\Vliat  an  awful  duty,  whal  a nurse  of  all  other,  the  faire=l 
virtues,  does  not  Hope  become!  We  are  bad  ourselves,  becau.se 
we  despair  of  the  goodness  of  oihers.” 

1 COLEUIUGE:  ‘The  Friend,’  Vol.  I.  p.  1T2.  — 11.  R.] 


‘Serlorius. 


264 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  W^ORKS. 


And  bade  the  Snow  their  ample  backs  bestride, 
And  to  the  battle  ride. 

No  pitying  voice  commands  a halt, 

No  courage  can  repe  the  dire  assault ; 
Distracted,  spiritless,  benumbed,  and  blind, 
Whole  legions  sink  — and,  in  one  instant,  find 
Burial  and  death  : look  for  them  — and  descry. 
When  morn  returns,  beneath  the  clear  blue  sky, 
A soundless  waste,  a trackless  vacancy ! 


XXXV. 

ON  TflE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Ye  Storms,  resound  the  praises  of  your  King! 

And  ye  mild  Seasons  — in  a sunny  clime, 

Midway  on  some  high  hill,  while  Father  Time 
I.ooks  on  delighted  — meet  in  festal  ring. 

And  loud  and  long  of  Winter’s  triumph  sing ! 

Sing  ye,  with  blossoms  crowned,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
Of  Winter’s  breath  surcharged  with  sleety  showers. 
And  tlie  dire  flapping  of  his  hoary  wing! 

Knit  the  blithe  dance  upon  the  soft  green  grass  ; 

With  feet,  hands,  eyes,  looks,  lips,  report  your  gain; 
Whisper  it  to  the  billows  of  the  main. 

And  to  the  aerial  zephyrs  as  they  pass, 

That  old  decrepit  Winter  — He  hath  slain 
That  Host,  w'hich  rendered  all  your  bounties  vain  ! 


XXXVI. 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a blaze 
Of  dreadful  sacrifice ; by  Russian  blood 
Lavished  in  fight  with  desperate  hardihood  ; 

The  unfeeling  Elements  no  claims  shall  raise 
To  rob  our  Human-nature  of  just  praise 
For  what  she  did  and  suffered.  Pledges  sure 
Of  a deliverance  absolute  and  pure 
She  gave,  if  Faith  miglit  tread  the  beaten  ways 
Of  Providence.  But  now  did  the  Most  High 
E.xalt  his  still  small  Voice  ; — to  quell  that  Host 
Gathered  his  Power,  a manifest  Ally ; 

He  whose  heaped  waves  confounded  the  proud  boast 
Of  Pharaoh,  said  to  Famine,  Snow,  and  Frost, 
Finish  the  strife  by  deadliest  Victory  ! 


xxxvir. 

THE  GERMANS  ON  THE  HEIGHTS  OF  HOCKHEIM. 
Abruitly  paused  the  Strife ; — the  field  throughout 
Resting  upon  his  arms  each  Warrior  stood. 

Checked  in  the  very  act  and  deed  of  blood. 

With  breath  suspended,  like  a listening  Scout. 

O Silence ! thou  wert  Mother  of  a shout 


That  through  the  texture  of  yon  azure  dome 
Cleaves  its  glad  w'ay,  a cry  of  harvest  home 
Uttered  to  Heaven  in  ecstasy  devout ! 

The  barrier  Rhine  hath  flashed,  through  battle-smoke 
On  men  who  gaze  heart-smitten  by  the  view 
As  if  all  Germany  had  felt  the  shock  ! 

Fly,  wretched  Gauls!  ere  they  the  charge  renew 
Who  have  seen  (themselves  delivered  from  the  yoke) 
The  unconquerable  Stream  his  course  pursue.* 


XXXVIII. 

NOVEMBER.  1813. 

Now  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  all  faces  bright. 

Our  aged  Sovereign  sits ; to  the  ebb  and  flow 
Of  states  and  kingdoms,  to  their  joy  or  woe. 
Insensible  ; he  sits  deprived  of  sight, 

And  lamentably  wrapt  in  twofold  night, 

Whom  no  weak  hopes  deceived  ; whose  mind  ensued. 
Through  perilous  war,  with  regal  fortitude. 

Peace  that  should  claim  re^ct  from  lawless  Might. 
Dread  King  of  kings,  vouchsafe  a ray  divine 
To  his  forlorn  condition  ! let  thy  grace 
Upon  his  inner  soul  in  mercy  shine ; 

Permit  his  heart  to  kindle,  and  embrace 
(Though  it  were  only  for  a moment’s  space) 

The  triumphs  of  this  hour ; for  they  are  Thine  ! 


XXXIX. 

ON  THE  DISINTERMENT  OF  THE  REMAINS  OF  THE 
DUKE  D’ENGHIEN. 

Dear  Reliques ! from  a pit  of  vilest  mould 
Uprisen  — to  lodge  among  ancestral  kings  ; 

And  to  inflict  shame’s  salutary  stings 
On  the  remorseless  hearts  of  men  grown  old 
In  a blind  worship;  men  perversely  bold 
Even  to  this  hour ; yet  at  this  hour  they  quake ; 

And  some  their  monstrous  Idol  shall  forsake. 

If,  to  the  living,  truth  was  ever  told 
By  aught  surrendered  from  the  hollow  grave: 

O murdered  Prince ! meek,  loyal,  pious,  brave  ! 

The  power  of  retribution  once  was  given  : 

But  ’tis  a rueful  thought  that  willow-bands 
So  often  tie  the  thunder-wielding  hands 
Of  Justice  sent  to  earth  from  highest  Heaven  ! 

* The  event  is  thusreeorded  in  the  joum.alsof  theday  —“When 
the  Austrians  took  Hoekheim,  in  one  part  of  the  engagement 
they  got  to  the  brow  of  the  hill,  whence  they  had  their  first 
view  of  the  Rhine.  They  instantly  halted  — not  a gun  w .as 
fired  — not  a voice  heard  ; they  stood  gazing  on  the  river  with 
those  feelings  which  the  events  of  the  last  fifteen  years  at  once 
called  up.  Prince  Schwarlzenhet^  nxle  up  to  know  the  cause 
of  this  sudden  slop  ; they  then  gave  three  cheers,  rushed  aftei 
the  enemy,  and  drove  them  iulo  the  water.” 


po k:\is  of  the  imagination. 


2G.5 


XL. 

occ.\sioni*:d  by  the  battle  oe  Waterloo. 

(TVdC  last  six  lines  intended  for  an  Inscription.) 
FEBRUAllY, 

Intrepid  sons  of  Albion  ! not  by  you 
Is  life  despised  ; ah  no,  the  spacious  earth 
Ne’er  saw  a race  who  held,  by  rijrht  of  birth. 

So  many  objects  to  which  love  is  due: 

Ye  slight  not  life  — to  God  and  Nature  true; 

But  death,  becoming  death,  is  dearer  far. 

When  duty  bids  you  bleed  in  open  war: 

Hence  hath  your  prowess  quelled  that  Impious  crew. 
Heroes!  for  instant  sacrifice  prepared. 

Yet  filled  with  ardour,  and  on  triumpli  bent 
’Mid  direst  shocks  of  mortal  accident. 

To  you  who  fell,  and  you  whom  slaughter  spared. 

To  guard  the  fallen,  and  consummate  the  event. 
Your  Country  rears  this  sacred  Monument! 


XLI. 

FEBRUARY,  1816. 

O,  for  a kindling  touch  of  that  pure  flame 
Which  taught  the  offering  of  song  to  rise 
From  thy  lone  bower,  beneath  Italian  skies, 

Great  Filicaia  ! With  celestial  aim 
It  rose  — thy  saintly  rapture  to  proclaim. 

Then,  wlien  the  imperial  City  stood  released 
From  bondage  threatened  by  the  embattled  East, 

And  Christendom  respired ; from  guilt  and  shame 
Redeemed,  from  miserable  fear  set  free 
By  one  day’s  feat,  one  mighty  victory. 

— Chant  the  Deliverer’s  praise  in  every  tongue ! 

The  cross  shall  spread,  the  crescent  hath  waxed  dim. 
He  conquering,  as  in  Earth  and  Heaven  was  sung. 

He  conquering  through  God,  and  God  by  him.* 

XLII. 

OCCASIONED  BY  THE  SAME  BATTLE. 
FEBRUARY,  1816. 

The  Bard,  whose  soul  is  meek  as  dawning  day. 

Yet  trained  to  judgments  righteously  severe; 

Fervid,  yet  conversant  with  holy  fear. 

As  recognising  one  Almighty  sway : 

*Ond  e ch’  lo  grido  e gridero:  giiignesti, 

Guerregiasti,  e vincesti  ; 

Si,  si,  vincesti,  o Campion  forte  e pio. 

Per  Dio  vincesti,  e per  te  vinse  Iddio. 

See  Filicaia’s  Canzone,  addressed  to  John  Sobieski,  king  of  Po- 
land, upon  his  raising  the  siege  of  Vienna.  This,  and  his  other 
poems  on  the  same  occasion,  are  superior  perhaps  to  any  lyrical 
pieces  that  contemporary  events  have  ever  given  birth  to,  those 
of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  alone  excepted. 


He  whose  experienced  eye  can  pierce  the  array 
Of  past  events,  — to  whom,  in  vision  clear. 

The  aspiring  heads  of  future  things  appear. 

Like  mountain-tops  whose  mists  have  rolled  away : 
Assoiled  from  all  encumbrance  of  our  timef, 

He  only,  if  such  breathe,  in  strains  devout 
Shall  comprehend  this  victory  sublime; 

And  worthily  rehearse  the  hideous  rout, 

Which  the  blest  Angels,  from  their  peacclul  clime 
Beholding,  welcomed  with  a choral  shout. 


XLIII. 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  Temple.-?  rung 
With  impious  thanksgiving,  the  Almighty’s  scorn  ! 
How  oft  above  their  Altars  have  been  hung 
Trophies  that  led  the  Good  and  Wise  to  mourn 
Triumphant  wrong,  battle  of  battle  born. 

And  sorrow  that  to  fruitless  sorrow  clung  ! 

Now,  from  Heaven-sanctioned  Victory,  Peace  is 
sprung ! 

In  this  firm  hour  Salvation  lifts  her  horn. 

Glory  to  arms!  but,  conscious  that  the  nerve 
Of  popular  Reason,  long  mistrusted,  freed 
Your  thrones,  ye  Powers ! from  duty  fear  to  swerve  ; 
Be  just,  be  grateful ; nor,  the  Oppressor’s  creed 
Reviving,  heavier  chastisement  deserve 
Tlian  ever  forced  unpitied  hearts  to  bleed. 


XLIV. 

ODE 

COAIPOSED  IN  JANUARY,  1816. 


Carmina  possumus 

Donare,  et  pretium  dicere  muneri. 

Non  incisa  notis  mannora  publicis. 

Per  quE  spiritus  et  vita  redit  bonis 
Post  mortem  ducibus 

clarius  indicant 

Laudes,  quam Pierides ; neque. 

Si  chartE  sileant  quod  bene  feceris, 
Mercedem  tuleris. IloR.  Car.  8.  Lib.  4. 


I. 

When  the  soft  hand  of  sleep  had  closed  the  latch 
On  the  tired  household  of  corporeal  sense, 

And  Fancy,  keeping  unreluctant  watch. 

Was  free  her  choicest  favours  to  dispense  ; 

I saw,  in  wondrous  perspective  displayed, 

A landscape  more  august  than  happiest  skill 
Of  pencil  ever  clothed  with  light  and  shade ; 

An  intermingled  pomp  of  vale  and  hill, 

t“From  all  this  world’s  encumbrance  did  himself  assoil.” 
Spenser 


23 


266 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


City,  and  naval  stream,  suburban  grove, 

And  stately  forest  where  the  wild  deer  rove ; 

Nor  wanted  lurking  hamlet,  dusky  towns. 

And  scattered  rural  farms  of  aspect  bright ; 

And,  here  and  there,  between  the  pastoral  downs. 

The  azure  sea  upswelled  upon  the  sight. 

Fair  prospect,  such  as  Britain  only  shows ! 

But  not  a living  creature  could  be  seen 
Through  its  wide  circuit,  that,  in  deep  repose, 

And,  even  to  sadness,  lonely  and  serene. 

Lay  hushed  — till  through  a portal  in  the  sky 
Brighter  than  brightest  loop-hole  in  a storm. 

Opening  before  the  sun's  triumphant  eye. 

Issued,  to  sudden  view,  a glorious  Form  ! 

Earthward  it  glided  with  a swift  descent : 

Saint  George  himself  this  Visitant  may  be ; 

And,  ere  a thought  could  ask  on  what  intent 
He  sought  the  regions  of  humanity, 

A thrilling  voice  was  heard,  that  vivified 
City  and  field  and  flood  ; — aloud  it  cried  — 

“ Though  from  my  celestial  home, 

“ Like  a Champion,  armed  I come  ; 

“ On  my  helm  the  dragon  crest, 

“And  the  red  cross  on  my  breast; 

“ I,  the  Guardian  of  this  Land, 

“Speak  not  now  of  toilsome  duty  — 

“ Well  obeyed  was  that  command, 

“ Hence  bright  days  of  festive  beauty  ; 
“Haste,  Virgins,  haste!  — the  flowers  which  summer 
gave 

“ Have  perished  in  the  field  ; 

“But  the  green  thickets  plenteously  shall  yield 
“ Fit  garlands  for  the  Brave, 

“ That  will  be  welcome,  if  by  you  entwined ; 

“ Haste,  Virgins,  haste ; — and  you,  ye  Matrons  grave, 
“Go  forth  with  rival  youthfulness  of  mind, 

“ And  gather  what  ye  find 
“ Of  hardy  laurel  and  wild  holly  boughs, 

“ To  deck  your  stern  defenders’  modest  brows ! 

“ Such  simple  gifts  prepare, 

“ Though  they  have  gained  a worthier  meed ; 

“And  indue  time  shall  share 
“ Those  palms  and  amaranthine  wreaths 
“ Unto  their  martyred  Countrymen  decreed, 

“ In  realms  where  everlasting  freshness  breathes  !” 

2. 

And  lo  ! with  crimson  banners  proudly  streaming, 
And  upright  weapons  innocently  gleaming, 

Along  the  surface  of  a spacious  plain 
Advance  in  order  the  redoubted  bands. 

And  there  receive  green  chaplets  from  the  hands 
Of  a fair  female  train. 

Maids  and  Matrons  — dight 

' In  robes  of  dazzling  white,  — 

L 


While  from  the  crowd  bursts  forth  a rapturous  noise 
By  the  cloud-capt  hills  retorted  — 

And  a throng  of  rosy  boys 
In  loose  fashion  tell  their  joys,  — 

And  gray-haired  Sires,  on  staffs  supported, 

Look  round  — and  by  their  smiling  seem  to  say, 

Thus  strives  a grateful  Country  to  display 
The  mighty  debt  which  nothing  can  repay ! 

3. 

Anon  before  my  sight  a palace  rose 
Built  of  all  precious  substances,  — so  pure 
And  exquisite,  that  sleep  alone  bestows 
Ability  like  splendour  to  endure  ; 

Entered,  with  streaming  thousands,  through  the  gate 
I saw  the  banquet  spread  beneath  a Dome  of  state, 

A lofty  Dome,  that  dared  to  emulate 
The  Heaven  of  sable  night 
With  starry  lustre ; and  had  power  to  throw 
Solemn  effulgence,  clear  as  solar  light. 

Upon  a princely  Company  below. 

While  the  Vault  rang  with  choral  harmony. 

Like  some  Nymph-haunted  Grot  beneath  the  roaring  sea. 
— No  sooner  ceased  that  peal,  than  on  the  verge 
Of  exultation  hung  a dirge. 

Breathed  from  a soft  and  lonely  instrument, 

That  kindled  recollections 
Of  agonised  affections ; 

And,  though  some  tears  the  strain  attended, 

The  mournful  passion  ended 
In  peace  of  spirit,  and  sublime  content! 

4. 

— But  garlands  wither,  — festal  shows  depart 
Like  dreams  themselves;  and  sweetest  sound. 

Albeit  of  effect  profound. 

It  was  — and  it  is  gone! 

Victorious  England  ! bid  the  silent  Art 
Reflect,  in  glowing  hues  that  shall  not  fade. 

These  high  achievements,  even  as  she  arrayed 
With  second  life  the  deed  of  Marathon, 

Upon  Athenian  walls: 

So  may  she  labour  for  thy  civic  halls; 

And  be  the  guardian  spaces 
Of  consecrated  places. 

As  nobly  graced  by  Sculpture’s  patient  toil; 

And  let  imperishable  structures  grow 
Fi.xed  in  the  depths  of  this  courageous  soil ; 
Expressive  signals  of  a glorious  strife. 

And  competent  to  shed  a spark  divine 
Into  the  torpid  breast  of  daily  life; 

Records  on  which  the  morning  sun  may  shine. 

As  changeful  ages  flow. 

With  gratulation  thoroughly  benign! 

5. 

And  ye,  Pierian  Sisters,  sprung  from  Jcve 
And  sage  Mnemosyne,  — full  long  debarred 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2G7 


From  your  first  mansions,  — exiled  all  too  long 
From  many  a liallowed  stream  and  grove, 

Dear  native  regions  where  ye  wont  to  rove, 
Chanting  for  patriot  heroes  the  reward 
Of  never-dying  song! 

Now  (for,  though  Truth  descending  from  above 
The  Olympian  summit  hath  destroyed  for  aye 
Your  kindred  Deities,  ye  live  and  move. 

And  exercise  unblamed  a generous  sway) 

Now,  on  the  margin  of  some  spotless  fountain. 
Or  top  serene  of  unmolested  mountain. 

Strike  audibly  the  noblest  of  your  lyres. 

And  for  a moment  meet  my  soul’s  desires ! 

That  I,  or  some  more  favoured  Bard,  may  hear 
W’hat  ye,  celestial  Maids ! have  often  sung 
Of  Britain’s  acts,  — may  catch  it  witli  rapt  ear. 
And  give  the  treasure  to  our  British  tongue ! 

So  shall  the  characters  of  that  proud  page 
Support  their  mighty  theme  from  age  to  age; 
And,  in  the  desert  places  of  the  earth, 

When  they  to  future  empires  have  given  birth. 
So  shall  the  people  gather  and  believe 
The  bold  report  transferred  to  every  clime; 

And  the  whole  world,  not  envious  but  admiring. 
And  to  the  like  aspiring. 

Own  that  the  progeny  of  this  fair  Isle 
Had  power  as  lofty  actions  to  achieve 
As  were  performed  in  Man’s  heroic  prime; 

Nor  wanted,  when  their  fortitude  had  held 
Its  even  tenour,  and  the  foe  was  quelled, 

A corresponding  virtue  to  beguile 

The  hostile  purpose  of  wide-wasting  Time ; 

That  not  in  vain  they  laboured  to  secure. 

For  their  great  deeds,  perpetual  memory. 

And  fame  as  largely  spread  as  land  and  sea. 

By  works  of  spirit  high  and  passion  pure! 


XLV. 

THANKSGIVING  ODE. 
JANU.'iRY  18,  18!6. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Wholly  unworthy  of  touching  upon  the  momentous 
subject  here  treated  would  that  Poet  be,  before  whose 
eyes  the  present  distresses  under  which  this  kingdom 
labours  could  interpose  a veil  sufficiently  thick  to  hide, 
or  even  to  obscure,  the  splendour  of  this  great  moral 
triumph.  If  the  author  has  given  way  to  exultation, 
unchecked  by  these  distresses,  it  might  be  sufficient  to 
protect  him  from  a charge  of  insensibility,  should  he 
state  his  own  belief  that  the  sufferings  will  be  transi- 
tory. On  the  wisdom  of  a very  large  majority  of  the 
British  nation  rested  that  generosity  which  poured  out 
the  treasures  of  this  country  for  the  deliverance  of 


Europe:  and  in  the  same  national  wisdom,  presiding 
in  time  of  peace  over  an  energy  not  inferior  to  that 
which  has  been  displayed  in  war,  they  confide,  who  en- 
courage a firm  hope,  tliat  the  cup  of  our  wealth  will  be 
gradually  replenished.  'I’here  will,  doubtless,  be  no 
few  ready  to  indulge  in  regrets  and  repinings;  and  to 
feed  a morbid  satisfaction,  by  aggravating  these  bur- 
thens in  imagination,  in  order  that  calamity  so  con- 
fidently prophesied,  as  it  has  not  taken  the  shape  which 
their  sagacity  allotted  to  it,  may  appear  as  grievous  as 
possible  under  another.  But  the  body  of  the  nation 
will  not  quarrel  with  the  gain,  because  it  might  have 
been  purchased  at  a less  price:  and,  acknowledging  in 
these  sufferings,  which  they  feel  to  have  been  in  a great 
degree  unavoidable,  a consecration  of  their  noble  efforts, 
the||  will  vigorously  apply  themselves  to  remedy  the 
evil. 

Nor  is  it  at  the  expense  of  rational  patriotism,  or  in 
disregard  of  sound  philosophy,  that  the  author  hath 
given  vent  to  feelings  tending  to  encourage  a martial 
spirit  in  the  bosoms  of  his  countrymen,  at  a time  when 
there  is  a general  outcry  against  the  prevalence  of  these 
dispositions.  The  British  army,  both  by  its  skill  and 
valour  in  the  field,  and  by  the  discipline  which  has 
rendered  it  much  less  formidable  than  the  armies  of 
otlier  powers  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  several  countries 
where  its  operations  were  carried  on,  has  performed 
services  that  will  not  allow  the  language  of  gratitude 
and  admiration  to  be  suppressed  or  restrained  (whatever 
be  the  temper  of  the  public  mind)  tiirough  a scru;)ulous 
dread  lest  the  tribute  due  to  liie  past  should  prove  an 
injurious  incentive  for  the  future.  Every  man  deserv- 
ing tlie  name  of  Briton  adds  his  voice  to  the  chorus 
which  extols  the  exploits  of  his  countrymen,  with  a 
consciousness,  at  times  overpowering  the  effort,  that 
they  transcend  all  praise.  — But  this  particular  senti- 
ment, thus  irresistibly  excited,  is  not  sufficient.  The 
nation  would  err  grievously,  if  she  suffered  the  abuse 
which  other  states  have  made  of  military  power,  to 
prevent  her  from  perceiving  that  no  people  ever  was, 
or  can  be,  independent,  free,  or  secure,  much  less 
great,  in  any  sane  application  of  the  word,  without 
martial  propensities  and  an  assiduous  cultivation  of 
military  virtues.  Nor  let  it  be  overlooked,  that  the 
benefits  derivable  from  these  sources  are  placed  within 
the  reach  of  Great  Britain,  under  conditions  peculiarly 
favourable.  The  same  insular  position  which,  by  ren- 
dering territorial  incorporation  impossible,  utterly  pre- 
cludes the  desire  of  conquest  under  the  most  seductive 
shape  it  can  assume,  enables  her  to  rely,  for  her  defence 
against  foreign  foes,  chiefly  upon  a species  of  armed 
force  from  which  her  own  liberties  have  nothing  to 
fear.  Such  are  the  privileges  of  her  situation  ; and, 
by  permitting,  they  invite  her  to  give  way  to  the 
courageous  instincts  of  human  nature,  and  to  strengthen 
and  to  refine  them  by  culture.  But  some  have  more 
than  insinuated  that  a design  exists  to  subvert  the  civil 
character  of  the  English  people  by  unconstitutional  ap- 


268 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


plications  and  unnecessary  increase  of  military  power. 
The  advisers  and  abettors  of  such  a design,  were  it 
possible  that  it  should  exist.,  would  be  guilty  of  the 
most  heinous  crime,  which,  upon  this  planet,  can  be 
committed.  The  author,  trusting  that  this  apprehen- 
sion arises  from  the  delusive  influences  of  an  honour- 
able jealousy,  hopes  that  the  martial  qualities  he 
venerates  will  be  fostered  by  adhering  to  those  good 
old  usages  which  experience  has  sanctioned ; and  by 
availing  ourselves  of  new  means  of  indisputable  promise : 
particularly  by  applying,  in  its  utmost  possible  extent, 
that  system  of  tuition  whose  master-spring  is  a habit  of 
gradually  enlightened  subordination;  — by  imparting 
knowledge,  civil,  moral,  and  religious,  in  such  measure 
that  the  mind,  among  all  classes  of  the  community, 
may  love,  admire,  and  be  prepared  and  accomplished 
to  defend  that  country  under  whose  protection  its 
faculties  have  be'en  unfolded,  and  its  riches  acquired ; 
— by  just  dealing  towards  all  orders  of  the  state,  so 
that,  no  members  of  it  being  trampled  upon,  courage  may 
everywhere  continue  to  rest  immoveably  upon  its 
ancient  English  foundation,  personal  self-respect;  — 
by  adequate  rewards,  and  permanent  honours,  conferred 
upon  the  deserving; — by  encouraging  athletic  ex- 
ercises and  manly  sports  among  the  peasantry  of  the 
country ; — and  by  especial  care  to  provide  and  support 
Institutions,  in  which,  during  a time  of  peace,  a reason- 
able proportion  of  the  youth  of  the  country  may  be 
instructed  in  military  science. 

The  author  has  only  to  add,  that  he  should  feel 
little  satisfaction  in  giving  to  the  world  these  limited 
attempts*  to  celebrate  the  virtues  of  his  country,  if  he 
did  not  encourage  a hope  that  a subject,  which  it  has 
fallen  within  his  province  to  treat  only  in  the  mass,  will 
by  other  poets  be  illustrated  in  that  detail  which  its 
importance  calls  for,  and  which  will  allow  opportunities 
to  give  the  merited  applause  to  persons  as  well  as  to 

THINGS. 

W.  Wordsworth. 

Rvdal  Mount,  March  18,  1816. 


ODE, 

THE  MORNING  OF  THE  DAY  APPOINTED  FOR  A GENE- 
RAL THANKSGIVING,  JANUARY  18,  1816. 

1. 

Hail,  universal  Source  of  pure  delight ! 

Thou  that  canst  shed  the  bliss  of  gratitude 
On  hearts  howe’er  insensible  or  rude  ; 

Whether  thy  orient  visitations  smite 
The  haughty  towers  where  monarchs  dwell; 

Or  thou,  impartial  Sun,  with  presence  bright 
Cheer’st  the  low  threshold  of  the  peasant’s  cell ! 

— Not  unrcjoiced  I see  thee  climb  the  sky 

* The  Ode  wa.s  published  along  with  other  pieces. 


In  naked  splendour,  clear  from  mist  or  haze. 

Or  cloud  approaching  to  divert  the  rays. 

Which  even  in  deepest  winter  testify 
Thy  power  and  majesty. 

Dazzling  the  vision  that  presumes  to  gaze. 

— Well  does  thine  aspect  usher  in  this  Day  ; 

As  aptly  suits  therewith  that  timid  pace 

Submitted  to  the  chains 
That  bind  thee  to  the  path  which  God  ordains 
That  thou  shalt  trace. 

Till,  with  the  heavens  and  earth,  thou  pass  away  ! 
Nor  less,  the  stillness  of  these  frosty  plains. 

Their  utter  stillness,  and  the  silent  grace 
Of  yon  ethereal  summits  white  with  snow, 

(Whose  tranquil  pomp  and  spotless  purity 
Report  of  storms  gone  by 
To  us  who  tread  below) 

Do  with  the  service  of  this  Day  accord. 

— Divinest  Object  which  the  uplifted  eye 
Of  mortal  man  is  suffered  to  behold ; 

Thou,  who  upon  yon  snow-clad  Heights  hast  poured 
Meek  splendour,  nor  forget’st  the  humble  Vale ; 

Thou  who  dost  warm  Earth’s  universal  mould. 

And  for  thy  bounty  wert  not  unadored 
By  pious  men  of  old  ; 

Once  more,  heart-cheering  Sun,  I bid  thee  hail ! 
Bright  be  thy  course  to-day,  let  not  this  promise  fail ! 

2. 

’Mid  the  deep  quiet  of  this  morning  hour. 

All  nature  seems  to  hear  me  while  I speak. 

By  feelings  urged  that  do  not  vainly  seek 
Apt  language,  ready  as  the  tuneful  notes 
That  stream  in  blithe  succession  from  the  throats 
Of  birds  in  leafy  bower. 

Warbling  a farewell  to  a vernal  shower. 

— There  is  a radiant  but  a short-lived  flame. 

That  burns  for  Poets  in  the  dawning  East ; 

And  ofl  my  soul  hath  kindled  at  the  same. 

When  the  captivity  of  sleep  had  ceased  ; 

But  he  who  fixed  immoveably  the  frame 

Of  the  round  world,  and  built,  by  laws  as  strong, 

A solid  refuge  for  distress. 

The  towers  of  righteousness; 

He  knows  that  from  a holier  altar  came 
The  quickening  spark  of  this  day’s  sacrifice ; 

Knows  that  the  source  is  nobler  whence  doth  rise 
The  current  of  this  matin  song; 

That  deeper  far  it  lies 
Than  aught  dependent  on  the  fickle  skies. 

3. 

Have  we  not  conquered  1 — By  the  vengeful  sword  1 
Ah  no,  by  dint  of  Magnanimity  : 

That  curbed  the  baser  passions,  and  left  free 
A loyal  band  to  follow  their  liege  Lord, 

Clear-sighted  Honour  — and  his  staid  Compeers, 
Along  a track  of  most  unnatural  years. 


POE^fS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2G9 


In  execution  of  heroic  deeds ; 

Whose  memory,  spotless  as  the  crystal  beads 
Of  morning  dew  upon  the  untrodden  meads, 

Shall  live  enrolled  above  the  starry  spheres. 

— Who  to  the  murmurs  of  an  earthly  string 

Of  Briton’s  acts  would  sing, 

He  with  enraptured  voice  will  tell 
Of  One  whose  spirit  no  reverse  could  quell ; 

Of  One  that  ’mid  the  failing  never  failed  : 

Who  paints  how  Britain  struggled  and  prevailed 
Shall  represent  her  labouring  with  an  eye 
Of  circumspect  humanity ; 

Shall  show  her  clothed  with  strength  and  skill. 
All  martial  duties  to  fulfil ; 
irm  as  a rock  in  stationary  fight ; 

In  motion  rapid  as  the  lightning’s  gleam  ; 

Fierce  as  a flood-gate  bursting  in  the  night 
To  rouse  the  wicked  from  their  giddy  dream  — 

VV’oe,  woe  to  all  that  face  her  in  the  field  ! 

Appalled  she  may  not  be,  and  cannot  yield. 

4. 

And  thus  is  missed  the  sole  true  glory 
That  can  belong  to  human  story  ! 

At  which  they  only  shall  arrive 

Who  through  the  abyss  of  weakness  dive. 

The  very  humblest  are  too  proud  of  heart ; 

And  one  brief  day  is  rightly  set  apart 
To  Him  who  lifteth  up  and  layeth  low ; 

For  that  Almighty  God  to  whom  we  owe. 

Say  not  that  we  have  vanquished — but  that  we  survive. 

5. 

How  dreadful  the  dominion  of  the  impure ! 

Why  should  the  song  be  tardy  to  proclaim 
That  less  than  power  unbounded  could  not  tame 
That  soul  of  Evil  — which,  from  Hell  let  loose, 

Had  filled  the  astonished  world  with  such  abuse 
As  boundless  patience  only  could  endure  I 

— Wide-wasted  regions  — cities  wrapped  in  flame  — 
Who  sees,  and  feels,  may  lift  a streaming  eye 

To  Heaven,  — who  never  saw,  may  heave  a sigh  ; 
Bu^he  foundation  of  our  nature  shakes. 

And  with  an  infinite  pain  the  spirit  aches. 

When  desolated  countries,  towns  on  fire. 

Are  but  the  avowed  attire 
Of  warfare  waged  with  desperate  mind 
Against  the  life  of  virtue  in  mankind  ; 

Assaulting  without  ruth 
The  citadels  of  truth  ; 

M'hile  the  whole  forest  of  civility 
Is  doomed  to  perish,  to  the  last  fair  tree  ! 


Opposed  to  dark,  deep  plots  of  patient  skill. 

And  to  celerities  of  lawless  force  ; 

Which,  spurning  God,  had  flung  away  remorse — • 
What  could  they  gain  but  shadows  of  redress? 

— So  bad  proceeded  propagating  worse ; 

And  disciplined  was  passion’s  dire  excess*. 

Widens  the  fatal  web,  its  lines  extend. 

And  deadlier  poisons  in  the  chalice  blend  — 

When  will  your  trials  teach  you  to  be  wise  ? 

— O prostrate  Lands,  consult  your  agonies! 

7. 

No  more  — the  guilt  is  banished. 

And,  with  the  Guilt,  the  Shame  is  fled ; 

And,  with  the  Guilt  and  Shame,  the  Woe  hath  vanished. 
Shaking  the  dust  and  ashes  from  her  head  ! 

— No  more  — these  fingerings  of  distress 
Sully  the  limpid  stream  of  thankfulness. 

What  robe  can  Gratitude  employ 

So  seemly  as  the  radiant  vest  of  Joy  ? 

What  steps  so  suitable  as  those  that  move 
In  prompt  obedience  to  spontaneous  measures 
Of  glory  — and  felicity  — and  love. 

Surrendering  the  whole  heart  to  sacred  pleasures  ? 

8. 

Land  of  our  fathers!  precious  unto  me 
Since  the  first  joys  of  thinking  infancy  ; 

When  of  thy  gallant  chivalry  I read. 

And  hugged  the  volume  on  my  sleepless  bed  ! 

O England  ! — dearer  far  than  fife  is  dear. 

If  I forget  thy  prowess,  never  more 
Be  thy  ungrateful  Son  allowed  to  hear 
Thy  green  leaves  rustle,  or  thy  torrents  roar ! 

But  how  can  He  be  faithless  to  the  past. 

Whose  soul,  intolerant  of  base  decline. 

Saw  in  thy  virtue  a celestial  sign. 

That  bade  him  hope,  and  to  his  hope  cleave  fast ! 

The  Nations  strove  with  puissance  ; — at  length 
Wide  Europe  heaved,  impatient  to  be  cast. 

With  all  her  living  strength. 

With  all  her  armed  Powers, 

Upon  the  offensive  shores. 

The  trumpet  blew  a universal  blast ! 

But  Thou  art  foremost  in  the  field  : — there  stand  : 
Receive  the  triumph  destined  to  thy  Hand  ! 

All  States  have  glorified  themselves; — their  claims 
Are  weighed  by  Providence,  in  balance  even; 

And  now,  in  preference  to  the  mightiest  names. 

To  Thee  the  e.xterminating  sword  is  given. 

Dread  mark  of  approbation,  justly  gained  ! 

Exalted  office,  worthily  sustained! 


6. 

A crouching  purpose  — a distracted  will  — 
Opposed  to  hopes  that  battened  upon  scorn. 
And  to  desires  whose  ever-waxing  horn 
Not  all  the  fight  of  earthly  power  could  fill ; 


9. 

Imagination,  ne’er  before  content. 

But  aye  ascending,  restless  in  her  pride. 


' A discipline  the  rule  whereof  is  passion.” — Lord  Brook 

23 


270 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


From  all  that  man’s  performance  could  present, 
Stoops  to  that  closing  deed  magnificent, 

And  with  the  embrace  is  satisfied. 

— Fly,  ministers  of  Fame, 

Whate’er  your  means,  whatever  help  ye  claim. 

Bear  through  the  world  these  tidings  of*delight! 

— Hours,  Days,  and  Months,  have  borne  them,  in  the 
sight 

Of  mortals,  travelling  faster  than  the  shower. 

That  land-ward  stretches  from  the  sea. 

The  morning’s  splendours  to  devour ; 

But  this  appearance  scattered  ecstasy. 

And  heart-sick  Europe  blessed  the  healing  power. 

— The  shock  is  given  — the  Adversaries  bleed  — 
Lo,  Justice  triumphs  ! — Earth  is  freed! 

Such  glad  assurance  suddenly  went  forth  — 

It  pierced  the  caverns  of  the  sluggish  North  — 

It  found  no  barrier  on  fhe  ridge 
Of  Andes  — frozen  gulfs  became  its  bridge  — 

The  vast  Pacific  gladdens  with  the  freight  — 

Upon  the  Lakes  of  Asia  ’tis  bestowed  — 

The  Arabian  desert  shapes  a willing  road. 

Across  her  burning  breast. 

For  this  refreshing  incense  from  the  West! 

— Wliere  snakes  and  lions  breed. 

Where  towns  and  cities  thick  as  stars  appear 
Wherever  fruits  are  gathered,  and  where’er 
The  upturned  soil  receives  the  hopeful  seed  — 

While  the  Sun  rules,  and  cross  the  sliades  of  night  — 
The  unwearied  arrow  hath  pursued  its  flight! 

The  eyes  of  good  men  thankfully  give  heed. 

And  in  its  sparkling  progress  read 
IIovv  virtue  triumphs,  from  her  bondage  freed  ! 

Tyrants  exult  to  hear  of  kingdoms  won. 

And  slaves  are  pleased  to  learn  that  mighty  feats  are 
done ; 

Even  the  proud  Realm,  from  whose  distracted  borders 
This  messenger  of  good  was  launched  in  air, 

France,  conquered  France,  amid  her  wild  disorders. 
Feels,  and  hereafter  shall  the  truth  declare 
That  she  too  lacks  not  reason  to  rejoice. 

And  utter  England’s  name  with  sadly-plausive  voice. 

10 

Preserve,  O Lord  ! within  our  hearts 
That  memory  of  thy  favour. 

That  else  insensibly  departs. 

And  losses  its  sweet  savour! 

Lodge  it  within  us!  — as  the  power  of  light 
Lives  inexhaustibly  in  precious  gems. 

Fixed  on  the  front  of  Eastern  diadems. 

So  shine  our  thankfulness  for  ever  bright! 

What  offering,  what  transcendent  monument 
Shall  our  sincerity  to  Thee  present! 

— Not  work  of  hands;  but  trophies  that  may  reach 
To  highest  Heaven  — the  labour  of  the  soul ; 

Tliat  builds,  as  thy  unerring  precepts  teach, 


Upon  the  inward  victories  ot  >ach. 

Her  hope  of  lasting  glory  for  the  whole. 

— Yet  might  it  well  become  that  city  now. 

Into  whose  breast  the  tides  of  grandeur  flow, 

To  whom  all  persecuted  men  retreat; 

If  a new  Temple  lift  her  votive  brow 
Upon  the  shore  of  silver  Thames  — to  greet 
Tlie  peaceful  guest  advancing  from  afar. 

Bright  be  the  distant  Fabric,  as  a star 

Fresh  risen  — and  beautiful  within!  — there  meet 

Dependence  infinite,  proportion  just ; 

— A Pile  that  Grace  approves,  that  Time  can  trust 
With  his  most  sacred  wealth,  heroic  dust ! 

11. 

But  if  the  valiant  of  this  land 
In  reverential  modesty  demand 
That  all  observance,  due  to  them,  be  paid 
Where  their  serene  progenitors  are  laid  ; 

Kings,  warriors,  high-souled  poets,  saint-like  sages, 
England’s  illustrious  sons  of  long,  long  ages ; 

Be  it  not  unordained  that  solemn  rites. 

Within  the  circuit  of  those  Gothic  walls, 

Shall  be  performed  at  pregnant  intervals; 
Commemoration  holy,  that  unites 
The  living  generations  with  the  dead ; 

By  the  deep  soul-moving  sense 
Of  religious  eloquence, — 

By  visual  pomp,  and  by  the  tie 
Of  sweet  and  threatening  harmony ; 

Soft  notes,  awful  as  the  omen 
Of  destructive  tempests  coming. 

And  escaping  from  that  sadness 
Into  elevated  gladness ; 

While  the  white-robed  choir  attendant. 
Under  mouldering  banners  pendant. 
Provoke  all  potent  symphonies  to  raise 
Songs  of  victory  and  praise. 

For  them  who  bravely  stood  unhurt,  or  bled 
With  medicable  wounds,  or  found  their  graves 
Upon  the  battle-field,  or  under  ocean’s  waves ; 

Or  were  conducted  home  in  single  state,  ^ 

And  long  procession  — there  to  lie, 

Where  their  sons’  sons,  and  all  posterity. 

Unheard  by  them,  their  deeds  shall  celebrate ! 

12. 

Nor  will  the  God  of  peace  and  love 
Such  martial  service  disapprove. 

He  guides  the  Pestilence  — the  cloud 
Of  locusts  travels  on  his  breath  ; 

The  region  that  in  liope  was  ploughed 
His  drought  consumes,  his  mildew  taints  witli  death, 
He  springs  the  hushed  Volcano’s  mine; 

He  puts  the  Earthquake  on  her  still  design, 

Darkens  tlie  sun,  hath  bade  the  forest  sink, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


271 


And,  drinking  towns  and  cities,  still  can  drink 
Cities  and  towns  — ’tis  Thou  — the  work  is  Thine! 

— The  fierce  Tornado  sleeps  within  thy  courts  — 
lie  hears  the  word  — he  flies  — 

And  navies  perish  in  their  ports; 

For  Thou  art  angry  with  thine  enemies! 

For  these,  and  for  our  errors 
And  sins,  that  point  their  terrors. 

We  bow  our  heads  before  Thee,  and  we  laud 
And  magnify  thy  name.  Almighty  God ! 

But  thy  most  dreaded  instrument 
In  working  out  a pure  intent, 

Is  Man  arrayed  for  mutual  slaughter. 

Yea,  Carnage  is  thy  daughter ! 

Thou  cloth’st  the  wicked  in  their  dazzling  mail. 

And  by  thy  just  permission  they  prevail ; 

Thine  arm  from  peril  guards  the  coasts 
Of  them  who  in  thy  laws  delight; 

Thy  presence  turns  the  scale  of  doubtful  fight. 
Tremendous  God  of  battles.  Lord  of  Hosts ! 

13.  . 

To  Thee  — to  Thee  — 

On  this  appointed  day  shall  thanks  ascend. 

That  Thou  hast  brought  our  warfare  to  an  end. 

And  that  we  need  no  second  victory  ! 

Ha ! what  a ghastly  sight  for  man  to  see ! 

And  to  the  heavenly  saints  in  peace  who  dwell. 

For  a brief  moment,  terrible ; 

But,  to  thy  sovereign  penetration,  fair. 

Before  whom  all  things  are,  that  were. 

All  judgments  that  have  been,  or  e’er  shall  be; 

Links  in  the  chain  of  thy  tranquillity  ! 

Along  the  bosom  of  this  favoured  Nation, 

Breathe  Thou,  this  day,  a vital  undulation ! 

Let  all  who  do  this  land  inherit 
Be  conscious  of  Thy  moving  spirit ! 

Oh,  ’t  is  a goodly  Ordinance,  — the  sight. 

Though  sprung  from  bleeding  war,  is  one  of  pure  de- 
light; 

Bless  Thou  the  hour,  or  ere  the  hour  arrive. 

When  a whole  people  shall  kneel  down  in  prayer. 
And,  at  one  moment,  in  one  rapture,  strive 
With  lip  and  heart  to  tell  their  gratitude 
For  Thy  protecting  care. 

Their  solemn  joy  — praising  the  Eternal  Lord 
For  tyranny  subdued. 


And  for  the  sway  of  equity  renewed. 

For  liberty  confirmed,  and  peace  restored ! 

14. 

But  hark  — the  summons  — down  the  placid  Lake 
Floats  the  soft  cadence  of  the  Church-tower  bells ; 
Bright  shines  the  Sun,  as  if  his  beams  might  wake 
The  tender  insects  sleeping  in  their  cells; 

Bright  shines  the  Sun  — and  not  a breeze  to  shake 
The  drops  that  tip  the  melting  icicles. 

O,  enter  now  his  temple  gate  ! 

Inviting  words  — perchance  already  flung, 

(As  the  crowd  press  devoutly  down  the  aisle 
Of  some  old  Minster’s  venerable  pile) 

From  voices  into  zealous  passion  stung. 

While  the  tubed  engine  feels  the  inspiring  blast, 

And  has  begun  — its  clouds  of  sound  to  cast 
Towards  the  empyreal  Heaven, 

As  if  the  fretted  roof  were  riven. 

Us,  humbler  ceremonies  now  await ; 

But  in  the  bosom,  with  devout  respect. 

The  banner  of  our  joy  we  will  erect. 

And  strength  of  love  our  souls  shall  elevate  : 

For  to  a few  collected  in  his  name. 

Their  heavenly  Father  will  incline  an  ear 
Gracious  to  service  hallowed  by  its  aim ; — 

Awake ! the  majesty  of  God  revere  ! 

Go  — and  with  forclieads  meekly  bowed 
Present  your  prayers  — go  — and  rejoice  aloud  — 

The  Holy  One  will  hear  ! 

And  what,  ’mid  silence  deep,  with  faith  sincere. 

Ye,  in  your  low  and  undisturbed  estate. 

Shall  simply  feel  and  purely  meditate 
Of  warnings — from  the  unprecedented  might. 

Which,  in  our  time,  the  impious  have  disclosed  ; 

And  of  more  arduous  duties  thence  imposed 
Upon  the  future  advocates  of  right; 

Of  mysteries  revealed. 

And  judgments  unrepealed, — 

Of  earthly  revolution. 

And  final  retribution, — 

To  his  omniscience  will  appear 
An  offering  not  unworthy  to  find  place. 

On  this  high  Day  of  Thanks,  before  the  Throne  of 
Grace ! 


272 


WORUSWOllTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ADDITIONAL  PIECES  TO  POEMS  DEDICATED  TO  NATIONAL  INDE- 
PENDENCE AND  LIBERTY. 


LINES  ON  THE  EXPECTED  INVASION. 

1803. 

Come  ye  — who,  if  (wiiich  Heaven  avert!)  the  land 
Were  vvitli  herself  at  strife,  would  take  your  stand, 
Like  gallant  F'alkland,  by  the  monarch’s  side, 

And,  like  Montrose,  make  loyalty  ySwr  pride  — 
Come  ye  — who,  not  less  zealous,  might  display 
Banners  at  enmity  with  regal  sway. 

And,  like  the  Pyrns  and  Miltons  of  that  day. 

Think  that  a State  would  live  in  sounder  health 
If  Kingship  bowed  its  head  to  Commonwealth  — 

Ve  too — whom  no  discreditable  fear 

Would  keep,  perhaps  with  many  a fruitless  tear. 

Uncertain  what  to  choose  and  how  to  steer  — 

And  ye  — who  might  mistake  for  sober  sense 
And  wise  reserve  the  plea  of  indolence  — 

Come  ye  — whate’er  your  creed — O waken  all, 
Whate’er  your  temper,  at  your  country’s  call ; 
Resolving  (this  a free-born  nation  can) 

To  have  one  soul,  and  perish  to  a man. 

Or  save  this  honoured  land  from  every  lord 
But  British  reason  and  the  British  sword. 


ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

(a  sequel  to  no.  X.vtu.,  PART  I.,  “TO  THE  MEN  OF  KENT.") 

What  if  our  numbers  barely  could  defy 
The  arithmetic  of  babes,  must  foreign  hordes. 
Slaves,  vile  as  ever  were  befooled  by  words. 
Striking  through  English  breasts  the  anarchy 


Of  terror,  bear  us  to  the  ground,  and  tie 
Our  hands  behind  our  backs  with  felon  cords  1 
Yields  every  thing  to  discipline  of  swords  I 
Is  man  as  good  as  man,  none  low,  none  high?  — 
Nor  discipline  nor  valour  can  withstand 
The  shock,  nor  quell  the  inevitable  rout, 

When  in  some  great  extremity  breaks  out 
A people,  on  their  own  beloved  land 
Risen,  like  one  man,  to  combat  in  the  sight 
Of  a just  God  for  liberty  and  right. 


THE  EAGLE  AND  THE  DOVE. 

Shade  of  Caractacus,  if  spirits  love 

The  cause  they  fought  for  in  their  earthly  home. 

To  see  the  Eagle  ruffled  by  the  Dove 
May  soothe  thy  memory  of  the  chains  of  Rome. 
These  children  claim  thee  for  their  sire ; the  breath 
Of  thy  renown,  from  Cambrian  Mountains,  fans 
A flame  within  them  that  despises  death. 

And  glorifies  the  truant  youth  of  V’annes. 

With  thy  own  scorn  of  tyrants  they  advance. 

But  truth  divine  has  sanctified  their  rage, 

A silver  cross  enchased  with  flowers  of  France, 
Their  badge,  attests  the  lioly  fight  they  wage. 

The  shrill  defiance  of  the  young  crusade 
Their  veteran  foes  mock  as  an  idle  noise ; 

But  unto  faith  and  loyalty  comes  aid 

From  Heaven,  gigantic  force  to  beardless  boys.* 


SONNETS  DEDICATED  TO  LIBERTY  AND  ORDER. 


COMPOSED  AFTER  READING  A NEWSPAPER  OP 
THE  DAV. 

“People!  your  chains  are  severing  link  by  link; 

Soon  shall  the  rich  be  levelled  down  — the  poor 
Meet  them  half-way.”  Vain  boast!  for  these,  tlie  more 
They  thus  would  rise,  must  low  and  lower  sink 
Till,  by  repentance  stung,  they  fear  to  think; 

While  all  lie  prostrate,  save  the  tyrant  few 
Bent  in  quick  turns  each  other  to  undo, 

.\nd  mix  the  poison  they  themselves  must  drink. 
Mistrust  thyself,  vain  country  ! cease  to  cry, 
“Knowledge  will  save  me  from  the  threatened  woe.” 
For,  if  than  other  rash  ones  more  thou  know. 

Yet  on  presumptuous  wing  as  far  would  fly 
Above  thy  knowledge  as  they  dared  to  go. 

Thou  wilt  provoke  a heavier  penalty. 


CPON  THE  LATE  GENERAL  FAST. 
March,  1832. 

Reluctant  call  it  was ; the  rite  delayed ; 

And  in  the  Senate  some  there  were  who  doffed 
The  last  of  their  humanity,  and  scoffed 
At  providential  judgments  undismayed 
By  their  own  daring.  But  the  people  prayed 


[*From  “La  Petite  Chouannerie  ou  Histoire  d'  un  Col- 
lege Breton  Sous  V Empire,  par  A.  F.  Rto.  Paris  1842,” 
p.  62.  Those  stanzas  were  a contribution  by  Wordsworth, 
to  M.  Rio’s  interesting  narrative  of  the  romantic  revolt  of 
the  royalist  students  of  the  College  of  Vannes  in  1815,  and 
their  battles  with  the  soldiers  of  the  French  Empire. 
— H.  R.l 


POEMS  OP  THE  IMAGINATION. 


As  with  one  voice;  their  flinty  heart  grew  soft 
With  penitential  sorrow,  and  aloft 
Their  spirit  mounted,  crying,  “ God  us  aid !” 
Oh  that  with  aspirations  more  intense. 
Chastised  by  self-abasement  more  profound. 
This  people,  once  so  happy,  so  renowned 
For  liberty,  would  seek  from  God  defence 
Against  far  heavier  ill,  the  pestilence 
Of  revolution,  impiously  unbound  ! 


Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud, 

Falsehood  and  Treachery,  in  close  council  met. 

Deep  under  ground,  in  Pluto’s  cabinet, 

“ The  frost  of  England’s  pride  will  soon  be  thawed ; 
Hooded  the  open  brow  that  overawed 
Our  schemes ; the  faith  and  honour,  never  yet 
By  us  with  hope  encountered,  be  upset ; — 

For  once  I burst  my  bands,  and  cry,  applaud !” 

Then  whispered  she,  “ The  bill  is  carrying  out !” 

They  heard,  and,  starting  up,  the  brood  of  night 
Clapped  hands,  and  shook  with  glee  their  matted  locks ; 
All  powers  and  places  that  abhor  the  light 
Joined  in  the  transport,  echoed  back  their  shout. 

Hurrah  for , hugging  his  ballot-box!* 


Blest  statesman  he,  whose  mind’s  unselfish  will 
Leaves  him  at  ease  among  grand  thoughts : whose  eye 
Sees  that,  apart  from  magnanimity. 

Wisdom  exists  not;  nor  the  humbler  skill 

Of  prudence,  disentangling  good  and  ill 

With  patient  care.  What  tho’  assaults  run  high. 

They  daunt  not  him  who  holds  his  ministry. 

Resolute,  at  all  hazards,  to  fulfil 

Its  duties;  — prompt  to  move  but  firm  to  wait, — 

Knowing,  things  rashly  sought  are  rarely  found ; 


[*  This  sonnet  originally  appeared  in  the  following  note 
to  the  separate  Volume  of  Sonnets. 

“Having  in  this  notice  alluded  only  in  general  terms  to 
the  mischief  which,  in  my  opinion,  the  Ballot  would  bring 
along  with  it,  without  especially  branding  its  immoral  and 
anti-social  tendency,  (for  which  no  political  advantages, 
were  they  a thousand  times  greater  than  those  presumed 
upon,  could  be  a compensation,)  I have  been  impelled  to 
subjoin  a reprobation  of  it  upon  that  score.  In  no  part  of 
my  writings  have  I mentioned  the  name  of  any  cotempo- 
rary, that  of  Buonaparte  only  excepted,  but  for  the  pur- 
pose of  eulogy ; and  therefore,  as  in  the  concluding  verse 
of  what  follows,  there  is  a deviation  from  this  rule,  (for 
the  blank  will  be  easily  filled  up)  I have  excluded  this 
sonnet  from  the  body  of  the  collection,  and  placed  it  here 
as  a public  record  of  my  detestation,  both  as  a man  and  a 
citizen,  of  the  proposed  contrivance. ’’ 

Since  that  time,  I may  add,  that  Mr.  Grote’s  political 
notoriety  as  an  adyocate  for  the  ballot  has  been  merged 
in  the  high  reputation  he  has  already  acquired,  as  probably 
the  most  eminent  modern  historian  of  ancient  Greece. 
-H.  R.] 


That,  for  the  functions  of  an  ancient  State  — 
Strong  by  her  charters,  free  because  imbouiul. 
Servant  of  Providence,  not  slave  of  fate  — 
Perilous  is  sweeping  change,  all  chance  unsound. 


IN  ALLUSION  TO  VARIOUS  RECENT  HISTORIES  AND 
NOTICES  OF  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

Portentous  change  when  History  can  appear 
As  the  cool  advocate  of  foul  device; 

Reckless  audacity  extol,  and  jeer 
At  consciences  perplexed  with  scruples  nice  ! 

They  who  bewail  not,  must  abhor,  the  sneer 
Born  of  Conceit,  Power’s  blind  Idolater; 

Or  haply  sprung  from  vaunting  cowardice 
Betrayed  by  mockery  of  holy  fear. 

Hath  it  not  long  been  said  the  wrath  of  man 
Works  not  the  rigliteousness  of  God  ? Oh  bend. 
Bend,  ye  perverse!  to  judgments  from  on  High, 
Laws  that  lay  under  Heaven’s  perpetual  ban 
All  principles  of  action  that  transcend 
The  sacred  limits  of  humanity. 


CONTINUEO. 

Who  ponders  National  events  shall  find 
An  awful  balancing  of  loss  and  gain, 

Joy  based  on  sorrow,  good  with  ill  combined. 

And  proud  deliverance  issuing  out  of  pain 
And  direful  throes;  as  if  the  All-ruling  mind, 
With  whose  perfection  it  consists  to  ordain 
Volcanic  burst,  earthquake,  and  hurricane. 

Dealt  in  like  sort  with  feeble  human  kind 
By  laws  immutable.  But  woe  for  him 
Who  thus  deceived  shall  lend  an  eager  hand 
To  social  havoc.  Is  not  Conscience  ours. 

And  Truth,  whose  eye  guilt  only  can  make  dim ; 
And  Will,  whose  office,  by  divine  command. 

Is  to  control  and  check  disordered  Powers'? 


CONCLUDED. 

Long-favoured  England  ! be  not  thou  misled 
By  monstrous  theories  of  alien  growth. 

Lest  alien  frenzy  seize  thee,  waxing  wroth,. 
Self-smitten  till  thy  garments  reek  dyed  red 
With  thy  own  blood,  which  tears  in  torrents  shed 
Fail  to  v/ash  out'  tears  flowing  ere  thy  troth 
Bo  plighted,  not  to  ease  but  sullen  sloth. 

Or  wan  despair  — the  ghost  of  false  hope  fled 
Into  a shameful  grave.  Among  tliy  youth. 

My  country!  if  such  warning  be  held  dear. 

Then  shall  a veteran’s  heart  be  thrilled  with  joy 
One  who  would  gather  from  eternal  truth, 

For  time  and  season,  rules  that  work  to  cheer  — 
Not  scourge,  to  save  the  people  — not  destroy. 


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274 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


]\Ien  of  the  Western  World  ! in  Fate’s  dark  book 
\Vhence  tliese  opprobrious  leaves  of  dire  portent? 
Think  ye  your  British  ancestors  forsook 
Their  native  land,  for  outrage  provident; 

From  unsubmissive  necks  the  bridle  shook 
To  give,  in  their  descendants,  freer  vent 
And  wider  range  to  passions  turbulent. 

To  mutual  tyranny  a deadlier  look? 

Nay,  said  a voice,  soft  as  the  south  wind’s  breath. 
Dive  through  the  stormy  surface  of  the  flood 
To  the  great  current  flowing  underneath  ; 

Explore  the  countless  springs  of  silent  good  ; 

So  shall  the  truth  be  better  understood. 

And  thy  grieved  spirit  brighten  strong  in  faith.* 


TO  THE  PENNSVLVANIANS. 

Days  undefiled  by  luxury  or  sloth. 

Firm  self-denial,  manners  grave  and  staid. 

Rights  equal,  laws  with  cheerfulness  obeyed. 
Words  that  require  no  sanction  from  an  oath. 

And  simple  honesty  a common  growth  — 

This  high  rejHite,  with  bounteous  nature’s  aid. 
Won  confidence,  now  ruthlessly  betrayed 
At  will,  your  power  the  measure  of  your  troth  ! — 
All  who  revere  the  memory  of  Penn 
Grieve  for  the  land  on  whose  wild  woods  his  name 
Was  fondly  grafted  with  a virtuous  aim. 
Renounced,  abandoned  by  degenerate  men 
For  state-dishonour  black  as  ever  came 
To  upper  air  from  Mammon’s  loathsome  den. 


* These  lines  were  written  several  years  ago,  when  re- 
ports prevailed  of  cruelties  committed  in  many  parts  of 
America,  by  men  making  a law  of  their  own  passions.  A 
far  more  formidable,  as  being  a more  deliberate  mischief, 
has  appeared  among  those  States,  which  have  lately  bro- 
ken faith  with  the  public  creditor  in  a manner  so  infamous. 
I cannot,  however,  but  look  at  both  evils  under  a similar 
relation  to  inherent  good,  and  hope  that  the  time  is  not 
distant  when  our  brethren  of  the  West  will  wipe  off  this 
stain  from  their  name  and  nation. 

ADDITIONAL  NOTE. 

“Men  of  the  Western  World." 

I am  happy  to  add  that  this  anticipation  is  already  partly 
realized  ; and  that  the  reproach  addressed  to  the  Pennsyl- 
vanians in  the  next  sonnet  is  no  longer  applicable  to  them. 
I I'.rust  that  those  other  states  to  which  it  may  yet  apply 
will  soon  follow  the  example  now  set  them  in  Philadelphia, 
and  redeem  their  credit  with  the  world.  1850. 

[This  additional  note  is  on  a fly-leaf  at  the  end  of  the 
fifth  volume  of  the  edition,  which  was  completed  only  a 
short  time  before  the  Poet’s  death.  It  contains  probably 
the  last  sentences  composed  by  him  for  the  press.  It  was 
promptly  added  by  him  in  consequence  of  a suggestion 
from  me,  that  the  sonnet  addressed  “ To  Pennsylvanians" 
was  no  longer  just  — a fact  which  is  mentioned  to  show 
that  the  fine  sense  of  truth  and  justice  which  distinguishes 
his  writings  was  active  to  the  last.  — H.  R.] 


AT  BOLOGNA,  IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  THE  LATE  IN- 
SURRECTIONS. 1837. 

Ah  why  deceive  ourselves ! by  no  mere  fit 
Of  sudden  passion  roused  shall  men  attain 
True  freedom  where  for  ages  they  have  lain 
Bound  in  a dark  abominable  pit. 

With  life’s  best  sinews  more  and  more  unknit. 

Here,  there,  a banded  few  who  loathe  the  chain 
May  rise  to  break  it:  effort  worse  than  vain 
For  thee,  O great  Italian  nation,  split 
Into  those  jarring  fractions.  — Let  thy  scope 
Be  one  fixed  mind  for  all ; thy  rights  approve 
To  thy  own  conscience  gradually  renewed  ; 

Learn  to  make  Time  the  father  of  wise  Hope ; 

Then  trust  thy  cause  to  the  arm  of  Fortitude, 

The  light  of  Knowledge,  and  the  warmth  of  Love. 

CONTINUED. 

n. 

Hard  task!  exclaim  the  undisciplined,  to  lean 
On  patience  coupled  with  such  slow  endeavour. 

That  long-lived  servitude  must  last  for  ever. 

Perish  the  grovelling  few,  who,  prest  between 
Wrongs  and  the  terror  of  redress,  would  wean 
Millions  from  glorious  aims.  Our  chains  to  sever 
Let  us  break  forth  in  tempest  now  or  never ! — 
What,  is  there  then  no  space  for  golden  mean 
And  gradual  progress?  — Twilight  leads  to  day. 

And,  even  within  the  burning  zones  of  earth. 

The  hastiest  sunrise  yields  a temperate  ray; 

The  softest  breeze  to  fairest  flowers  gives  birth : 
Think  not  that  prudence  dwells  in  dark  abodes. 

She  scans  the  future  with  the  eye  of  gods. 

CONCLUDED. 

III. 

As  leaves  are  to  the  tree  whereon  they  grow 
And  wither,  every  human  generation 
Is  to  the  being  of  a mighty  nation. 

Locked  in  our  world’s  embrace  through  weal  and  woe ; 
Thought  that  should  teach  the  zealot  to  forego 
Rash  schemes,  to  abjure  all  selfish  agitation. 

And  seek  through  noiseless  pains  and  moderation 
The  unblemished  good  they  only  can  bestow. 

Alas ! with  most,  who  weigh  futurity 
Against  time  present,  passion  holds  the  scales : 

Hence  equal  ignorance  of  both  prevails, 

And  nations  sink;  or,  struggling  to  be  free. 

Are  doomed  to  flounder  on,  like  wounded  whales 
Tpssed  on  the  bosom  of  a stormy  sea. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


275 


Young  England  — what  is  then  become  of  Old 
Of  dear  Old  England!  Think  they  she  is  dead, 
Dead  to  the  very  name  1 Presumption  fed 
On  empty  air ! That  name  will  keep  its  hold 
In  the  true  filial  bosom’s  inmost  fold 
For  ever.  — The  Spirit  of  Alfred,  at  the  head 
Of  all  who  for  her  rights  watched,  toiled  and  bled. 
Knows  that  this  prophecy  is  not  too  bold. 

What  — how  ! shall  she  submit  in  will  and  deed 
To  beardless  boys  — an  imitative  race, 

The  servum  pecus  of  a Gallic  breed ! 

Dear  Mother ! if  thou  must  thy  steps  retrace. 

Go  where  at  least  meek  innocency  dwells; 

Let  babes  and  sucklings  be  thy  oracles. 


Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken 
Daily  exposed,  woe  that  unshrouded  lies ; 

And  seek  the  sufferer  in  his  darkest  den, 
Whether  conducted  to  the  spot  by  sighs 
And  meanings,  or  he  dwells  (as  if  the  wren 
Taught  him  concealment)  hidden  from  all  eyes 
In  silence  and  the  awful  modesties 
Of  sorrow ; — feel  for  all,  as  brother  men  ! 

Rest  not  in  hope  want’s  icy  chain  to  thaw 
By  casual  boons  and  formal  charities; 

Learn  to  be  just,  just  through  impartial  law ; 
Far  as  ye  may,  erect  and  equalise; 

And,  what  ye  cannot  reach  by  statute,  draw 
Each  from  his  fountain  of  self-sacrifice  1 


SONNETS  UPON  THE  PUNISHMENT  OF  DEATH. 

IN  SERIES.* 


I. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  VIEW  OF  LANCASTER  CASTLE 
(ON  THE  ROAD  FROM  THE  SOUTH.) 

This  spot  at  once  unfolding  sight  so  fair 
Of  sea  and  land,  with  yon  grey  towers  that  still 
Rise  up  as  if  to  lord  it  over  air  — 

Might  soothe  in  human  breasts  the  sense  of  ill. 

Or  charm  it  out  of  memory  ; yea,  might  fill 
The  heart  with  joy  and  gratitude  to  God 
For  all  his  bounties  upon  man  bestowed ; 

Why  bears  it  then  the  name  of  “ Weeping  Hill!” 
Thousands,  as  toward  yon  old  Lancastrian  Towers, 

A prison’s  crown,  along  this  way  they  past 
For  lingering  durance  or  quick  death  with  shame. 
From  this  bare  eminence  thereon  have  cast 
Their  first  look  — blinded  as  tears  fell  in  showers 
Shed  on  their  chains ; and  hence  that  doleful  name. 

II. 

Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature’s  law 

For  worst  offenders:  though  the  heart  will  heave 

With  indignation,  deeply  moved  we  grieve. 

In  after  thought,  for  him  who  stood  in  awe 
Neither  of  God  nor  man,  and  only  saw. 

Lost  wretch,  a horrible  device  enthroned 
On  proud  temptations,  till  the  victim  groaned 
Under  the  steel  his  hand  had  dared  to  draw. 

But  O,  restrain  compassion,  if  its  course. 

As  oft  befals,  prevent  or  turn  aside 
Judgments  and  aims  and  acts  whose  higher  source 
Is  sympathy  with  the  unforewarned,  who  died 

[*  See  an  excellent  commentary  on  this  series  of  Poems, 
by  Henry  Taylor,  Esq.,  author  of  “Philip  Van  Arta- 
velde,”  etc.,  at  the  close  of  a Critical  Essay  from  his  pen, 
which  appeared  in  the  Quarterly  Review  for  December, 
>841.  No.  137,  p.  39.  — H.  R.] 


Blameless  — with  them  that  shuddered  o’er  his  grave, 
And  all  who  from  the  law  firm  safety  crave. 


III. 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die 
Who  had  betrayed  their  country.  The  stern  word 
Afforded  (may  it  through  all  time  afford) 

A theme  for  praise  and  admiration  high. 

Upon  the  surface  of  humanity 

He  rested  not;  its  depths  his  mind  explored  ; 

He  felt;  but  his  parental  bosom’s  lord 
Was  duty,  — duty  calmed  his  agony. 

And  some,  we  know,  when  they  by  wilful  act 
A single  human  life  have  wrongly  taken. 

Pass  sentence  on  themselves,  confess  the  fact. 

And,  to  atone  for  it,  with  soul  unshaken 
Kneel  at  the  feet  of  Justice,  and  for  faith 
Broken  with  all  mankind,  solicit  death. 


IV. 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought 
With  such  fell  mastery  that  a man  may  dare 
By  deeds  the  blackest  purpose  to  lay  bare ! 

Is  Death,  for  one  to  that  condition  brought. 

For  him  or  any  one,  the  thing  that  ought 
To  be  most  dreaded ! Lawgivers,  beware. 

Lest  capital  pains  remitting  till  ye  spare 
The  murderer,  ye,  by  sanction  to  that  thought 
Seemingly  given,  debase  the  general  mind ; 
Tempt  the  vague  will  tried  standards  to  disown. 
Nor  only  palpable  restraints  unbind. 

But  upon  Honour’s  head  disturb  the  crown. 
Whose  absolute  rule  permits  not  to  withstand 
In  the  weak  love  of  life  his  least  command. 


276 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


V. 

r^OT  to  the  object  specially  desigriied, 

Howe’er  momentous  in  itself  it  be, 

Good  to  promote  or  curb  depravity, 

Is  the  wise  Legislator’s  view  confined. 

His  Spirit,  when  most  severe,  is  oft  most  kind ; 

As  all  Authority  in  earth  depends 
On  Love  and  Fear,  their  several  powers  he  blends. 
Copying  with  awe  the  one  Paternal  mind. 
Uncaught  by  processes  in  show  humane. 

He  feels  how  far  the  act  would  derogate 
From  even  the  humblest  functions  of  the  State ; 

If  she,  self-shorn  of  Majesty,  ordain 
That  never  more  shall  hang  upon  her  breath 
The  last  alternative  of  Life  or  Death. 


VI. 

Ye  brood  of  conscience  — Spectres!  that  frequent 
The  bad  Man’s  restless  walk,  and  haunt  his  bed  — 
Fiends  in  your  aspect,  yet  beneficent 
In  act,  as  hovering  Angels  when  they  spread 
Their  wings  to  guard  the  unconscious  Innocent  — 
Slow  be  the  Statutes  of  the  land  to  share 
A laxity  that  could  not  but  impair 
Your  power  to  punish  crime,  and  so  prevent. 

And  ye.  Beliefs!  coiled  serpent-like  about 
The  adage  on  all  tongues,  “ Murder  will  out,” 

How  shall  your  ancient  warnings  work  for  good 
In  the  full  might  they  hitherto  have  shown. 

If  for  deliberate  shedder  of  man’s  blood 
Survive  not  Judgment  that  requires  his  owni 


VII. 

Before  the  world  had  past  her  time  of  youth 
While  polity  and  discipline  were  weak. 

The  precept  eye  for  eye,  and  tooth  for  tooth. 

Came  forth  — a light,  though  but  as  of  day-break. 
Strong  as  could  then  be  borne.  A Master  meek 
Proscribed  the  spirit  fostered  by  that  rule. 

Patience  his  law’,  long-suffering  his  school. 

And  love  the  end,  which  all  through  peace  must  seek. 
But  lamentably  do  they  err  who  strain 
His  mandates,  given  rash  impulse  to  controul 
And  keep  vindictive  thirstings  from  the  soul. 

So  far  that,  if  consistent  in  their  scheme. 

They  must  forbid  the  State  to  inflict  a pain. 

Making  of  social  order  a mere  dream. 


VHI. 

Fit  retribution,  by  the  moral  code 
Determined,  lies  beyond  tlie  State’s  embrace. 
Yet,  as  she  may,  for  each  peculiar  case 
She  plants  well-measured  terrors  in  the  road 


Of  wrongful  acts.  Downw’ard  it  is  and  broad. 

And,  the  main  fear  once  doomed  to  banishment. 

Far  oftener  then,  bad  ushering  worse  event, 

I Blood  would  be  spilt  that  in  his  dark  abode 
Crime  might  lie  better  hid.  And,  should  the  change 
Take  from  the  horror  due  to  a foul  deed. 

Pursuit  and  evidence  so  far  must  fail. 

And,  guilt  escaping,  passion  then  might  plead 
In  angry  spirits  for  her  old  free  range. 

And  the  “ wild  justice  of  revenge  ” prevail. 


IX. 


Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter 
' Is  one  great  aim  of  penalty,  extend 
j Thy  mental  vision  further  and  ascend 
' Far  higher,  else  full  surely  shaft  thou  err. 
What  is  a State  I The  wise  behold  in  her 


A creature  born  of  time,  that  keeps  one  eye 
Fixed  on  the  statutes  of  Eternity, 

To  w’hich  her  judgments  reverently  defer. 

Speaking  through  Law’s  dispassionate  voice  the  State 

Endues  her  conscience  with  external  life 

And  being,  to  preclude  or  quell  the  strife 

Of  individual  will,  to  elevate 

The  grovelling  mind,  the  erring  to  recal. 

And  fortify  the  moral  sense  of  all. 


Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine 
j Of  an  immortal  spirit  is  a gift 
I So  sacred,  so  informed  w'ith  light  divine, 
i That  no  tribunal,  though  most  wise  to  sift 
I Deed  and  intent,  should  turn  the  being  adrift 
Into  that  w'orld  where  penitential  tear 
May  not  avail,  nor  prayer  have  for  God’s  ear 
A voice  — that  world  whose  veil  no  hand  can  lift 


I 

I 


For  earthly  sight.  “ Eternity  and  Time” 

They  urge,  “ have  interwoven  claims  and  rights 
Not  to  be  jeopardised  through  foulest  crime : 

The  sentence  rule  by  mercy’s  heaven-born  lights.” 
Even  so ; but  measuring  not  by  finite  sense 
Infinite  Power,  perfect  Intelligence. 


: Ah,  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide 
Locked  in  a dungeon  needs  must  eat  the  heart 
Out  of  his  own  humanity,  and  part 
With  every  hope  that  mutual  cares  provide; 
And,  should  a less  unnatural  doom  confide 
In  life-long  exile  on  a savage  coast. 

Soon  the  relapsing  penitent  may  boast 
Of  yet  more  heinous  guilt,  with  fiercer  pride. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


277 


Hence  thoughtful  Mercy,  Mercy  sage  and  pure, 
Sanctions  tlie  forfeiture  that  Law  demands, 

Leaving  the  final  issue  in  Ills  hands 

Whose  goodness  knows  no  change,  whose  love  is  sure, 

W'iio  sees,  foresees  ; who  cannot  judge  amiss, 

And  wafts  at  will  the  contrite  soul  to  bliss. 

XII. 

See  the  Condemned  alone  within  his  cell 
And  prostrate  at  some  moment  when  remorse 
Stings  to  the  quick,  and,  with  resistless  force. 

Assaults  the  pride  she  strove  in  vain  to  quell. 

Then  mark  him,  him  who  could  so  long  rebel, 

The  crime  confessed,  a kneeling  penitent 
Before  the  Altar,  where  the  Sacrament 
Softens  his  heart,  till  from  his  eyes  outwell 
Tears  of  salvation.  Welcome  death  ! while  Heaven 
Does  in  this  change  exceedingly  rejoice; 

While  yet  the  solemn  heed  the  State -hath  given 
Helps  him  to  meet  the  last  Tribunal’s  voice 
In  faith,  which  fresh  offences,  were  he  cast 
On  old  temptations,  might  for  ever  blast. 

XIII. 

CONCLUSION'. 

Yes,  though  he  well  may  tremble  at  the  sound 
Of  his  own  voice,  who  from  the  judgment-seat 
Sends  the  pale  convict  to  his  last  retreat 
In  death;  though  listeners  shudder  all  around, 


They  know  the  dread  requital’s  source  profound  ; 

Nor  is,  they  feel,  its  wisdom  obsolete  — 

(Would  that  it  were !)  the  sacrifice  unmeet 
For  Christian  Faith.  But  hopeful  signs  abound  ; 

The  social  rights  of  man  breathe  purer  air; 

Religion  deepens  her  preventive  care; 

Then,  moved  by  needless  fear  of  past  abuse. 

Strike  not  from  Law’s  firm  hand  that  awful  rod. 

But  leave  it  thence  to  drop  for  lack  of  use: 

Oh,  speed  the  blessed  hour.  Almighty  God ! 

XIV. 

APOLOGY. 

The  formal  world  relaxes  her  cold  chain 
For  one  who  speaks  in  numbers;  ampler  scope 
His  utterance  finds;  and,  conscious  of  the  gain. 
Imagination  works  with  bolder  hope 
The  cause  of  grateful  reason  to  sustain  ;* 

And,  serving  Truth,  the  heart  more  strongly  beats 
Against  all  barriers  which  his  labour  meets 
In  lofty  place,  or  humble  life’s  domain. 

Enough:  — before  us  lay  a painful  road, 

And  guidance  have  I sought  in  duteous  love 
From  Wisdom’s  heavenly  Father.  Hence  hath  flowed 
Patience,  with  trust  that,  whatsoe’er  the  way 
Each  takes  in  this  high  matter,  all  may  move 
Cheered  with  the  prospect  of  a brighter  day. 
im. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  ON  THE  CONTINENT,  1820. 


DEDICATION. 


Dear  Fellow-travellers ! think  not  that  the  Muse 
Presents  to  notice  these  memorial  Lays, 

Hoping  the  general  eye  thereon  will  gaze. 

As  on  a mirror  that  gives  back  tlie  hues 
Of  living  Nature  ; no  — though  free  to  choose 
The  greenest  bowers,  the  most  inviting  ways, 

Tlie  fairest  landscapes  and  the  brightest  days. 

Her  skill  she  tried  with  less  ambitious  views. 

For  You  she  wrought ; ye  only  can  supply 
The  life,  the  truth,  the  beauty  : she  confides 
In  that  enjoyment  which  with  you  abides. 

Trusts  to  your  love  and  vivid  memory ; 

Thus  far  contented,  that  for  You  her  verse 
Shall  lack  not  power  the  “ meeting  soul  to  pierce !” 

W.  Wordsworth. 

Rydal  Mount,  January,  1822. 


I. 

FISH-WOMEN.  — ON  LANDING  AT  CALAIS. 
’T  IS  said,  fantastic  Ocean  doth  enfold 
The  likeness  of  whate’er  on  Land  is  seen ; 

But,  if  the  Nereid  Sisters  and  their  Queen, 

Above  whose  heads  the  Tide  so  long  hath  rolled, 
The  Dames  resemble  whom  we  here  behold, 

I low  terrible  beneath  the  opening  waves 
To  sink,  and  meet  them  in  their  fretted  caves, 
Withered,  grotesque  — immeasurably  old. 

And  shrill  and  fierce  in  accent ! — Fear  it  not ; 

For  they  Earth’s  fairest  Daughters  do  excel ; 

Pure  undecaying  beauty  is  their  lot ; 

Their  voices  into  liquid  music  swell. 

Thrilling  each  pearly  cleft  and  sparry  grot  — 

The  undisturbed  Abodes  where  Sea-nymphs  dwell ! 


II. 

BRUGES. 

Bruges  I saw  attired  with  golden  light 
(Streamed  from  the  west)  as  with  a robe  of  power  : 
’T  is  past : and  now  the  grave  and  sunless  hour. 
That,  slowly  making  way  for  peaceful  night. 

Best  suits  with  fallen  grandeur,  to  my  sight 


Offers  the  beauty,  the  magnificence. 

And  all  the  graces,  left  her  for  defence 
Against  the  injuries  of  Time,  the  spite 
Of  Fortune,  and  the  desolating  storms 
Of  future  War.  Advance  not  — spare  to  hide, 
O gentle  Power  of  Darkness  I these  mild  hues ; 
Obscure  not  yet  these  silent  avenues 
Of  stateliest  Architecture,  where  the  forms 
Of  Nun-like  Females,  with  soft  motion,  glide  ! 


III. 

BRUGES.* 

The  Spirit  of  Antiquity — enshrined 
In  sumptuous  Buildings,  vocal  in  sweet  Song, 

In  Picture,  speaking  with  heroic  tongue. 

And  with  devout  solemnities  entwined  — 

Strikes  to  the  seat  of  grace  within  the  mind : 

Hence  Forms  that  glide  with  swan-like  ease  along; 
Hence  motions,  even  amid  the  vulgar  throng. 

To  an  harmonious  decency  confined ; 

As  if  the  Streets  were  consecrated  ground. 

The  City  one  vast  Temple  — dedicate 
To  mutual  respect  in  thought  and  deed  ; 

To  leisure,  to  forbearances  sedate ; 

To  social  cares  from  jarring  passions  freed ; 

A nobler  peace  than  that  in  deserts  found ! 


IV. 

AFTER  VISITING  THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 

A wiNGfeD  Goddess,  clothed  in  vesture  wrought 
Of  rainbow  colours ; one  whose  port  was  bold. 
Whose  overburthened  hand  could  scarcely  hold 
The  glittering  crowns  and  garlands  which  it  brought 
Hovered  in  air  above  the  far-famed  Spot. 

She  vanished  — leaving  prospect  blank  and  cold 
Of  wind-swept  corn  that  wide  around  us  rolled 
In  dreary  billows,  wood,  and  meagre  cot. 

And  monuments  that  soon  must  disappear: 

Yet  a dread  local  recompense  we  found  ; 

While  glory  seemed  betrayed,  while  patriot  zea 
Sank  in  our  hearts,  W’e  felt  as  Men  should  feel 
With  such  vast  hoards  of  hidden  carnage  near 
And  horror  breathing  from  the  silent  ground  ! 

* See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


271) 


V. 

SCENERY  BETWEEN  NAMUR  AND  LIEGE. 
What  lovelier  home  could  gentle  Fancy  choose  1 
Is  this  the  Stream,  whose  cities,  heights,  and  plains. 
War’s  favourite  playground,  are  with  crimson  stains 
Familiar,  as  the  Morn  with  pearly  dews'? 

The  Morn,  that  now,  along  the  silver  Meuse, 
Spreading  her  peaceful  ensigns,  calls  the  Swains 
To  tend  their  silent  boats  and  ringing  wains, 

Or  strip  the  bough  whose  mellow  fruit  bestrews 
The  ripening  corn  beneath  it.  As  mine  eyes 
Turn  from  the  fortified  and  threatening  hill, 

How  sweet  the  prospect  of  yon  watery  glade. 

With  its  gray  rocks  clustering  in  pensive  shade. 
That,  shaped  like  old  monastic  turrets,  rise 
From  the  smooth  meadow-ground,  serene  and  still ! 


VI. 

AIX-LA-CIIAPELLE. 

Was  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo. 

That  we  approached  the  Seat  of  Charlemaine? 

To  sweep  from  many  an  old  romantic  strain 
That  faith  which  no  devotion  may  renew  ! 

Why  does  this  puny  Church  present  to  view 
Its  feeble  columns?  and  that  scanty  Chair? 

This  Sword  that  One  of  our  weak  times  might  wear ! 
Objects  of  false  pretence,  or  meanly  true  ! 

If  from  a Traveller’s  fortune  I might  claim 
A palpable  memorial  of  that  day. 

Then  would  I seek  the  Pyrenean  Breach 
Which  Roland  clove  with  huge  two-handed  sway. 
And  to  the  enormous  labour  left  his  name. 

Where  unremitting  frosts  the  rocky  Crescent  bleach.* 


VU. 

IN  THE  CATHEDRAL  AT  COLOGNE. 

O FOE  the  help  of  Angels  to  complete 
This  Temple  — Angels  governed  by  a plan 
How  gloriously  pursued  by  daring  Man, 

Studious  that  He  might  not  disdain  the  seat 
Who  dwells  in  Heaven ! But  that  inspiring  heat 
Hath  failed;  and  now,  ye  Powers!  whose  gorgeous 
wings 

And  splendid  aspect  yon  emblazonings 
But  faintly  picture,  ’t  were  an  office  meet 

Let  a wall  of  rocks  be  imagined  from  three  to  six  hundred 
feet  in  height,  and  rising  between  France  and  Spain,  so  as  phy- 
sically to  separate  the  two  kingdoms  — let  ns  fancy  this  wall 
curved  like  a crescent,  with  its  convexity  towaixls  France. 
Lastly,  let  us  suppose,  that  in  the  very  middle  of  the  wall,  a 
breach  of  300  feet  wide  has  been  beaten  down  by  the  famous 
Roland,  and  we  may  have  a good  idea  of  what  the  mountaineers 
call  the  ‘ BaECHE  de  Rola.nd.’  ” 


For  you,  on  these  unfinished  Shafts  to  try 
The  midnight  virtues  of  your  harmony  : — 
This  vast  Design  might  tempt  you  to  repeat 
Strains  that  call  forth  upon  empyreal  ground 
Immortal  Fabrics — rising  to  the  sound 
Of  penetrating  harps  and  voices  sweet ! 


VIII. 

IN  A CARRIAGE  UPON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  RHINE. 
Amid  this  dance  of  objects,  sadness  steals 
O’er  the  defrauded  heart  — while  sweeping  by. 

As  in  a fit  of  Thespian  jollity. 

Beneath  her  vine-leaf  crowm  the  green  Earth  reels: 
Backward,  in  rapid  evanescence,  wheels 
The  venerable  pageantry  of  Time, 

Each  beetling  rampart,  and  each  tower  sublime. 

And  what  the  Dell  unwillingly  reveals 
Of  lurking  cloistral  arch,  through  trees  espied 
Near  the  bright  River’s  edge.  Yet  why  repine  ? 
Pedestrian  liberty  shall  yet  be  mine 
To  muse,  to  creep,  to  halt  at  will,  to  gaze : 

Freedom  which  youth  with  copious  hand  supplied, 
May  in  fit  measure  bless  my  later  days. 


IX. 

HYMN, 

FOR  THE  BOATMEN,  AS  THEY  APPROACH  THE  RAPIDS 
UNDER  THE  CASTLE  OF  HEIDELBURG. 

Jesu!  bless  our  slender  Boat, 

By  the  current  swept  along; 

Loud  its  threatenings  — let  them  not 
Drown  the  music  of  a Song 
Breathed  thy  mercy  to  implore. 

Where  these  troubled  waters  roar! 

Saviour,  in  thy  image,  seen 

Bleeding  on  that  precious  Rood ; 

If,  w’hile  through  the  meadows  green 
Gently  wound  the  peaceful  flood. 

We  forgot  Thee,  do  not  Thou 
Disregard  thy  Suppliants  now! 

Hither,  like  yon  ancient  Tower 
Watching  o’er  the  River’s  bed. 

Fling  the  shadow  of  thy  power. 

Else  we  sleep  among  the  Dead  ; 

Thou  who  trodd’st  the  billowy  Sea, 

Shield  us  in  our  jeopardy ! 

Guide  our  Bark  among  the  waves; 

Through  the  rocks  our  passage  smooth ; 
Where  the  whirlpool  frets  and  raves 
Let  thy  love  its  anger  soothe: 

All  our  hope  is  placed  in  Thee; 

Aliserere  Domine  !* 

'‘See  the  beaiilifiil  Song  in  Mr.  Coleridge’s  Tragedy,  “Tns 
Re.morse.”  Why  is  the  Harp  of  Quantock  silent  I 


280 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


X. 

THE  SOURCE  OF  THE  DANUBE.* 

Not,  like  his  great  compeer.®,  indignantly 
Doth  Danube  spring  to  life!  The  wandering  Stream 
(Who  loves  the  Cross,  yet  to  the  Crescent’s  gleam 
Unfolds  a willing  breast)  with  infant  glee 
Slips  from  his  prison  walls : and  Fancy,  free 
To  follow  in  his  track  of  silver  light. 

Mounts  on  rapt  wing,  and  with  a moment’s  flight 
Hath  reached  tlie  encincture  of  that  gloomy  sea 
Whose  waves  the  Orphean  lyre  forbad  to  meet 
(n  conflict ; whose  rough  winds  forgot  their  jars 
To  waft  the  heroic  progeny  of  Greece; 

When  the  first  Ship  sailed  for  the  Golden  Fleece  — 

Argo—  exalted  for  that  daring  feat 

To  fix  in  heaven  her  shape  distinct  with  stars. 


XI. 

MEMORIAL, 

NEAR  THE  OUTLET  OF  THE  LAKE  OF  THUN. 

"DEM 

^MDEMKKM 
MEIMES  FREUMDES 
jiLOrS  REDIMO 
MDCCCXVIII." 

Aloys  Rodinj.  it  will  be  remembered,  was  Captain-General  of  tlie 
Swiss  forces,  which,  with  a courage  and  perseverance  worthy  of 
the  cause,  opposed  the  flagitious  and  too  successful  attempt  of 
Buonaparte  to  subjugate  their  country. 

Around  a wild  and  woody  hill 
A gravelled  pathway  treading. 

We  reached  a votive  Stone  that  bears 
The  name  of  Aloys  Reding. 

Well  judged  the  Friend  who  placed  it  there 
For  silence  and  protection ; 

And  haply  with  a finer  care 
Of  dutiful  affection. 

The  Sun  regards  it  from  the  West; 

And,  while  in  summer  glory 
He  sets,  his  sinking  yields  a type 
Of  that  pathetic  story: 


* Before  this  quarter  of  the  Black  Forest  was  inhabited, 
the  source  of  the  Danube  might  have  suggested  some  of 
those  sublime  images  which  Armstrong  has  so  finely  de- 
scribed; at  present,  the  contrast  is  most  striking.  The 
spring  appears  in  a capacious  stone  basin  in  front  of  a Ducal 
palace,  with  a pleasure-ground  opposite ; then  passing 
under  the  pavement,  takes  the  form  of  a little,  clear,  bright, 
black,  vigorous  rill,  barely  wide  enough  to  tempt  the 
agility  of  a child  five  years  old  to  leap  over  it, — and  enter- 
ing the  garden,  it  joins,  after  a course  of  a few  hundred 
yards,  a stream  much  more  considerable  than  itself.  The 
copiousttess  of  the  spring  at  Doneschingen  must  have  pro- 
cured for  it  the  honour  of  being  named  the  Source  of  the 
Danube. 


And  oft  he  tempts  the  patriot  Swiss 
Amid  the  grove  to  linger; 

Till  all  is  dim,  save  this  bright  Stone 
Touched  by  his  golden  finger. 

XII. 

COMPOSED  IN  ONE  OF  THE  CATHOLIC 
CANTONS. 

Doomed  as  we  are  our  native  dust 
To  wet  with  many  a bitter  shower, 

It  ill  befits  us  to  disdain 
The  altar,  to  deride  the  fane. 

Where  simple  Sufferers  bend,  in  trust 
To  win  a happier  hour. 

I love,  where  spreads  the  village  lawn. 
Upon  some  knee-worn  cell  to  gaxe; 

Hail  to  the'  firm  unmoving  cross. 

Aloft,  where  pines  their  branches  toss ! 
And  to  the  chapel  far  withdrawn. 

That  lurks  by  lonely  ways! 

Where’er  we  roam  — along  the  brink 
Of  Rhine  — or  by  the  sweeping  Po, 
Through  Alpine  vale,  or  champain  wide, 
W'hate’er  we  look  on,  at  our  side 
Be  Charity!  — to  bid  us  think. 

And  feel,  if  we  would  know. 

AFTER-THOUGHT. 

Oh  Life ! without  thy  chequered  scene 
Of  right  and  wrong,  of  weal  and  woe. 
Success  and  failure,  could  a ground 
For  magnanimity  be  found  ; 

For  faith  ’mid  ruined  hopes,  serene  1 
Or  whence  could  virtue  flow  I 

Pain  entered  through  a ghastly  breach  — 
Nor  while  sin  lasts  must  effort  cease; 
Heaven  upon  earth ’s  an  empty  boast ; 

But,  for  the  bow'ers  of  Eden  lost, 

Mercy  has  placed  within  our  reacli 
A portion  of  God’s  peace. 

XIH. 

ON  APPROACHING  THE  STAUB-BACH 
LAUTER-BRUNNEN. 

Uttered  by  whom,  or  how  inspired  — designed 
For  what  strange  service,  does  this  concert  reach 
Our  ears,  and  near  the  dwellings  of  mankind  ! 

’JMid  fields  familiarized  to  human  speech?  — 

No  Mermaids  warble  — to  allay  the  wind 
Driving  some  vessel  toward  a dangerous  beach  — 
More  thrilling  mekxlies;  Witch  answering  Witcli, 
To  chaunt  a love-spell,  never  intertwined 
Notes  shrill  and  wild  with  art  more  musical ! 

Alas!  that  from  the  lips  of  abject  Want 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


£81 


And  Idleness  in  tatters  mendicant 

The  strain  should  flow  — free  fancy  to  enthral, 

And  with  regret  and  useless  pity  haunt 

This  bold,  this  pure,  this  sky-born  Watkrfall  !* 


XIV. 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  AAR-  HANDEC. 

From  the  fierce  aspect  of  this  River  throwing 
His  giant  body  o’er  the  steep  rock’s  brink. 

Back  in  astonishment  and  fear  we  shrink  : 

But,  gradually  a calmer  look  bestowing. 

Flowers  we  espy  beside  the  torrent  growing ; 

Flowers  that  peep  forth  from  many  a cleft  and  chink. 
And,  from  the  whirlwind  of  his  anger,  drink 
Hues  ever  fresh,  in  rocky  fortress  blowing: 

They  suck,  from  breath  that  threatening  to  destroy. 

Is  more  benignant  than  the  dewy  eve. 

Beauty,  and  life,  and  motions  as  of  joy : 

Nor  doubt  but  He  to  whom  yon  Pine-trees  nod 
Their  heads  in  sign  of  worship.  Nature’s  God, 

These  humbler  adorations  will  receive. 


XV. 

SCENE  ON  THE  LAKE  OF  BRIENTZ. 

“What  know  we  of  the  blest  above 
But  that  they  sing  and  that  they  love  1” 

Yet,  if  they  ever  did  inspire 
A mortal  hymn,  or  shaped  the  choir. 

Now,  where  those  harvest  Damsels  float 
Homeward  in  their  rugged  Boat, 

(While  all  the  ruffling  winds  are  fled. 

Each  slumbering  on  some  mountain’s  head,) 

Now,  surely,  hath  that  gracious  aid 
Been  felt,  that  influence  is  displayed. 

Pupils  of  Heaven,  in  order  stand 
The  rustic  Maidens,  every  hand 

* “ The  Staub-bach”  is  a narrow  Stream,  which,  after  a long 
course  on  the  heights,  comes  to  the  sharp  edge  of  a somewhat 
overhanging  precipice,  overleaps  it  with  a bound,  and,  after  a 
fall  of  930  feet,  forms  again  a rivulet.  The  vocal  powers  of 
these  musical  Beggars  may  seem  to  be  exaggerated ; but  this 
wild  and  savage  air  w'as  utterly  unlike  any  sounds  I had  ever 
heard  ; the  notes  reached  me  from  a distance,  and  on  what 
occasion  they  were  sung  I could  not  guess,  only  they  seemed 
to  belong,  in  some  way  or  other,  to  the  Waterfall  — and  re- 
minded me  of  religious  services  chanted  to  Streams  and  Foun- 
tains in  Pagan  times.  Mr.  Southey  has  thus  accurately  cha- 
racterised the  peculiarity  of  this  music  ; *'  While  we  were  at  the 
Waterfall,  some  half-score  peasants,  chiefly  women  and  girls, 
assembled  just  out  of  reach  of  the  Spring,  and  set  up,  — surely 
the  wildest  chorus  that  ever  was  heard  by  human  ears,  — a 
song  not  of  articulate  sounds,  but  in  which  the  voice  was  used 
as  a mere  instrument  of  music,  more  flexible  than  any  which 
art  could  produce,  — sweet,  powerful,  and  thrilling  beyond  de- 
scription ” See  Notes  to  “ A Tale  of  Paraguay.” 

2L 


Upon  a Sister’s  shoulder  laid, — 

To  chant,  as  glides  the  boat  along, 
A sitnple,  but  a touching.  Song; 
To  chant,  as  Angels  do  above. 

The  melodies  of  Peace  in  love ! 


XVI. 

ENGELBERG,  THE  HILL  OF  ANGELS.t 
For  gentlest  uses,  oft-times  Nature  takes 
The  work  of  Fancy  from  her  willing  hands  ; 

And  such  a beautiful  creation  makes 
As  renders  needless  spells  and  magic  wands. 

And  for  the  boldest  tale  belief  commands. 

When  first  mine  eyes  beheld  that  famous  Hill 
The  sacred  Engelberg,  celestial  Bands, 

With  intermingling  motions  soft  and  still. 

Hung  round  its  top,  on  wings  that  changed  their  hues 
at  will. 

Clouds  do  not  name  those  Visitants ; they  were 
The  very  .Angels  whose  authentic  lays. 

Sung  from  that  heavenly  ground  in  middle  air. 

Made  known  the  spot  where  piety  should  raise 
A holy  Structure  to  the  Almighty’s  praise. 
Resplendent  Apparition  ! if  in  vain 
My  ears  did  listen,  ’twas  enough  to  gaze; 

And  watch  the  slow  departure  of  the  train. 

Whose  skirts  the  glowing  Mountain  thirsted  to  detain. 


XVII. 

OUR  LADY  OF  THE  SNOW. 

Meek  Virgin  Mother,  more  benign 
Than  fairest  Star,  upon  the  height 
Of  thy  own  mountain^,  set  to  keep 
Lone  vigils  through  the  hours  of  sleep. 

What  eye  can  look  upon  thy  shrine 
Untroubled  at  the  sight"! 

These  crowded  Offerings  as  they  hang 
In  sign  of  misery  relieved. 

Even  these,  without  intent  of  theirs. 

Report  of  comfortless  despairs. 

Of  many  a deep  and  cureless  pang 
And  confidence  deceived. 

To  Thee,  in  this  aerial  cleft, 

As  to  a common  centre,  tend 
All  sufferings  that  no  longer  rest 

t The  Convent  whose  site  was  pointed  out,  according  to  tra- 
dition, in  this  manner,  is  seated  at  its  base.  The  Architecture 
of  the  Building  is  unimpressive,  but  the  situation  is  worthy  of 
the  honour  which  the  imagination  of  the  Mountaineers  has  con- 
ferred upon  it. 
t Mount  Righi. 

24* 


282 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  mortal  succour,  all  distrest 
That  of  human  hope  bereft, 

Nor  wiih  for  earthly  friend. 

And  hence,  O Virjrin  Mother  mild ! 
Tliough  plenteous  flowers  around  thee  blow. 
Not  only  from  the  dreary  strife 
Of  Winter,  but  the  storms  of  life. 

Thee  have  thy  Votaries  aptly  styled 
Our  Lady  of  the  Snow. 

Even  for  the  Man  who  stops  not  here. 

But  down  the  irriguous  valley  hies. 

Thy  very  name,  O Lady!  flings. 

O’er  blooming  fields  and  gushing  springs, 

A tender  sense  of  shadowy  fear. 

And  chastening  sympathies ! 

Nor  falls  that  intermingling  shade 
To  Summer  gladsomeness  unkind  ; 

It  chastens  only  to  requite 
With  gleams  of  fresher,  purer,  light; 
While,  o’er  the  flower-enamelled  glade, 
l\Iore  sweetly  breathes  the  wind. 

But  on!  — a tempting  downward  way, 

A verdant  path  before  us  lies ; 

Clear  shines  the  glorious  sun  above ; 

Tlien  give  free  course  to  joy  and  love. 
Deeming  the  evil  of  the  day 
Sufficient  for  tlie  wise. 


XVIII. 

EFFUSION 

iN  PRESENCE  OF  THE  PAINTED  TOWER  OF  TELL, 
AT  ALTORF. 


Tliis  Tower  is  said  to  stand  upon  the  spot  where  grew  the 
Linden  Tree  against  wliich  his  Son  w'as  placed,  when  the  Fath- 
er’s archery  was  put  to  proof  under  circumstances  so  famous  in 
Swiss  History. 


What  though  the  Italian  pencil  wrought  not  here. 
Nor  such  fine  skill  as  did  the  meed  bestow 
On  Marathonian  valour,  yet  the  tear 
Springs  forth  in  presence  of  this  gaudy  show. 
While  narrow  cares  their  limits  overflow. 

Thrice  happy.  Burghers,  Peasants,  Warriors  old. 
Infants  in  arms,  and  Ye,  that  as  ye  go 
Home-ward  or  School-ward,  ape  wliat  ye  behold  ; 
Heroes  before  your  time,  in  frolic  fancy  bold ! 

But  when  that  calm  Spectatre.ss  from  on  high 
Looks  down  — the  bright  and  solitary  Moon, 

Who  never  gazes  but  to  beautify  ; 

And  snow-fed  torrents,  which  the  blaze  of  noon 


Roused  into  fury,  murmur  a soft  tune 
That  fosters  peace,  and  gentleness  recalls ; 

Then  might  the  passing  Monk  receive  a boon 
Of  saintly  pleasure  from  these  pictured  walls. 

While,  on  the  warlike  groups,  the  mellowing  lustre  <al>s 

How  blest  the  souls  who  when  their  trials  come 
Yield  not  to  terror  or  despondency. 

But  face  like  that  sweet  Boy  their  mortal  doom, 
Whose  head  the  ruddy  Apple  tops,  while  he 
Expectant  stands  beneath  the  linden  tree ; 

He  quakes  not  like  the  timid  forest  game. 

But  smiles  — the  hesitating  shaft  to  free ; 

Assured  that  Heaven  its  justice  will  proclaim 
And  to  his  Father  give  its  own  unerring  aim. 


XIX. 

THE  TOWN  OF  SCIIWYTZ. 

By  antique  Fancy  trimmed  — though  lowly,  bred 
To  dignity  — in  thee,  O Schwytz!  are  seen 
The  genuine  features  of  the  golden  mean  ; 

Equality  by  Prudence  governed. 

Or  jealous  Nature  ruling  in  her  stead ; 

And,  therefore,  art  thou  blest  with  peace,  serene 
As  that  of  the  sweet  fields  and  meadows  green 
In  unambitious  compass  round  thee  spread. 

Majestic  Berne,  high  on  her  guardian  steeo. 

Holding  a central  station  of  command. 

Might  well  be  styled  this  noble  Body’s  Head  ; 

Thou,  lodged  ’mid  mountainous  entrenchments  deep. 

Its  Heart  ; and  ever  may  the  heroic  Land 

Thy  name,  O Schwytz,  in  happy  freedom  keep  !* 


XX. 

ON  HEARING  THE  “RANZ  DES  VACHES,”  ON  THE 
TOP  OF  THE  PASS  OF  ST.  GOTHARD. 

I LISTEN  — but  no  faculty  of  mine 
Avails  those  modulations  to  detect. 

Which,  heard  in  foreign  lands,  the  Swiss  affect 
With  tenderest  passion  ; leaving  him  to  pine 
(So  fame  reports)  and  die ; his  sweet-breathed  kine 
Remembering,  and  green  Alpine  pastures  decked 
With  vernal  flowers.  Yet  may  we  not  reject 
The  tale  as  fabulous.  — Here  while  I recline 
Mindful  how'  others  love  this  simple  Strain, 

Even  here,  upon  this  glorious  Mountain  (named 
Of  God  himself  from  dread  pre-eminence) 

Aspiring  thoughts,  by  memory  reclaimed. 

Yield  to  the  Music’s  touching  influence. 

And  joys  of  distant  home  my  heart  enchain. 

♦Nearly  500  years  (says  Ebel,  speaking  of  the  French  In\a- 
sron,I  had  elai>sed,  when,  for  the  first  time,  foreign  soldiers  were 
seen  upon  the  frontiers  of  this  small  Canton,  to  impose  upon  I 
the  laws  of  their  governors. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


2 S3 


XXI. 

THE  CHURCH  OF  SAN  SALVADOR,  SEEN  FROM  THE 
LAKE  OF  LUGANO. 


This  Church  was  almost  destroyed  by  lightning  a few  years 
ago,  but  the  Altar  and  the  Image  of  the  Patron  Saint  were  un- 
touched. The  Mount,  upon  the  summit  of  which  the  Church  is 
built,  stands  amid  the  intricacies  of  the  Lake  of  Lugano;  and  is, 
from  a hundred  points  of  view,  its  principal  ornament,  rising  to 
the  height  of  2000  feet,  and,  on  one  side,  nearly  perpendicular. 
The  ascent  is  toilsome;  but  the  traveller  who  performs  it  will  be 
amply  rewarded.  — Splendid  fertility,  rich  woods  and  dazzling 
waters,  seclusion  and  condnement  of  view  contrasted  with  sea- 
like extent  of  plain  fading  into  the  sky ; and  this  again,  in  an 
opposite  quarter,  with  an  horizon  of  the  loftiest  and  boldest  Alps 
— unite  in  composing  a prospect  more  diversified  by  magnifi- 
cence, beauty,  and  sublimity,  than  perhaps  any  other  point  in 
Europe,  of  so  inconsiderable  an  elevation,  commands. 


Thou  sacred  Pile  ! whose  turrets  rise 
From  yon  steep  Mountain’s  loftiest  stage, 
Guarded  by  lone  San  Salvador; 

Sink  (if  thou  must)  as  heretofore, 

To  sulphurous  bolts  a sacrifice. 

But  ne’er  to  human  rage ! 

On  Horeb’s  top,  on  Sinai,  deigned 
To  rest  the  universal  Lord : 

Why  leap  the  fountains  from  their  cells 
Where  everlasting  Bounty  dwells! 

— That,  while  the  Creature  is  sustained, 

Ilis  God  may  be  adored. 

Cliffs,  fountains,  rivers,  seasons,  times. 

Let  all  remind  the  soul  of  heaven ; 

Our  slack  devotion  needs  them  all ; 

And  Faith,  so  oft  of  sense  the  thrall. 

While  she,  by  aid  of  Nature,  climbs. 

May  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

Glory,  and  patriotic  Love, 

And  all  the  Pomps  of  this  frail  “Spot 
Which  men  call  Earth,”  have  yearned  to  seek. 
Associate  with  the  simply  meek. 

Religion  in  the  sainted  grove. 

And  in  the  hallowed  grot. 

Thither,  in  time  of  adverse  shock.s. 

Of  fainting  hopes  and  backward  wills. 

Did  mighty  Tell  repair  of  old  — 

A Hero  cast  in  Nature’s  mould. 

Deliverer  of  the  steadfast  rocks 
And  of  the  ancient  hills! 

He,  too,  of  battle-martyrs  chief! 

Who,  to  recall  his  daunted  peers. 


For  victory  shaped  an  open  space. 

By  gathering  with  a wide  embrace. 

Into  his  single  heart,  a sheaf 
Of  fatal  Austrian  spears.* 

XXII. 

FORT  FUENTES. 

The  Ruins  of  Fort  Fueutes  form  the  crest  of  a rocky  emi- 
nence that  rises  from  the  plain  at  the  head  of  the  Lake  of  Como, 
commanding  views  up  the  Valteline,  and  toward  the  town  of 
Chiavenna.  The  prospect  in  the  latter  direction  is  characterised 
by  melancboly  sublimity.  We  rejoiced  at  being  favoured  with 
a distinct  view  of  those  Alpine  heights;  not,  as  vve  laid  ex 
peeled  from  the  breaking  up  of  the  storm,  steeped  in  celestial 
glory,  yet  in  communion  with  clouds  floating  or  stationary  — 
scatterings  from  heaven.  The  Ruin  is  interesting  both  in  ma.*s 
and  in  detail.  An  Inscription,  upon  elaborately-sculptured  mar- 
ble lying  on  the  ground,  records  that  the  Fort  had  been  erected 
by  Count  Fuentes  in  the  year  IGOO,  during  the  reign  of  Philip 
the  Third  ; and  the  Chapel,  about  twenty  years  after,  by  one  of 
his  Descendants.  Marble  pillars  of  gateways  are  yet  standing, 
and  a considerable  part  of  the  Chapel  walls;  a smooth  green 
turf  has  taken  place  of  the  pavement,  and  w e could  see  no  tnice 
of  altar  or  image  ; but  everj'W  here  something  to  remind  one  of 
former  splendour,  and  of  deviistation  and  tumult.  In  our  ascent 
we  had  passed  abundance  of  wild  vines  intermingled  with 
bushes:  near  the  ruins  were  some  ill-tended,  but  grovxing 
willingly;  and  rock,  turf,  and  fragments  of  the  pile,  are  alike 
covered  or  adorned  with  a variety  of  flowers,  among  which  tl-.o 
rose-coloured  pink  was  growing  in  great  beauty.  While  de- 
scending, we  discovered  on  the  ground,  apart  from  the  path,  and 
at  a considerable  distance  from  the  ruined  Chapel,  a statue  of  a 
Child  in  pure  white  marble,  uninjured  by  the  cxiilosion  that  had 
driven  it  so  far  down  the  hill.  “How  little,”  vve  exclaimed, 
“ are  these  things  valued  here ! Could  we  but  transport  this 
pretty  Image  to  our  own  garden!” — Yet  it  seemed  it  would 
have  been  a pity  any  one  should  remove  it  from  its  couch  in  the 
wilderness,  which  may  be  its  own  for  hundreds  of  years. 

Extract  from  JournaL 


Dread  hour ! when,  upheaved  by  war’s  sulphurous 
blast. 

This  sweet-visaged  Cherub  of  Parian  stone 
So  far  from  the  holy  enclosure  w'as  cast. 

To  couch  in  this  thicket  of  brambles  alone  ; 

To  rest  where  the  lizard  may  bask  in  the  palm 
Of  his  half-open  hand  pure  from  blemish  or  speck ; 
And  the  green,  gilded  snake,  without  troubling  the 
calm 

Of  the  beautiful  countenance,  twine  round  his  neck. 

Where  haply  (kind  service  to  Piety  due  !) 

When  winter  the  grove  of  its  mantle  bereaves. 
Some  Bird  (like  our  own  honoured  Redbreast)  may 
strew 

The  desolate  Slumberer  with  moss  and  w ith  leaves. 

’Arnold  Winkelried,  at  the  battle  of  Sempaeh,  broke  an  Aus- 
trian phalanx  in  this  manner.  The  event  is  one  of  the  most  fa- 
mous in  the  annals  of  Swiss  heroism ; and  pictures  and  prints 
of  it  are  frequent  throughout  the  country 


284 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fuentes  once  harboured  the  good  and  the  brave, 

Nor  to  her  was  tlie  dance  of  soft  pleasure  unknown ; 
Her  banners  for  festal  enjoyment  did  wave, 

While  the  thrill  of  her  fifes  thro’  the  mountains  was 
blown  : 

Now  gads  the  wild  vine  o’er  tlie  pathless  Ascent  — 

O silence  of  Nature,  how  deep  is  thy  sway 
When  the  whirlwind  of  human  destruction  is  spent. 
Our  tumults  appeased,  and  our  strifes  passed  away ! — 


XXIII. 

THE  ITALIAN  ITINERANT,  AND  THE  SWISS 
GOATHERD. 


PART  I 

1. 

Now  that  the  farewell  tear  is  dried. 

Heaven  prosper  thee,  be  hope  thy  guide! 
Hope  be  thy  guide,  adventurous  Boy ; 

The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy ! 

Whether  for  London  bound — to  trill 
Thy  mountain  notes  with  simple  skill ; 

Or  on  thy  head  to  poise  a show 
Of  Images  in  seemly  row ; 

The  graceful  form  of  milk-white  steed. 

Or  Bird  that  soared  with  Ganymede ; 

Or  through  our  hamlets  thou  wilt  bear 
The  sightless  Milton,  with  his  hair 
Around  his  placid  temples  curled ; 

And  Shakspeare  at  his  side  — a freight. 

If  clay  could  think  and  mind  were  w’eight. 
For  him  who  bore  the  world  ! 

Hope  be  thy  guide,  adventurous  Boy; 

The  wages  of  thy  travel,  joy  ! 

2. 

But  thou,  perhaps,  (alert  and  free 
Though  serving  sage  philosophy) 

Wilt  ramble  over  hill  and  dale, 

A Vender  of  the  well-wrought  Scale 
Whose  sentient  tube  instructs  to  time 
A purpose  to  a fickle  clime: 

Whether  thou  choose  this  useful  part. 

Or  minister  to  finer  art. 

Though  robbed  of  many  a cherished  dream. 
And  crossed  by  many  a shattered  scheme, 
What  stirring  wonders  wilt  thou  see 
In  the  proud  Isle  of  Liberty  ! 

Yet  will  the  Wanderer  sometimes  pine 
With  thoughts  which  no  delights  can  chase. 
Recall  a Sister’s  last  embrace. 

His  Mother’s  neck  entwine ; 

Nor  shall  forget  the  Maiden  coy 

That  would  have  loved  the  bright-haired  Boy ! 


a 

My  Song,  encouraged  by  the  grace 
That  beams  from  his  ingenuous  face, 

For  this  Adventurer  scruples  not 
To  prophesy  a golden  lot ; 

Due  recompense,  and  safe  return 
To  Como’s  steeps  — his  happy  bourne! 
Where  he,  aloft  in  garden  glade. 

Shall  tend,  with  his  own  dark-eyed  Maid, 
The  towering  maize,  and  prop  the  twig 
That  ill  supports  the  luscious  fig; 

Or  feed  his  eye  in  paths  sun-proof 
With  purple  of  the  trellis-roof. 

That  through  the  jealous  leaves  escapes 
From  Cadenabbia’s  pendent  grapes. 

— Oh  might  he  tempt  that  Goatherd-child 
To  share  his  wanderings  ! him  whose  look 
Even  yet  my  heart  can  scarcely  brook. 

So  touchingly  he  smiled. 

As  with  a rapture  caught  from  heaven. 
For  unasked  alms  in  pity  given. 


PART  II. 

1. 

With  nodding  plumes,  and  lightly  drest 
Like  Foresters  in  leaf-green  vest. 

The  Helvetian  Mountaineers,  on  ground 
For  Toll’s  dread  archery  renowned. 
Before  the  target  stood  — to  claim 
The  guerdon  of  the  steadiest  aim. 

Loud  was  the  rifle-gun’s  report, 

A startling  thunder  quick  and  short! 

But,  flying  through  the  heights  around 
Echo  prolonged  a tell-tale  sound 
Of  hearts  and  hands  alike  “prepared 
The  treasures  they  enjoy  to  guard !’’ 
And,  if  there  be  a favoured  hour 
When  Heroes  are  allowed  to  quit 
The  Tomb,  and  on  the  clouds  to  sit 
With  tutelary  power. 

On  their  Descendants  shedding  grace. 
This  was  the  hour,  and  that  the  place 

2. 

But  Truth  inspired  the  Bards  of  old. 
When  of  an  iron  age  they  told. 

Which  to  unequal  laws  gave  birth. 

That  drove  Astraea  from  the  earth. 

— A gentle  Boy  (perchance  with  blood 
As  noble  as  the  best  endued. 

But  seemingly  a Thing  despised. 

Even  by  the  sun  and  air  unprized; 

For  not  a tinge  or  flowery  streak 
Appeared  upon  his  tender  check) 
Heart-deaf  to  those  rebounding  notes, 
Sate  watching  by  his  silent  Goats, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


£85 


Apart  within  a forest  shed, 

Palo,  ragged,  with  bare  feet  and  head ; 

Mute  as  the  snow  upon  the  hill. 

And,  as  the  saint  he  prays  to,  still. 

Ah,  what  avails  heroic  deed  1 
What  liberty  I if  no  defence 
Be  won  for  feeble  Innocence  — 

Father  of  All ! though  wilful  manhood  read 
His  punishment  in  soul-distress, 

Grant  to  the  morn  of  life  its  natural  blessedness. 


XXIV. 

THE  LAST  SUPPER,  BV  LEONARUO  DA  VINCI,  IN  THE  REFECTORY  OF 
THE  CONVENT  OF  MARIA  DELLA  GRAZIA— MIL,\N. 

Tho’  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious  flaw 
Have  marred  this  Work*,  the  calm  ethereal  grace. 
The  love  deep-seated  in  the  Saviour’s  face. 

The  mercy,  goodness,  have  not  failed  to  awe 
The  Elements ; as  they  do  melt  and  thaw 
The  heart  of  the  Beholder  — and  erase 
(.At  least  for  one  rapt  moment)  every  trace 
Of  disobedience  to  the  primal  law. 

The  annunciation  of  the  dreadful  truth 

Made  to  the  Twelve,  survives : lip,  forehead,  cheek, 

And  hand  reposing  on  the  board  in  ruth 

Of  what  it  uttersf,  while  the  unguilty  seek 

Unquestionable  meanings  — still  bespeak 

A labour  worthy  of  eternal  youth  ! 


XXV. 

THE  ECLIPSE  OF  THE  SUN,  1820. 

High  on  her  speculative  Tower 
Stood  Science  waiting  for  the  Hour 
When  Sol  was  destined  to  endure 
That  darkening  of  his  radiant  face 
Which  Superstition  strove  to  chase, 

Erewhile,  with  rites  impure. 

Afloat  beneath  Italian  skies, 

Througn  regions  fair  as  Paradise 
We  gaily  passed,  — till  Nature  wrought 
A silent  and  unlooked-for  change. 

That  checked  the  desultory  range 
Of  joy  and  sprightly  thought. 

* This  picture  of  the  Last  Supper  has  not  only  been  grievous- 
ly injured  by  time,  but  parts  are  said  to  have  been  painted  over 
again.  These  niceties  may  be  left  to  connoisseurs,  — I speak 
of  it  as  I felt.  The  copy  exhibited  in  London  some  years  ago, 
and  the  engraving  by  Morghen,  are  both  admirable;  but  in 
the  original  is  a power  which  neither  of  those  works  has  attain- 
ed, or  even  approached. 

t “The  hand 

Sang  with  the  voice,  and  this  the  argument.” 

Milton. 


Where’er  was  dipped  the  toiluig  oar. 

The  waves  danced  round  us  as  before 
As  lightly,  though  of  altered  hue; 

’Mid  recent  coolness,  such  as  falls 
At  noontide  from  umbrageous  walls 
That  screen  the  morning  dew. 

No  vapour  stretched  its  wings ; no  cloud 
Cast  far  or  near  a murky  shroud  ; 

The  sky  an  azure  field  displayed ; 

’T  was  sunlight  sheathed  and  gently  charmed. 

Of  all  its  sparkling  rays  disarmed. 

And  as  in  slumber  laid  : — 

Or  something  night  and  day  between. 

Like  moonshine  — but  the  hue  was  green; 

Still  moonshine,  without  shadow,  spread 
On  jutting  rock,  and  curved  shore, 

Where  gazed  the  Peasant  from  his  door. 

And  on  the  mountain’s  head. 

It  tinged  the  Julian  steeps  — it  lay, 

Lugano!  on  thy  ample  bay; 

The  solemnizing  veil  was  drawn 
O’er  Villas,  Terraces,  and  Towers, 

To  Albogasio’s  olive  bowers, 

Porlezza’s  verdant  lawn. 

But  Fancy,  with  the  speed  of  fire. 

Hath  fled  to  Milan’s  loftiest  spire, 

And  there  alights  ’mid  that  aerial  host 
Of  figures  human  and  divinej. 

White  as  the  snows  of  Appenine 
Indurated  by  frost. 

Awe-stricken  she  beholds  the  array 
That  guards  the  Temple  night  and  day ; 

Angels  she  sees  that  might  from  Heaven  have  flown. 
And  Virgin-saints — who  not  in  vain 
Have  striven  by  purity  to  gain 
The  beatific  crown ; 


t The  SLahies  ranged  round  the  Spire  and  along  the  roof  ot 
the  Cathedral  of  Milan,  have  been  found  fault  with  by  Persons 
whose  exclusive  taste  is  unCirtunate  for  themselves.  It  is  true 
that  the  same  expense  and  labour,  judiciously  directed  to  pur- 
poses more  strictly  architectural,  might  have  much  heighicned 
the  general  effect  of  the  building ; for.  seen  from  the  ground, 
the  Statues  appear  diminutive.  But  the  cotip  d'ceil,  from  the  liest 
point  of  view,  which  is  halfway  up  the  Spire,  must  strike  an 
unprejudiced  Person  with  admiration;  and,  surely,  the  selection 
; and  arrangement  of  the  Figures  is  exquisitely  fitted  to  support 
the  religion  of  the  Country  in  the  imaginations  and  feelings  of 
the  Spectator.  It  was  with  great  pleasure  that  I saw,  during 
the  two  ascents  which  we  made,  several  Children,  of  different 
ages,  tripping  up  and  down  the  slender  spire,  and  pausing  to 
look  around  them,  with  feelings  much  more  animated  than 
could  have  been  derived  from  these,  or  the  finest  works  of  art, 
if  placed  within  easy  reach.  — Remember  also  that  you  have 
the  Alps  on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  the  .Apennines,  with  the 
Plain  of  Lombardy  between  ’ 


286 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Sees  long-drawn  files,  concentric  rings 
Each  narrowing  abo\e  each;  — the  wings, 

The  uplifted  palms,  the  silent  marble  lips. 

The  starry  zone  of  sovereign  height*. 

All  steeped  in  this  portentous  light ! 

All  suffering  dim  eclipse  ! 

Thus  after  Man  had  fallen  (if  aught 
These  perishable  spheres  have  wrought 
May  with  that  issue  be  compared) 

Throngs  of  celestial  visages. 

Darkening  like  water  in  the  breeze, 

A holy  sadness  shared. 

Lo ! while  I speak,  the  labouring  Sun 
Ilis  glad  deliverance  has  begun: 

The  Cypress  waves  her  sombre  plume 
More  cheerily ; and  Town  and  Tower, 

The  Vineyard  and  the  Olive  bower. 

Their  lustre  re-assume! 

0 ye,  who  guard  and  grace  my  Home 
While  in  far-distant  Lands  we  roam. 

What  countenance  hath  this  day  put  on  for  you  I 
Do  clouds  surcharged  with  irksome  rain. 
Blackening  the  Eclipse,  take  hill  and  plain 
From  your  benighted  view  ? 

Or  was  it  given  you  to  behold 
Like  vision,  pensive  though  not  cold. 

Of  gay  Winandermere  I 

Saw  ye  the  soft  yet  awful  veil 

Spread  over  Grasmere’s  lovely  dale, 

Ilelvellyn’s  brow  severe  1 

1 ask  in  vain  — and  know  far  less 
If  sickness,  sorrow,  or  distress. 

Have  spared  my  Dwelling  to  this  hour: 

Sad  blindness!  but  ordained  to  prove 
Our  Faith  in  Heaven’s  unfailing  love 
And  all-controlling  Power. 


XXVI. 

THE  THREE  COTTAGE  GIRLS. 

How  blest  the  Maid  whose  heart  — yet  free 
From  Love’s  uneasy  sovereignty. 

Beats  with  a fancy  running  high. 

Her  simple  cares  to  magnify ; 

Whom  Labour,  never  urged  to  toil. 

Hath  cherished  on  a healthful  soil ; 

Who  knows  not  pomp,  who  heeds  not  pelf; 
Whose  heaviest  sin  it  is  to  look 
Askance  upon  her  pretty  Self 
Reflected  in  some  crystal  brook; 

Whom  grief  hath  spared  — who  sheds  no  tear 
But  in  sweet  pity;  and  can  hear 
Another’s  praise  from  envy  clear. 


2. 

Such,  (but  O lavish  Nature  I why 
That  dark  unfathomable  eye. 

Where  lurks  a Spirit  that  replies 
To  stillest  mood  of  softest  skies, 

Yet  hints  at  peace  to  be  o’erthrown, 

Another’s  first,  and  then  her  ownl) 

Such,  haply,  yon  Italian  Maid, 

Our  Lady’s  laggard  Votaress, 

Halting  beneath  the  chestnut  shade 
To  accomplish  there  her  loveliness: 

Nice  aid  maternal  fingers  lend 
A Sister  serves  with  slacker  hand ; 

Then,  glittering  like  a star,  she  joins  the  festal  band, 

3. 

How  blest  (if  truth  may  entertain 
Coy  fancy  with  a bolder  strain) 

The  Helvetian  Girl  — who  daily  braves, 

In  her  light  skiff,  the  tossing  waves. 

And  quits  the  bosom  of  the  deep 
Only  to  climb  the  rugged  steep ! 

— Say  whence  that  modulated  shout  I 
From  Wood-nymph  of  Diana’s  throng  1 
Or  does  the  greeting  to  a rout 
Of  giddy  Bacchanals  belong! 

Jubilant  outcry!  — rock  and  glade 
Resounded  — but  the  voice  obeyed 
The  breath  of  an  Helvetian  Maid. 

4. 

Her  beauty  dazzles  the  thick  wood; 

Her  courage  animates  the  flood; 

Her  steps  the  elastic  green-sward  meets 
Returning  unreluctant  sweets; 

The  mountains  (as  ye  heard)  rejoice 
Aloud,  saluted  by  her  voice ! 

Blithe  Paragon  of  Alpine  grace, 

Be  as  thou  art  — for  through  thy  veins 
The  blood  of  Heroes  runs  its  race ! 

And  nobly  wilt  thou  brook  the  chains 
That,  for  the  virtuous,  Life  prepares; 

The  fetters  which  the  Matron  wears; 

The  Patriot  INIother’s  weight  of  anxious  cares ! 

5. 

t “ Sweet  Highland  Girl ! a very  shower 
Of  beauty  was  thy  earthly  dower,” 

When  thou  didst  flit  before  my  eyes. 

Gay  Vision  under  sullen  skies. 

While  Hope  and  love  around  thee  played. 

Near  the  rough  Falls  of  Inversneyd ! 

Time  cannot  thin  thy  flowing  hair. 

Nor  take  one  ray  of  light  from  Thee ; 

For  in  my  Fancy  thou  dost  share 
The  gift  of  Immortality; 


Above  tlie  highest  circle  of  figures  is  a zone  of  metallic  stars. 


t See  Address  to  a Highland  Girl. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


287 


And  there  shall  bloom,  with  Thee  allied, 

The  Votaress  by  Lugano’s  side; 

And  that  intrepid  Nymph,  on  Uri’s  steep,  descried ! 


XXVII. 

THE  COLUMN. 

INTENDED  BT  BUONAPARTE  FOR  A TRIUMPHAL  EDIFICE  IN  MILAN, 
NOW  LYING  BY  THE  WAY-SIDE  IN  THE  SIMPLON  PASS. 

Ambition,  following  down  this  far-famed  slope 
Her  Pioneer,  the  snow-dissolving  Sun, 

While  clarions  prate  of  Kingdoms  to  be  won. 
Perchance,  in  future  ages,  here  may  stop ; 

Taught  to  mistrust  her  flattering  horoscope 
By  admonition  from  this  prostrate  Stone  ; 

Memento  uninscribed  of  Pride  o’erthrown. 

Vanity’s  hieroglyphic  ; a choice  trope 
In  Fortune’s  rhetoric.  Daughter  of  the  Rock, 

Rest  where  thy  course  was  stayed  by  Power  divine ! 
The  Soul  transported  sees,  from  hint  of  thine. 

Crimes  which  the  great  Avenger’s  hand  provoke. 
Hears  combats  whistling  o’er  the  ensanguined  heath : 
^V’hat  groans ! what  shrieks ! what  quietness  in  death ! 


XXVIII. 

STANZAS, 

COMPOSED  IN  THE  SIMPLON  PASS. 

Vallombuosa  ! I longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood 
To  slumber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered  floor. 

To  listen  to  Anio’s  precipitous  flood. 

When  the  stillness  of  evening  hath  deepened  its  roar  ; 
To  range  through  the  Temples  of  P.estum,  to  muse 
In  Pompeii  preserved  by  her  burial  in  earth ; 

On  pictures  to  gaze  where  they  drank  in  their  hues  ; 
And  murmur  sweet  Songs  on  the  ground  of  their  birth  ! 

The  beauty  of  Florence,  the  grandeur  of  Rome, 

Could  I leave  them  unseen,  and  not  yield  to  regret  I 
With  a hope  (and  no  more)  for  a season  to  come. 
Which  ne’er  may  discharge  the  magnificent  debt  I 
Thou  fortunate  Region  ! whose  Greatness  inurned 
Awoke  to  new  life  from  its  ashes  and  dust ; 
Twice-glorified  fields!  if  in  sadness  I turned 
From  your  infinite  marvels,  the  sadness  was  just. 

Now,  risen  ere  the  light-footed  Chamois  retires 
From  dew-sprinkled  grass  to  heights  guarded  with  snow, 
Tow’rd  the  mists  that  hang  over  the  land  of  my  Sires, 
From  the  climate  of  myrtles  contented  I go. 

My  thoughts  become  bright  like  yon  edging  of  Pines, 
How  black  was  its  hue  in  the  region  of  air  ! 

But,  touched  from  behind  by  the  Sun,  it  now  shines 
With  threads  that  seem  part  of  its  own  silver  hair. 


Though  the  burthen  of  toil  with  dear  friends  we  divide. 
Though  by  the  same  zephyr  our  temples  are  fanned 
As  we  rest  in  the  cool  orange-bower  side  by  side, 

A yearning  survives  which  few  hearts  shall  withstand ; 
Each  step  hath  its  value  while  homeward  we  move; — 
O joy  when  the  girdle  of  England  appears  ! 

What  moment  in  life  is  so  conscious  of  love. 

So  rich  in  the  tenderest  sweetness  of  tears  ! 


XXIX. 

ECHO,  UPON  THE  GEMMI. 

WiiAT  Beast  of  Chase  hath  broken  from  the  cover! 
Stern  Gemmi  listens  to  as  full  a cry, 

As  multitudinous  a harmony. 

As  e’er  did  ring  the  heights  of  Latmos  over. 

When,  from  the  soft  couch  of  her  sleeping  Lover, 
Up-starting,  Cynthia  skimmed  the  mountain  dew 
In  keen  pursuit  — and  gave,  where’er  she  flew, 
Impetuous  motion  to  the  Stars  above  her. 

A solitary  Wolf-dog,  ranging  on 

Through  the  bleak  concave,  wakes  this  wonderous 
chime 

Of  aery  voices  locked  in  unison, — 

Faint  — far-off — near  — deep  — solemn  and  sublime! 
So,  from  the  body  of  one  guilty  deed, 

A thousand  ghostly  fears,  and  haunting  thoughts  pro- 
ceed ! 


XXX. 

PROCESSSIONS. 

SUGGESTED  ON  A SABBATH  MORNING  IN  THE 
VALE  OF  CIIAMOUNY. 

To  appease  the  Gods ; or  public  thanks  to  yield  ; 

Or  to  solicit  knowledge  of  events. 

Which  in  her  breast  Futurity  concealed ; 

And  that  the  past  might  have  its  true  intents 
Feelingly  told  by  living  monuments; 

Mankind  of  yore  were  prompted  to  devise 
Rites  such  as  yet  Persepolis  presents 
Graven  on  her  cankered  walls,  — solemnities 
That  moved  in  long  array  before  admiring  eyes. 

The  Hebrews  thus,  carrying  in  joyful  state 
Thick  boughs  of  palm,  and  willows  from  the  brook, 
Marched  round  the  Altar  — to  commemorate 
How,  when  their  course  they  through  the  desert  took. 
Guided  by  signs  which  ne’er  the  sky  forsook. 

They  lodged  in  leafy  tents  and  cabins  low ; 

Green  boughs  were  borne,  while  for  the  blast  that  shook 
Down  to  the  earth  the  walls  of  Jericho, 

These  shout  hosannas — those  the  startling  trumpets 
blow  J 


288 


WORDSWORTPrS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  thus,  in  order,  ’mid  the  sacred  Grove 
Fed  in  the  Libyan  waste  by  gushing  wells. 

The  Priests  and  Damsels  of  Ammonian  Jove 
Provoked  responses  with  shrill  canticles  ; 

While,  in  a Ship  begirt  with  silver  bells. 

They  round  his  Altar  bore  the  horned  God, 

Old  Cham,  the  solar  Deity,  who  dwells 
Aloft,  yet  in  a tilting  Vessel  rode. 

When  universal  sea  the  mountains  overflowed. 

Why  speak  of  Roman  Pomps?  the  haughty  claims 
Of  Chiefs  triumphant  after  ruthless  wars; 

The  feast  of  Neptune  — and  the  Cereal  Games, 

With  images,  and  crowns,  and  empty  cars ; 

The  dancing  Salii  — on  the  shields  of  Mars 
Smiting  with  fury  ; and  the  deeper  dread 
Scattered  on  all  sides  by  the  hideous  jars 
Of  Corybantian  cymbals,  while  the  head 
Of  Cybele  was  seen,  sublimely  turreted  ! 

At  length  a Spirit  more  subdued  and  soft 
Appeared,  to  govern  Christian  pageantries  : 

The  Cross,  in  calm  procession,  borne  aloft. 

Moved  to  the  chant  of  sober  litanies. 

Even  such,  this  day,  came  wafted  on  the  breeze 
From  a long  train  — in  hooded  vestments  fair 
En wrapt  — and  winding,  between  Alpine  trees, 

Spiry  and  dark,  around  their  House  of  Prayer 
Below  the  'icy  bed  of  bright  Argentiere. 

Still,  in  the  vivid  freshness  of  a dream. 

The  pageant  haunts  me  as  it  met  our  eyes ! 

Still,  with  those  white-robed  Shapes  — a living  Stream, 
The  glacier  Pillars  join  in  solemn  guise* 

For  the  same  service,  by  mysterious  ties ; 

Numbers  exceeding  credible  account 
Of  number,  pure  and  silent  Votaries 
Issuing  or  issued  from  a wintry  fount ; 

The  impenetrable  heart  of  that  e.xalted  Mount ! 

They,  too,  who  send  so  far  a holy  gleam 
While  they  the  Church  engird  with  motion  slow, 

A product  of  that  awful  Mountain  seem. 

Poured  from  his  vaults  of  everlasting  snow  ; 

Not  virgin-lilies  marshalled  in  bright  row. 

Not  swans  descending  with  the  stealthy  tide, 

A livelier  sisterly  resemblance  show 
Than  the  fair  Forms,  that  in  long  order  glide. 

Bear  to  the  glacier  band — those  shapes  aloft  descried. 


* This  Procession  is  a part  of  the  sacramental  service  perform- 
ed once  a month.  In  the  Valley  of  Engelberg  we  had  the  good 
fortune  to  be  present  at  the  Grand  Festival  of  the  Virgin  — but 
the  Procession  on  that  day,  though  consisting  of  upwards  of 
1000  Persons,  assembled  from  all  the  branches  of  the  sequestered 
Valley,  was  much  less  striking  (notwithstanding  the  sublimity 
of  the  surr.iunding  sceneiy):  it  wanted  both  the  simplicity  of  the 
otlier  .and  the  accompaniment  of  the  Glacier-columns,  whose  sis- 
terly resemblance  to  the  moving  Figures  gave  it  a most  beauti- 
ful and  solemn  peculiarity. 


Trembling,  I look  upon  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  licentious  craving  in  the  mind 
To  act  the  God  among  external  things. 

To  bind,  on  apt  suggestion,  or  unbind  ; 

And  marvel  not  that  antique  Faith  inclined 
To  crowd  the  world  with  metamorphosis. 

Vouchsafed  in  pity  or  in  wrath  assigned : 

Such  insolent  temptations  wouldst  thou  miss, 

Avoid  these  sights;  nor  brood  o’er  Fable’s  dark  abyss! 


XXXI. 

ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

The  lamented  Youth  whose  untimely  death  gave  occasion  to 
these  elegiac  verses,  was  Frederic  William  Goddard,  from  Bos- 
ton  in  North  America.  He  was  in  his  twentieth  year,  and  had 
resided  for  some  time  with  a clergyman  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Geneva  for  the  completion  of  his  education.  Accompanied 
by  a fellow-pupil,  a native  of  Scotland,  he  had  just  set  out  on  a 
Swiss  tour  when  it  was  his  misfortune  to  fall  in  with  a friend 
of  mine  who  was  hastening  to  join  our  party.  The  travellers, 
after  spending  a day  together  on  the  road  from  Berne  and  at 
Soleure,  took  leave  of  each  other  at  night,  the  young  men  having 
intended  to  proceed  directly  to  Zurich.  But  early  in  the  morning 
my  friend  found  his  new  acquaintances,  who  were  informed  of 
the  object  of  his  journey,  and  the  friends  he  was  in  pursuit  of 
equipped  to  accompany  him.  We  met  at  Lucerne  the  succeed- 
ing evening,  and  Mr.  G.  and  his  fellow-student  became  in  con- 
sequence our  travelling  companions  for  a couple  of  days.  Wo 
ascended  the  Righi  together;  and,  after  contemplating  the  sun 
rise  from  that  noble  mountain,  we  separated  at  an  hour  and  on 
a spot  well  suited  to  the  parting  of  those  who  were  to  meet  no 
m.ore.  Our  parly  descended  through  the  valley  of  our  Lady  of 
the  Snow,  and  our  late  companions,  to  Art.  We  had  hoped  to 
meet  in  a few  weeks  at  Geneva ; but  on  tbe  third  succeeding 
day  (on  the  21st  of  August)  Mr.  Goddard  perished,  being  overset 
in  a boat  while  cro.ssing  the  lake  of  Zurich.  His  companion 
saved  himself  by  swimming,  and  was  hospitably  received  in  the 
mansion  of  a Swiss  gentleman  (M.  Keller)  situated  on  the  east- 
ern coast  of  the  Lake.  The  corpse  of  poor  G.  was  east  ashore 
on  the  estate  of  the  same  gentleman,  who  generously  performed 
all  the  rites  of  hospitality  which  could  be  rendered  to  the  dead 
as  well  as  to  the  living.  He  caused  a handsome  mural  monu- 
ment to  be  erected  in  the  church  of  Kiisnacht,  which  records 
the  premature  fate  of  the  young  American,  and  on  the  shores 
too  of  the  lake,  the  traveller  may  read  an  inscription  pointing  out 
the  spot  where  the  body  was  deposited  by  the  waves. 


IjUlled  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells, 

Rude  Nature’s  Pilgrims  did  we  go. 

From  the  dread  summit  of  the  Queenf 
Of  Mountains,  through  a deep  ravine. 

Where,  in  her  holy  Chapel,  dwells 
“ Our  Lady  of  the  Snow.” 

The  sky  was  blue,  the  air  was  mild; 

Free  were  the  streams  and  green  the  bowers  ; 
As  if,  to  rough  assaults  unknown. 

The  genial  spot  had  ever  shown 
A countenance  that  sweetly  smiled. 

The  face  of  summer-hours. 


t Mount  Righi  — Regina  Montium. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATIOxN. 


280 


And  we  were  gay,  our  hearts  at  ease; 

With  pleasure  dancing  through  the  frame 
We  journeyed;  all  we  knew  of  care  — 

Our  path  that  straggled  here  and  there, 

Of  trouble  — but  the  fluttering  breeze. 

Of  Winter — but  a name. 

— If  foresight  could  have  rent  the  veil 
Of  three  short  days  — but  hush  — no  more ! 

Calm  is  the  grave,  and  calmer  none 
Than  that  to  which  thy  cares  are  gone. 

Thou  Victim  of  the  stormy  gale ; 

Asleep  on  Zurich’s  shore ! 

Oh  Goddard  ! what  art  thou  1 — a name  — 

A sunbeam  followed  by  a shade ! 

Nor  more,  for  aught  that  time  supplies. 

The  great,  the  experienced,  and  the  wise; 

Too  much  from  this  frail  earth  we  claim. 

And  therefore  are  betrayed. 

We  met,  while  festive  mirth  ran  wild. 

Where,  from  a deep  Lake’s  mighty  urn. 

Forth  slios,  like  an  enfranchised  Slave, 

A sea-green  River,  proud  to  lave. 

With  current  swift  and  undefiled. 

The  towers  of  old  Lucerne. 

We  parted  upon  solemn  ground 
Far-lifted  towards  the  unfading  sky  ; 

But  all  our  thoughts  were  then  of  Earth, 

That  gives  to  common  pleasures  birth; 

And  nothing  in  our  hearts  we  found 
That  prompted  even  a sigh. 

Fetch,  sympathising  Powers  of  air. 

Fetch,  ye  that  post  o’er  seas  and  lands. 

Herbs  moistened  by  Virginian  dew, 

A most  untimely  grave  to  strew. 

Whose  turf  may  never  know  the  care 
Of  kindred  human  hands  ! 

Beloved  by  every  gentle  Muse, 

He  left  his  Transatlantic  home: 

Europe,  a realised  romance. 

Had  opened  on  his  eager  glance; 

What  present  bliss!  — what  golden  views! 

What  stores  for  years  to  come ! 

Though  lodged  within  no  vigorous  frame. 

His  soul  her  daily  tasks  renewed. 

Blithe  as  the  lark  on  sun-gilt  wings 
High  poised  — or  as  the  wren  that  sings 
In  shady  places,  to  proclaim 
Her  modest  gratitude. 

Not  vain  is  sadly-uttered  praise; 

The  words  of  truth’s  memorial  vow 
Are  sweet  as  morning  fragrance  shed 
From  flowers  ’mid  Goldau’s*  ruins  bred; 

* One  ot  Uie  villages  desolated  by  the  fall  of  part  of  the  Moun- 
tain Kossberg. 

2M 


As  evening’s  fondly-lingering  rays. 

On  Righi’s  silent  brow. 

Lamented  Youth ! to  thy  cold  clay 
Fit  obsequies  the  Stranger  paid ; 

And  piety  shall  guard  the  stone 
Which  hath  not  left,  the  spot  unknown 
Where  the  wild  waves  resigned  their  prey. 
And  that  which  marks  thy  bed. 

And,  when  thy  Mother  weeps  for  Thee, 
Ix)st  Youth  ! a solitary  Mother ; 

This  tribute  from  a casual  Friend 
A not  unwelcome  aid  may  lend. 

To  feed  the  tender  luxury. 

The  rising  pang  to  smother,  f 


XXXII. 

SKY-PROSPECT  — FROxM  THE  PL.-UN  OF  FR.WCE. 
Lo  ! in  the  burning  West,  the  craggy  nape 
Of  a proud  Ararat ! and,  thereupon. 

The  Ark,  her  melancholy  voyage  done  ! 

Yon  rampant  Cloud  mimics  a Lion’s  shape; 

There,  combats  a huge  Crocodile  — agape 
A golden  spear  to  swallow  ! and  that  brown 
And  massy  Grove,  so  near  yon  blazing  Town, 

Stirs  — and  recedes  — destruction  to  escape  ! 

Yet  all  is  harmless  as  the  Elysian  shades 
Where  Spirits  dwell  in  undisturbed  repose. 

Silently  disappears,  or  quickly  fades;  — 

Meek  Nature’s  evening  comment  on  the  shows 
That  for  oblivion  take  their  daily  birth 
From  all  the  fuming  vanities  of  Earth  ! 


XXXIII. 

ON  BEING  STRANDED  NEAR  THE  HARBOUR  OF 
BOULOGNE.! 

Why  cast  ye  back  upon  the  Gallic  shore. 

Ye  furious  waves!  a patriotic  Son 
Of  England  — who  in  hope  her  coast  had  won, 

t The  persuasion  here  expressed  was  not  groundless.  The 
first  human  consolation  that  the  afflicted  Mother  felt,  was  deri- 
ved from  this  tribute  to  her  son’s  memory,  a fact  which  the  au- 
thor learned,  at  his  own  residence,  from  her  Daughter,  w ho  vis- 
ited Europe  some  years  afterwards. 

JNear  the  Town  of  Boulogne,  and  overhanging  the  Beach,  are 
the  remains  of  a Tower  which  bears  the  name  of  Caligula,  w ho 
here  terminated  his  western  Expedition,  of  which  these  sea-shells 
were  the  boasted  spoils.  And  at  no  great  distance  from  these 
Ruins,  Buonaparte,  standing  upon  a mound  of  earth,  harangued 
his  “ Army  of  England,”  reminding  them  of  the  exploits  of 
Caesar,  and  pointing  tow'ards  the  white  cliffs,  upon  which  their 
standards  were  tojlnat.  He  recommended  also  a subscription  to 
be  raised  among  the  Soldierj'  to  erect  on  that  Ground,  in  memo- 
ry of  the  Foundation  of  the  “ Legion  of  Honour,”  a Column  — 
which  was  not  completed  at  the  time  we  were  there. 

25 


29C 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ilis  project  crowned,  his  pleasant  travel  o’er  1 
Well  — let  him  pace  this  noted  beach  once  more, 
That^ve  the  Roman  his  triumphal  shells; 

That  saw  the  Corsican  his  cap  and  bells 
Haughtily  shake,  a dreaming  Conqueror  ! 

Enough  ; my  Country’s  Cliffs  I can  behold, 

And  proudly  think,  beside  the  murmuring  sea, 

Of  checked  ambition,  tyranny  controlled. 

And  folly  cursed  with  endless  memory: 

These  local  recollections  ne’er  can  cloy ; 

Sucli  ground  I from  my  very  heart  enjoy  ! 

XXXIV. 

AFTER  LANDING  — THE  VALLEY  OF  DOVER.— 
NOV.  1820. 

Where  be  the  noisy  followers  of  the  game 
Which  Faction  breeds  ; the  turmoil  where  1 that  past 
Through  Europe,  echoing  from  the  Newsman’s  blast, 
And  filled  our  hearts  with  grief  for  England’s  shame. 
Peace  greets  us; — rambling  on  without  an  aim 
We  mark  majestic  herds  of  cattle  free 
To  ruminate* — couched  on  the  grassy  lea. 

And  hear  far-off  the  mellow  horn  proclaim 
The  Season’s  harmless  pastime.  Ruder  sound 
Stirs  not;  enrapt  I gaze  with  strange  delight. 

While  consciousnesses,  not  to  be  disowned. 

Here  only  serve  a feeling  to  invite 
That  lifts  the  Spirit  to  a calmer  height. 

And  makes  the  rural  stillness  more  profound. 


XXXV. 

DESULTORY  STANZAS. 

t'PUN  RECEIVING  THE  PRECEDING  SHEETS  FROM 
THE  PRESS. 

1. 

Is  then  the  final  page  before  me  spread. 

Nor  further  outlet  left  to  mind  or  heart  1 
Presumptuous  Book ! too  forward  to  be  read  — 

How  can  I give  thee  license  to  depart  1 
One  tribute  more;  — unbidden  feelings  start 
Forth  from  their  coverts  — slighted  objects  rise  — 
iMy  Spirit  is  the  scene  of  such  wild  art 
As  on  Parnassus  rules,  when  lightning  flies. 

Visibly  leading  on  the  thunder’s  harmonies. 

2. 

All  that  I saw  returns  upon  my  view. 

All  that  I heard  comes  back  upon  my  ear. 

All  that  I felt  this  moment  doth  renew ; 

And  where  the  foot  with  no  unmanly  fear 
Recoiled  — and  wings  alone  could  travel — there 

* Tills  is  a most  grateful  .sight  for  an  Englishman  returning  to 
his  native  land.  Everywhere  one  misses,  in  the  cultivated 
grounds  abroad,  the  animated  and  soothing  accompaniment  of 
animals  ranging  and  selecting  their  own  food  at  will. 


I move  at  ease,  and  meet  contending  themes 
That  press  upon  me,  crossing  the  career 
Of  recollections  vivid  as  the  dreams 
Of  midnight,  — cities  — plains  — forests  — and  might  v 
streams. 

3. 

Where  Mortal  never  breathed  I dare  to  sit 
Among  the  interior  Alps,  gigantic  crew. 

Who  triumphed  o’er  diluvian  power!  — and  yet 
What  are  they  but  a wreck  and  residue. 

Whose  only  business  is  to  perish  1 — true 
To  which  sad  course,  these  wrinkled  Sons  of  Time 
Labour  their  proper  greatness  to  subdue; 

Speaking  of  death  alone,  beneath  a clime 
Where  life  and  rapture  flow  in  plenitude  sublime. 

4. 

Fancy  hath  flung  for  me  an  airy  bridge 
Across  thy  long  deep  Valley,  furious  Rhone ! 

Arch  that  here  rests  upon  the  granite  ridge 
Of  Monte  Rosa  — there  on  frailer  stone 
Of  secondary  birth  — the  Jung-frau’s  cone; 

And,  from  that  arch,  down-looking  on  the  Vale 
The  aspect  I behold  of  every  zone  ; 

A sea  of  foliage  tossing  with  the  gale. 

Blithe  Autumn’s  purple  crown,  and  Winter’s  icy  mail ! 

5. 

Far  as  St.  Maurice,  from  yon  eastern  FoRKsf, 
Down  the  main  avenue  my  sight  can  range: 

And  all  its  branchy  vales,  and  all  tliat  lurks 
\Vithin  them,  church,  and  town,  and  hut,  and  grange. 
For  my  enjoyment  meet  in  vision  strange ; 

Snows  — torrents;  — to  the  region’s  utmost  bound. 
Life,  Death,  in  amicable  interchange  — 

But  list!  the  avalanche  — the  hush  profound 
That  follows,  yet  more  awful  than  that  awful  sound  ! 

6. 

Is  not  the  Chamois  suited  to  his  place  7 
The  Eagle  worthy  of  her  ancestry  7 
— Let  Empires  fall ; but  ne’er  shall  Ye  disgrace 
Your  noble  birthright.  Ye  that  occupy 
Your  Council-seats  beneath  the  open  sky. 

On  Sarnen’s  Mountj,  there  judge  of  fit  and  right, 

tAt  the  head  of  the  Vallais.  Les  Focrciies,  the  point  at 
which  the  two  chains  of  mountains  part,  that  enclose  the  Val- 
lais, which  terminates  at  St.  Maurice. 

t Samen,  one  of  the  two  Capitals  of  the  Canton  of  L'nder- 
walden : the  sprt  here  alluded  to  is  close  to  the  town,  and  is 
called  the  LanJenbcrg,  from  the  tyrant  of  that  name,  who.se 
chateau  formerly  stood  there.  On  the  1st  of  January,  1308, 
the  great  day  which  the  confederated  Heroes  had  chosen  for 
the  deliverance  of  their  Countrj',  all  the  Castles  of  the  Go- 
vernors were  taken  by  force  or  stratagem ; and  tlie  Tyrants 
themselves  conducted,  with  their  creatures,  to  the  frontiers, 
after  having  witnessed  the  destruction  of  their  Strong-holds. 
From  that  lime  the  Landenberg  has  been  the  place  where  the 
I Legislators  of  this  division  of  the  Canton  assemble.  The  site, 
which  is  well  described  by  Ebel,  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
in  Switzerland. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


201 


In  siimpie  democratic  majesty; 

Soft  breezes  flinning  your  rough  brows  — the  might 
^nd  purity  of  nature  spread  before  your  sight ! 

7. 

From  this  appropriate  Court,  renowned  Lucerne 
Calls  me  to  pace  her  honoured  Bridge* — that  cheers 
The  Patriot’s  heart  with  pictures  rude  and  stern, 

An  uncouth  Chronicle  of  glorious  years. 

Like  portraiture,  from  loftier  source,  endears 
That  work  of  kindred  frame,  which  spans  the  Lake 
Just  at  the  point  of  issue,  where  it  fears 
The  form  and  motion  of  a Stream  to  take; 

Where  it  begins  to  stir,  yet  voiceless  as  a Snake. 

a 

Volumes  of  sound,  from  the  Cathedral  rolled. 

This  long-roofed  Vista  penetrate  — but  see. 

One  after  one,  its  Tablets,  that  unfold 
The  whole  design  of  Scripture  history ; 

From  the  first  tasting  of  the  fatal  Tree, 

Till  the  bright  Star  appeared  in  eastern  skies, 
Announcing,  One  was  born  Mankind  to  free ; 

His  acts,  his  wrongs,  his  final  sacrifice ; 

Lessons  for  every  heart,  a Bible  for  all  eyes. 

9. 

Our  pride  misleads,  our  timid  likings  kill. 

— Long  may  these  homely  works  devised  of  old, 
These  simple  Efforts  of  Helvetian  skill. 

Aid,  with  congenial  influence,  to  uphold 
The  State,  — the  Country’s  destiny  to  mould ; 
Turning,  for  them  who  pass,  the  common  dust 
Of  servile  opportunity  to  gold  ; 

Filling  the  soul  with  sentiments  august  — 

The  beautiful,  the  brave,  the  holy,  and  the  just ! 

10. 

No  more; — Time  halts  not  in  his  noiseless  march  — 
Nor  turns,  nor  winds,  as  doth  the  liquid  flood  ; 

Life  slips  from  underneath  us,  like  that  arch 
Of  airy  workmanship  whereon  we  stood. 

Earth  stretched  below.  Heaven  in  our  neighbourhood. 
Go  forth,  my  little  Book  ! pursue  thy  way  ; 

Go  forth,  and  please  the  gentle  and  the  good ; 

Nor  be  a w'hisper  stifled,  if  it  say 
That  treasures,  yet  untouched,  may  grace  some  future 
Lay. 

Ji 

* The  Bridges  of  Lucerne  are  roofed,  and  open  at  the  sides, 
so  that  the  Passenger  has,  at  the  same  time,  the  benefit  of  shade, 
and  a view  of  the  magnificent  country.  Tlie  pictures  are 
attached  to  the  rafters ; those  from  Scripture  History,  on  the 
Cathedral-bridge,  amount,  according  to  my  notes,  to  210.  Sub- 
jects from  the  Old  Testament  face  the  Passenger  as  he  goes 
towards  the  Cathedral,  and  those  from  the  New  as  he  returns. 
T'he  Pictures  on  these  Bridges,  as  well  as  those  in  most  other 
parts  of  Switzerland,  are  not  to  be  spoken  of  as  works  of  art  ; 
but  they  are  instruments  admirably  answering  the  purpose  for 
w hich  they  were  designed. 


XXXVI. 

TO  ENTERPRISE.t 
Keep  for  the  Young  the  impassioned  smile 
Shed  from  thy  countenance,  as  I see  thee  stand 
High  on  a chalky  cliff  of  Britain’s  Isle, 

A slender  Volume  grasping  in  thy  hand  — 
(Perchance  the  pages  that  relate 
The  various  turns  of  Crusoe’s  fate)  — 

Ah,  spare  the  exulting  smile. 

And  drop  thy  pointing  finger  bright 
As  the  first  flash  of  beacon  light; 

But  neither  veil  thy  head  in  shadows  dim. 

Nor  turn  thy  face  away 

From  One  who,  in  the  evening  of  his  day. 

To  thee  would  offer  no  presumptuous  hymn! 

1. 

Bold  Spirit ! who  art  free  to  rove 
Among  the  starry  courts  of  Jove, 

And  oft  in  splendour  dost  appear 
Embodied  to  poetic  eyes. 

While  traversing  this  nether  sphere. 

Where  Mortals  call  thee  Enterprise. 

Daughter  of  Hope ! her  favourite  Child, 

Whom  she  to  young  Ambition  bore. 

When  Hunter’s  arrow  first  defiled 
The  Grove,  and  stained  the  furf  with  gore ; 
Thee  winged  Fancy  took,  and  nursed 
On  broad  Euphiates’  palmy  shore. 

Or  where  the  mightier  Waters  burst 
From  caves  of  Indian  mountains  hoar ! 

She  wrapped  thee  in  a panther’s  skin  ; 

And  thou,  whose  earliest  thoughts  held  dear 
Allurements  that  were  edged  with  fear, 

(The  food  that  pleased  thee  best,  to  win) 

With  infant  shout  wouldst  often  scare 
From  her  rock-fortress  in  mid  air 
The  flame-eyed  Eagle  — often  sweep. 

Paired  with  the  Ostrich,  o’er  the  plain ; 

And,  tired  with  sport,  wouldst  sink  asleep 
Upon  the  couchant  Lion’s  mane ! 

With  rolling  years  thy  strength  increased  ; 
And,  far  beyond  thy  native  East, 

To  thee,  by  varying  titles  known, 

As  variously  thy  power  W'as  shown. 

Did  incense-bearing  Altars  rise, 

Which  caught  the  blaze  of  sacrifice. 

From  Suppliants  panting  for  the  skies! 

2. 

What  though  this  ancient  Earth  be  trod 
No  more  by  step  of  Demi-god 
Mounting  from  glorious  deed  to  deed 
As  thou  from  clime  to  clime  didst  lead, 

t This  Poem  having  risen  out  of  the  “ Italian  Itinerant.”  &c 
is  here  annexed. 


292 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Yet  still,  the  bosom  beating  high, 

And  the  hushed  farewell  of  an  eye 
Where  no  procrastinating  gaze 
A last  infirmity  betrays. 

Prove  that  thy  heaven-descended  sway 
Shall  ne’er  submit  to  cold  decay. 

By  thy  divinity  impelled, 

The  stripling  seeks  the  tented  field; 

The  aspiring  Virgin  kneels;  and,  pale 
With  awe,  receives  t!ie  hallowed  veil, 

A soft  and  lender  Heroine 
Vowed  to  severer  discipline 
Inflamed  by  thee,  the  blooming  Boy 
Makes  of  the  whistling  shrouds  a toy, 

And  of  the  Ocean’s  dismal  breast 
A play-ground  and  a couch  of  rest ; 

’Mid  the  blank  world  of  snow  and  ice, 

Thou  to  his  dangers  dost  enchain 
The  Chamois-chaser  awed  in  vain 
By  chasm  or  dizzy  precipice; 

And  hast  Thou  not  with  triumph  seen 
How  soaring  Mortals  glide  serene 
From  cloud  to  cloud,  and  brave  the  light 
With  bolder  than  Icarian  flight? 

How  they  in  bells  of  crystal  dive. 

Where  winds  and  waters  cease  to  strive. 

For  no  unholy  visitings. 

Among  the  monsters  of  the  deep. 

And  all  the  sad  and  precious  things 
Which  there  in  ghastly  silence  sleep? 

Or,  adverse  tides  and  currents  headed. 

And  breathless  calms  no  longer  dreaded. 

In  never  slackening  voyage  go 
Straight  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow  ; 

And,  slighting  sails  and  scorning  oars. 

Keep  faith  with  Time  on  distant  shores. 

— Within  our  fearless  reach  are  placed 
The  secrets  of  the  burning  Waste, — 
Egyptian  Tombs  unlock  their  Dead, 

Nile  trembles  at  his  fountain  head ; 

Thou  speak’st  — and  lo ! the  polar  Seas 
Unbosom  their  last  mysteries. 

— But  oh  ! what  transports,  what  sublime  reward. 
Won  from  the  world  of  mind,  dost  thou  prepare 
For  philosophic  Sage,  or  high-souled  Bard, 

Who,  for  thy  service  trained  in  lonely  woods. 

Hath  fed  on  pageants  floating  through  the  air, 

Or  calentured  in  depth  of  limpid  floods ; 

Nor  grieves — tho’  doomed  thro’  silent  night  to  bear 
The  domination  of  his  glorious  themes. 

Or  struggle  in  the  net-work  of  thy  dreams  ! 

3. 

If  there  be  movements  in  the  Patriot’s  soul. 

From  source  still  deeper,  and  of  higher  worth, 

’T  is  thine  the  quickening  impulse  to  control. 


And  in  due  season  send  the  mandate  forth  ; 

Thy  call  a prostrate  Nation  can  restore. 

When  but  a single  Mind  resolves  to  crouch  no  more. 

4. 

Dread  Minister  of  wrath  ! 

Who  to  their  destined  punishment  dost  urge 

The  Pharaohs  of  the  earth,  the  men  of  hardened  heart 

Not  unassisted  by  the  flattering  stars. 

Thou  strew’st  temptation  o’er  the  path 
When  they  in  pomp  depart, 

With  trampling  horses  and  refulgent  cars  — 

Soon  to  be  swallowed  by  the  briny  surge 
Or  cast,  for  lingering  death,  on  unknown  strands  ; 

Or  stifled  under  weight  of  desert  sands  — 

An  Army  now,  and  now  a living  hill* 

Heaving  with  convulsive  throes,  — 

It  quivers  — and  is  still; 

Or  to  forget  their  madness  and  their  woes. 

Wrapt  in  a winding-sheet  of  spotless  snows! 

5. 

Back  flows  the  willing  current  of  my  Song : 

If  to  provoke  such  doom  the  Impious  dare. 

Why  should  it  daunt  a blameless  prayer  ? 

— Bold  Goddess!  range  our  Youth  among; 

Nor  let  thy  genuine  impulse  fail  to  beat 
In  hearts  no  longer  young; 

Still  may  a veteran  Few  have  pride 
In  thoughts  whose  sternness  makes  them  sweet; 

In  fi.xed  resolves  by  Reason  justified ; 

That  to  their  object  cleave  like  sleet 
Whitening  a tall  pine’s  northern  side, 

While  fields  are  naked  far  and  wide. 

And  withered  leaves,  from  Earth’s  cold  breast 
Upcaught  in  whirlwinds,  nowhere  can  find  rest. 

6. 

But,  if  such  homage  thou  disdain 
As  doth  with  mellowing  years  agree. 

One  rarely  absent  from  thy  train 
More  humble  favours  may  obtain 
For  thy  contented  Votary. 

She,  who  incites  the  frolic  lambs 
In  presence  of  their  heedless  dams. 

And  to  the  solitary  fawn 
Vouchsafes  her  lessons  — bounteous  Nymph 
That  wakes  the  breeze  — the  sparkling  lymph 
Doth  hurry  to  the  lawn ; 

She,  who  inspires  that  strain  of  joyance  holy 
Which  the  sweet  Bird,  misnamed  the  melancholy. 
Pours  forth  in  shady  groves,  shall  plead  for  me ; 

And  vernal  mornings  opening  bright 
With  views  of  undefined  delight, 

* “ awhile  the  living  hill 

Heaved  with  convulsive  throes,  and  all  was  still.” 

Dr.  Darwim 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


293 


And  cheerful  songs,  and  suns  that  shine 
On  busy  days,  with  thankful  nights,  be  mine. 

7. 

But  thou,  O Goddess ! in  thy  favourite  Isle 
(Freedom’s  impregnable  redoubt. 

The  wide  Earth’s  store-house  fenced  about 


With  breakers  roaring  to  tlie  gales 
That  stretch  a thousand  thousand  sails) 
Quicken  the  Slothful,  and  exalt  the  Vile ! 
Thy  impulse  is  the  life  of  Fame; 

Glad  Hope  would  almost  cease  to  be 
If  torn  from  thy  society; 

And  Love,  when  worthiest  of  the  name. 

Is  proud  to  walk  the  Earth  with  thee ! 


THE  RIVER  DUDDON. 

A SERIES  OF  SONNETS. 


The  River  Duddon  rises  upon  Wrynose  Fell,  on 
the  confines  of  Westmoreland,  Cumberland,  and  Lan- 
cashire; and,  serving  as  a boundary  to  the  two  last 
counties,  for  the  space  of  about  twenty-five  miles,  enters 
the  Irish  Sea,  between  the  Isle  of  Walney  and  the 
Lordship  of  Milium. 


TO  THE  REV.  DR.  WORDSWORTH. 

(WITH  THE  SONNETS  TO  THE  RIVER  DUDDON,  AND 
OTHER  POEMS  IN  THIS  COLLECTION.) 

The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune 
To-night  beneath  my  cottage  eaves ; 

While,  smitten  by  a lofty  moon, 

The  encircling  laurels,  thick  with  leaves, 

Gave  back  a rich  and  dazzling  sheen. 

That  overpowered  their  natural  green. 

Through  hill  and  valley  every  breeze 
Had  sunk  to  rest  with  folded  wings : 

Keen  was  the  air,  but  could  not  freeze 
Nor  check  the  music  of  the  strings; 

So  stout  and  hardy  were  the  band 
That  scraped  the  chords  with  strenuous  hand. 
And  who  but  listened  1 — till  was  paid 
Respect  to  every  Inmate’s  claim ; 

The  greeting  given,  the  music  played. 

In  honour  of  each  household  name. 

Duly  pronounced  with  lusty  call. 

And  “ merry  Christmas”  wished  to  all ! 

O Brother ! I revere  the  choice 
That  took  thee  from  thy  native  hills ; 

And  it  is  given  thee  to  rejoice : 

Though  public  care  full  often  tills 
(Heaven  only  witness  of  the  toil) 

A barren  and  ungrateful  soil. 

Yet,  would  that  Thou,  with  me  and  mine, 

Hadst  heard  this  never-failing  rite ; 

And  seen  on  other  faces  shine 
A true  revival  of  the  light 


Which  Nature  and  these  rustic  Powers, 

In  simple  childhood,  spread  through  ours ! 

For  pleasure  hath  not  ceased  to  wait 
On  these  expected  annual  rounds. 

Whether  the  rich  man’s  sumptuous  gate 
Call  forth  the  unelaborate  sounds. 

Or  they  are  offered  at  the  door 
That  guards  the  lowliest  of  the  poor. 

How  touching,  when,  at  midnight,  sweep 
Snow-muffled  winds,  and  all  is  dark. 

To  hear  — and  sink  again  to  sleep  ! 

Or,  at  an  earlier  call,  to  mark. 

By  blazing  fire,  the  still  suspense 
Of  self-complacent  innocence ; 

The  mutual  nod,  — the  grave  disguise 
Of  hearts  with  gladness  brimming  o’er  ; 

And  some  unbidden  tears  that  rise 
For  names  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more; 
Tears  brightened  by  the  serenade 
For  infant  in  the  cradle  laid. 

Ah ! not  for  etnerald  fields  alone. 

With  ambient  streams  more  pure  and  bright 
Than  fabled  Cytherea’s  zone 
Glittering  before  the  Thunderer’s  sight. 

Is  to  my  heart  of  hearts  endeared. 

The  ground  where  we  were  born  and  reared 

Hail,  ancient  Manners’,  sure  defence. 

Where  they  survive,  of  wholesome  law’s  ; 
Remnants  of  love  whose  modest  sense 
Thus  into  narrow  room  withdraws; 

Hail,  Usages  of  pristine  mould, 

And  ye  that  guard  them.  Mountains  old  ! 

Bear  with  me,  Brother!  quench  the  thought 
That  slights  this  passion,  or  condemns  ; 

If  thee  fond  Fancy  ever  brought 
From  the  proud  margin  of  the  Thames, 

And  Lambeth’s  venerable  towers. 

To  humbler  streams,  and  greener  bowers. 
25* 


294 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS, 


Yes,  they  can  make,  who  fail  to  find, 

Short  leisure  even  in  busiest  days  ; 

IMoments,  to  cast  a look  behind. 

And  profit  by  those  kindly  rays 

That  through  the  clouds  do  sometimes  steal, 

And  all  the  far-off  past  reveal. 

Hence,  while  the  imperial  City’s  din 
Beats  frequent  on  thy  satiate  ear, 

A pleased  attention  I may  win 
To  agitations  less  severe, 

That  neither  overwhelm  nor  cloy. 

But  fill  the  hollow  vale  with  joy  ! 


I. 

Nor  envying  shades  which  haply  yet  may  throw 
A grateful  coolness  round  that  rocky  spring, 
Bandusia,  once  responsive  to  the  string 
Of  the  Horatian  lyre  with  babbling  flow; 

Careless  of  flowers  that  in  perennial  blow 
Round  the  moist  marge  of  Persian  fountains  cling ; 
Heedless  of  Alpine  torrents  thundering 
Through  icy  portals  radiant  as  heaven’s  bow ; 

1 seek  the  birth-place  of  a native  Stream.  — 

All  hail,  ye  mountains!  hail,  thou  morning  light! 
Better  to  breathe  upon  this  aery  height 
Than  pass  in  needless  sleep  from  dream  to  dream ; 
Pure  flow  the  verse,  pure,  vigorous,  free,  and  bright. 
For  Duddon,  long-loved  Duddon,  is  my  theme ! 


H. 

Child  of  the  clouds ! remote  from  every  taint 
Of  sordid  industry  thy  lot  is  cast ; 

Thine  are  the  honours  of  the  lofty  waste ; 

Not  seldom,  when  with  heat  the  valleys  faint. 

Thy  handmaid  Frost  with  spangled  tissue  quaint 
Thy  cradle  decks ; — to  chant  thy  birth,  thou  hast 
No  meaner  Poet  than  the  whistling  Blast, 

And  Desolation  is  thy  Patron-saint  1 
She  guards  thee,  ruthless  Power ! who  would  not  spare 
Those  mighty  forests,  once  the  bison’s  screen. 

Where  stalked  the  huge  deer  to  his  shaggy  lair* 
Through  paths  and  alleys  roofed  with  sombre  green. 
Thousands  of  years  before  the  silent  air 
Was  pierced  by  whizzing  shaft  of  hunter  keen  ! 


HI. 

How  shall  I paint  thee  1 — Be  this  naked  stone 
My  seat  while  I give  way  to  such  intent ; 

Pleased  could  my  verse,  a speaking  monument, 

Make  to  the  eyes  of  men  thy  features  known. 

*The  deer  alluded  to  is  the  Leigh,  a gigantic  species  long 
since  e.\tinct. 


But  as  of  all  those  tripping  lambs  not  one 
Outruns  his  fellows,  so  hath  Nature  lent 
To  thy  beginning  nought  that  doth  present 
Peculiar  grounds  for  hope  to  build  upon. 

To  dignify  the  spot  that  gives  thee  birth. 

No  sign  of  hoar  Antiquity’s  esteem 
Appears,  and  none  of  modern  Fortune’s  caie; 
Yet  thou  thyself  hast  round  thee  shed  a gleam 
Of  brilliant  moss,  instinct  with  freshness  rare ; 
Prompt  offering  to  thy  Foster-mother,  Earth ! 


IV. 

Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mountain,  take 
This  parting  glance,  no  negligent  adieu  ! 

A Protean  change  seems  wrought  while  I pursue 
The  curves,  a loosely-scattered  chain  doth  make ; 

Or  rather  thou'  appear’st  a glistering  snake. 

Silent,  and  to  the  gazer’s  eye  untrue, 

Thridding  with  sinuous  lapse  the  rushes,  through 
Dwarf  willows  gliding,  and  by  ferny  brake. 

Starts  from  a dizzy  steep  the  undaunted  Rill 
Robed  instantly  in  garb  of  snow-white  foam ; 

And  laughing  dares  the  Adventurer,  who  hath  clomb 
So  high,  a rival  purpose  to  fulfil ; 

Else  let  the  Dastard  backward  wend,  and  roam, 
Seekmg  less  bold  achievement,  where  he  will ! 


V. 

Sole  listener,  Duddon  ! to  the  breeze  that  played 
With  thy  clear  voice,  I caught  the  fitful  sound 
Wafted  o’er  sullen  moss  and  craggy  mound. 
Unfruitful  solitudes,  that  seemed  to  upbraid 
The  sun  in  heaven  ! — but  now,  to  form  a shade 
For  Thee,  green  alders  have  together  wound 
Their  foliage ; ashes  flung  their  arms  around  ; 

And  birch-trees  risen  in  silver  colonnade. 

And  thou  hast  also  tempted  here  to  rise, 

’Mid  sheltering  pines,  this  Cottage  rude  and  gray; 
Whose  ruddy  Children,  by  the  mother’s  eyes 
Carelessly  watched,  sport  through  the  summer  day 
Thy  pleased  associates  : — light  as  endless  May 
On  infant  bosoms  lonely  Nature  lies. 


VI. 

FLOWERS. 

Ere  yet  our  course  was  graced  with  social  trees 
It  lacked  not  old  remains  of  hawthorn  bowers. 
Where  small  birds  warbled  to  their  paramours 
And,  earlier  still,  was  heard  the  hum  >f  bees; 

1 saw  them  ply  their  harmless  robberies, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


295 


And  caught  the  fragrance  which  the  sundry  flowers, 
Fed  by  the  stream  with  soft  perpetual  showers, 
Plenteously  yielded  to  the  vagrant  breeze. 

There  bloomed  the  strawberry  of  the  wilderness ; 
The  trembling  eyebright  showed  her  sapphire  blue,* 
The  thyme  her  purple,  like  the  blush  of  even; 

And,  if  tlie  breath  of  some  to  no  caress 
Invited,  forth  they  peeped  so  fair  to  view. 

All  kinds  alike  seemed  favourites  of  Heaven. 


VII. 

“ Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing  rose  !” 
The  love-sick  Stripling  fancifully  sighs. 

The  envied  flower  beholding,  as  it  lies 
On  Laura’s  breast,  in  e.xquisite  repose; 

Or  he  would  pass  into  her  Bird,  that  throws 
The  darts  of  song  from  out  its  wiry  cage ; 
Enraptured,  — could  he  for  himself  engage 
The  thousandth  part  of  what  the  Nymph  bestows. 
And  what  the  little  careless  Innocent 
Ungraciously  receives.  Too  daring  choice! 

There  are  whose  calmer  mind  it  would  content 
To  be  an  unculled  floweret  of  the  glen. 

Fearless  of  plough  and  scythe  ; or  darkling  wren. 
That  tunes  on  Duddon’s  banks  her  slender  voice. 


VIII. 

What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  roved  or  fled. 

First  of  his  tribe,  to  this  dark  dell  — who  first 

In  this  pellucid  Current  slaked  his  thirst  1 

What  hopes  came  with  him  1 what  designs  were  spread 

Along  his  path  1 His  unprotected  bed 

What  dreams  encompassed  ! Was  the  intruder  nursed 

In  hideous  usages,  and  rites  accursed. 

That  thinned  the  living  and  disturbed  the  dead? 

No  voice  replies ; — the  earth,  the  air  is  mute ; 

And  Thou,  blue  Streamlet,  murmuring  yield’st  no  more 
Than  a soft  record  that,  whatever  fruit 
Of  ignorance  thou  might’st  wutness  heretofore, 

Thy  function  was  to  heal  and  to  restore. 

To  soothe  and  cleanse,  not  madden  and  pollute ! 


IX. 

THE  STEPPING.STONEa 
The  struggling  Rill  insensibly  is  grown 
Into  a Brook  of  loud  and  stately  march. 

Crossed  ever  and  anon  by  plank  and  arch  ; 

And,  for  like  use,  lo!  wliat  might  seem  a zone 
Chosen  for  ornament;  stone  matched  with  stone 
In  studied  symmetry,  with  interspace 
For  the  clear  waters  to  pursue  their  race 

‘See  Note. 


Without  restraint. — Ilow  swiftly  have  they  flown. 
Succeeding  — still  succeeding!  Here  the  Child 
Puts,  when  the  high-swoln  Flood  runs  fierce  and  wild. 
His  budding  courage  to  the  proof ; — and  here 
Declining  Manhood  learns  to  note  the  sly 
And  sure  encroachments  of  infirmity. 

Thinking  how  fast  time  runs,  life’s  end  how  near ! 


X. 

THE  SA.ME  SUBJECT. 

Not  so  that  Pair  whose  youthful  spirits  dance 
With  prompt  emotion,  urging  them  to  pass  ; 

A sweet  confusion  checks  the  Sheplierd-lass ; 
Blushing  she  eyes  the  dizzy  flood  askance, — 

To  stop  ashamed  — too  timid  to  advance  ; 

She  ventures  once  again  — another  pause  ! 

His  outstretched  hand  He  tauntingly  withdraws  — 
She  sues  for  help  witii  piteous  utterance ! 

Chidden  she  chides  again ; the  thrilling  touch 
Both  feel  when  he  renews  the  wished-tbr  aid  : 

Ah  ! if  their  fluttering  hearts  should  stir  too  much. 
Should  beat  too  strongly,  both  may  be  betrayed. 
The  frolic  Loves,  who,  from  yon  high  rock,  see 
The  struggle,  clap  their  wings  for  victory  ! 


XL 

THE  FAERY  CHASM. 

No  fiction  was  it  of  the  antique  age ; 

A sky-blue  stone,  within  this  sunless  cleft, 

Is  of  the  very  foot-marks  unbereft 
Which  tiny  elves  impressed  ; — on  that  smooth  stage 
Dancing  wuth  all  their  brilliant  equipage 
In  secret  revels  — haply  after  theft 
Of  some  sweet  babe,  flower  stolen,  and  coarse  weed 
left 

For  the  distracted  mother  to' assuage 

Her  grief  with,  as  she  might ! — But,  where,  oh  ! where 

Is  traceable  a vestige  of  the  notes 

That  ruled  those  dances  wild  in  character  ? 

— Deep  underground  ? — Or  in  the  upper  air. 

On  the  shrill  wind  of  midnight?  or  where  floats 
O’er  twilight  fields  the  autumnal  gossamer  ? 


XII. 

HINTS  FOR  THE  FANCY. 

On,  loitering  Muse — The  swift  stream  chides  us — on! 
Alheit  his  deep-worn  ciiannel  doth  immure 
Objects  immense  portrayed  in  miniature. 

Wild  shapes  for  many  a strange  comparison ; 

Niagaras,  Alpine  passes,  and  anon 


296 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Abodes  of  Naiads,  calm  abysses  pure, 

Bright  liquid  mansions,  fashioned  to  endure 
When  the  broad  Oak  drops,  a leafless  skeleton. 

And  the  solidities  of  mortal  pride, 

Palace  and  Tower,  are  crumbled  into  dust ! 

— The  Bard  who  walks  with  Duddon  for  his  guide. 
Shall  find  such  toys  of  Fancy  thickly  set : 

Turn  from  the  sight,  enamoured  Muse  — we  must; 
And,  if  thou  canst,  leave  them  without  regret ! 


XIII. 

OPEN  PROSPECT. 

Hail  to  the  fields — with  Dwellings  sprinkled  o’er. 
And  one  small  hamlet,  under  a green  hill. 

Clustered  with  barn  and  byre,  and  spouting  mill! 

A glance  suffices ; — should  we  wish  for  more. 

Gay  June  would  scorn  us ; but  when  bleak  winds  roar 
Through  the  stiff  lance-like  shoots  of  pollard  ash. 
Dread  swell  of  sound  I loud  as  the  gusts  that  lash 
The  matted  forests  of  Ontario’s  shore 
By  wasteful  steel  unsmitten,  then  would  I 
Turn  into  port,  — and,  reckless  of  the  gale, 

Reckless  of  angry  Duddon  sweeping  by. 

While  the  warm  hearth  exalts  the  mantling  ale. 
Laugh  with  the  generous  household  heartily, 

At  all  the  merry  pranks  of  Donnerdale ! 


XIV. 

O MOUNTAIN  Stream  ! the  Shepherd  and  his  Cot 
Are  privileged  Inmates  of  deep  solitude; 

Nor  would  the  nicest  Anchorite  e.xclude 
A field  or  two  of  brighter  green,  or  plot 
Of  tillage-ground,  that  seemeth  like  a spot 
Of  stationary  sunshine : — thou  hast  viewed 
These  only,  Duddon  ! w ith  their  paths  renewed 
By  fits  and  starts,  yet  this  contents  thee  not. 

Thee  hath  some  awful  Spirit  impelled  to  leave. 
Utterly  to  desert,  the  haunts  of  men. 

Though  simple  thy  companions  were  and  few’ ; 
And  through  this  wilderness  a passage  cleave 
Attended  but  by  thy  own  voice,  save  when 
The  Clouds  and  Fowls  of  the  air  thy  way  pursue ! 


XV. 

From  this  deep  chasm  — where  quivering  sunbeams 
play 

Upon  its  loftiest  crags  — mine  eyes  behold 
A gloomy  Niche,  capacious,  blank,  and  cold ; 

A concave  free  from  shrubs  and  mosses  gray ; 

In  semblance  fresh,  as  if,  with  dire  affray. 

Some  statue,  placed  amid  these  regions  old 
For  tutelary  service,  thence  had  rolled. 

Startling  tlie  flight  of  timid  Yesterday ! 


Was  it  by  mortals  sculptured  1 — weary  slaves 
Of  slow  endeavour ! or  abruptly  cast 
Into  rude  shape  by  file,  with  roaring  blast 
Tempestuously  let  loose  from  central  caves] 

Or  fashioned  by  the  turbulence  of  waves. 

Then,  when  o’er  highest  hills  the  Deluge  passed  1 


XVI. 

AMERICAN  TRADITION. 

Such  fruitless  questions  may  not  long  beguile 
Or  plague  the  fancy,  ’mid  the  sculptured  shows 
Conspicuous  yet  where  Oroonoko  flows ; 

There  would  the  Indian  answer  with  a smile 
Aimed  at  the  White  Man’s  ignorance  the  while, 

Of  the  Great  Waters  telling  how  they  rose. 
Covered  the  plains,  and,  wandering  where  they  chose 
Mounted  through  every  intricate  defile. 

Triumphant.  — Inundation  wide  and  deep. 

O’er  which  his  Fathers  urged,  to  ridge  and  steep 
Else  unapproachable,  their  buoyant  way  ; 

And  carved,  on  mural  cliff’s  undreaded  side. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  and  beast  of  chase  or  prey  ; 
Whate’er  they  sought,  shunned,  loved,  or  deified  !”* 


X\TI. 

RETURN. 

A DARK  plume  fetch  me  from  yon  blasted  Yew, 
Perched  on  whose  top  the  Danish  Raven  croaks ; 
Aloft,  the  imperial  Bird  of  Rome  invokes 
Departed  ages,  shedding  where  he  flew 
Loose  fragments  of  wild  wailing,  that  bestrew 
The  clouds,  and  thrill  the  chambers  of  the  locks. 

And  into  silence  hush  the  timorous  flocks. 

That,  calmly  couching  while  the  nightly  dew 
Moistened  each  fleece,  beneath  the  twinkling  stars 
Slept  amid  that  lone  Camp  on  Ilardknot’s  height,+ 
Whose  Guardians  bent  the  knee  to  Jove  and  Mars  : 
Or,  near  that  mystic  Round  of  Druid  frame 
Tardily  sinking  by  its  proper  W'eight 
Deep  into  patient  Earth,  from  whose  smooth  breast  it 
came ! 


XVIII. 

SE  ATI!  WAITE  CHAPEL. 
Sacred  Religion,  “ mother  of  form  and  fear,” 
Dread  Arbitress  of  mutable  respect. 

New  rites  ordaining  when  the  old  are  wrecked. 
Or  cease  to  please  the  fickle  w’orshipper; 

If  one  strong  wish  may  be  embosomed  here, 

♦ See  Humboldt’s  Personal  Narrative.  t See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


297 


Mother  of  Love  ! for  this  deep  vale,  protect 
Truth’s  holy  lamp,  pure  source  of  bright  effect, 

Gifted  to  purge  the  vapoury  atmosphere 
That  seeks  to  stifle  it ; — as  in  tliose  days 
When  this  low  Pile*  a Gospel  Teacher  knew, 

Whose  good  works  formed  an  endless  retinue: 

Such  Priest  as  Chaucer  sang  in  fervent  lays ; 

Such  as  the  heaven-taught  skill  of  Herbert  drew ; 
And  tender  Goldsmith  crowned  with  deathless  praise ! 


XIX. 

TRIBUTARY  STREAM. 

My  frame  hath  often  trembled  with  delight 
When  hope  presented  some  far-distant  good. 

That  seemed  from  heaven  descending,  like  the  flood 
Of  yon  pure  waters,  from  their  aery  height 
Hurrying,  with  lordly  Duddon  to  unite; 

Who,  ’mid  a world  of  images  imprest 
On  the  calm  depth  of  his  transparent  breast. 
Appears  to  cherish  most  that  Torrent  white. 

The  fairest,  softest,  liveliest  of  them  all ! 

And  seldom  hath  ear  listened  to  a tune 
More  lulling  than  the  busy  hum  of  Noon, 

Swoln  by  that  voice — whose  murmur  musical 
Announces  to  the  thirsty  fields  a boon 
Dewy  and  fresh,  till  showers  again  shall  fall. 

XX. 

THE  PLAIN  OF  DONNERDALE. 

The  old  inventive  Poets,  had  they  seen. 

Or  rather  felt,  the  entrancement  that  detains 
Thy  waters,  Duddon  ! ’mid  these  flowery  plains. 
The  still  repose,  the  liquid  lapse  serene. 

Transferred  to  bowers  imperishably  green. 

Had  beautified  Elysium  ! But  these  chains 
Will  soon  be  broken ; — a rough  course  remains. 
Rough  as  the  past;  where  Thou,  of  placid  mien. 
Innocuous  as  a firstling  of  the  flock. 

And  countenanced  like  a soft  cerulean  sky. 

Shall  change  thy  temper ; and,  with  many  a shock 
Given  and  received  in  mutual  jeopardy. 

Dance,  like  a Bacchanal,  from  rock  to  rock. 

Tossing  her  frantic  thyrsus  wide  and  high  ! 


XXI. 

Whence  that  low  voice  1 — A whisper  from  the  heart. 
That  told  of  days  long  past,  when  here  I roved 
With  friends  and  kindred  tenderly  beloved ; 

* See  Note,  and  Appendix. 

2N 


Some  who  had  early  mandates  to  depart. 

Yet  are  allowed  to  steal  my  path  athwart, 

By  Duddon’s  side;  once  more  do  we  unite. 

Once  more  beneath  the  kind  Earth’s  tranquil  light; 
And  smothered  joys  into  new  being  start. 

From  her  unworthy  seat,  the  cloudy  stall 
Of  Time,  breaks  forth  triumphant  Memory ; 

Her  glistening  tresses  bound,  yet  light  and  free 
As  golden  locks  of  birch,  that  rise  and  fall 
On  gales  that  breathe  too  gently  to  recall 
Aught  of  the  fading  year’s  inclemency  ! 


XXII. 

TRADITION. 

A LOVELORN  Maid,  at  some  far-distant  time. 

Came  to  this  hidden  pool,  whose  depths  surpass 
In  crystal  clearness  Dian’s  looking-glass ; 

And,  gazing,  saw  that  Rose,  which  from  the  prime 
Derives  its  name,  reflected  as  the  chime 
Of  echo  doth  reverberate  some  sweet  sound : 

The  starry  treasure  from  the  blue  profound 
She  longed  to  ravish  ; — shall  she  plunge,  or  climb 
The  humid  precipice,  and  seize  the  guest 
Of  April,  smiling  high  in  upper  air? 

Desperate  alternative  ! what  fiend  could  dare 
To  prompt  the  thought  ? — Upon  the  steep  rock’s  breast 
The  lonely  Primrose  yet  renews  its  bloom. 

Untouched  memento  of  her  hapless  doom  ! 


XXIII. 

SHEEP-WASHING. 

Sad  thoughts,  avaunt ! — the  fervour  of  the  year. 
Poured  on  the  fleece-encumbered  flock,  invites 
To  laving  currents  for  prelusive  rites 
Duly  performed  before  the  Dalesmen  shear 
Their  panting  charge.  The  distant  Mountains  hear. 
Hear  and  repeat,  the  turmoil  that  unites 
Clamour  of  boys  with  innocent  despites 
Of  barking  dogs,  and  bleatings  from  strange  fear. 
Meanwhile,  if  Duddon’s  spotless  breast  receive 
Unwelcome  mixtures  as  the  uncouth  noise 
Thickens,  the  pastoral  River  will  forgive 
Such  wrong;  nor  need  we  blame  the  licensed  joys. 
Though  false  to  Nature’s  quiet  equipoise : 

Frank  are  the  sports,  the  stains  are  fugitive. 

XXIV. 

THE  RESTING  PLACE. 

Mid-noon  is  past ; — upon  the  sultry  mead 
No  zephyr  breathes,  no  cloud  its  shadow  throws : 

If  we  advance  unstrengthened  by  repose. 

Farewell  the  solace  of  the  vagrant  reed ! 


208 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


This  Nook,  with  woodbine  hung  and  straggling  weed, 
Tempting  recess  as  ever  pilgrim  chose. 

Half  grot,  half  arbour,  proffers  to  enclose 
Body  and  mind  from  molestation  freed, 

In  narrow  compass — narrow  as  itself: 

Or  if  the  fancy,  too  industrious  Elf, 

Be  loth  that  we  should  breathe  awhile  exempt 
F'rom  new  incitements  friendly  to  our  task. 

There  wants  not  stealthy  prospect,  that  may  tempt 
Loose  Idless  to  forego  her  wily  mask. 


XXV. 

RIetiiixks ’t  were  no  unprecedented  feat. 

Should  some  benignant  Minister  of  air 
Lift,  and  encircle  with  a cloudy  chair. 

The  One  for  whom  my  heart  shall  ever  beat 
With  tenderest  love  ; — or,  if  a safer  seat 
Atween  his  downy  wings  be  furnished,  there 
Would  lodge  her,  and  the  cherished  burden  bear 
O’er  hill  and  valley  to  this  dim  retreat ! 

Rough  ways  my  steps  have  trod  ; — too  rough  and  long 
For  her  companionship  ; here  dwells  soft  ease : 

With  sweets  which  she  partakes  not  some  distaste 
Mingles,  and  lurking  consciousness  of  wrong ; 
Languish  the  flowers ; the  waters  seem  to  waste 
Their  vocal  charm ; their  sparklings  cease  to  please. 


xxvr. 

Return,  Content ! for  fondly  I pursued, 

Even  when  a child,  the  Streams  — unheard,  unseen  ; 
Through  tangled  woods,  impending  rocks  between ; 
Or,  free  as  air,  with  flying  inquest  viewed 
The  sullen  reservoirs  whence  their  bold  brood, 

Pure  as  the  morning,  fretful,  boisterous,  keen. 

Green  as  the  salt-sea  billows,  white  and  green. 
Poured  down  the  hills,  a choral  multitude ! 

Nor  have  I tracked  their  course  for  scanty  gains ; 
They  taught  me  random  cares  and  truant  joys. 

That  shield  from  mischief  and  preserve  from  stains 
V''ague  minds,  while  men  are  growing  out  of  boys  ; 
Maturer  Fancy  owes  to  their  rough  noise 
Impetuous  thoughts  that  brook  not  servile  reins. 


XXVII. 

Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a shapeless  lieap. 
Or  quietly  self-buried  in  earth’s  mould. 

Is  tha  embattled  House,  whose  massy  Keep 


Flung  from  yon  cliff  a shadow  large  and  cold. — 
There  dwelt  the  gay,  the  bountiful,  the  bold. 

Till  nightly  lamentations,  like  the  sweep 

Of  winds  — though  winds  were  silent,  struck  a deep 

And  lasting  terror  tlirough  that  ancient  Hold. 

Its  line  of  Warriors  fled  ; — they  shrunk  when  tried 
By  ghostly  power : — but  Time’s  unsparing  hand 
Hath  plucked  such  foes,  like  weeds,  from  out  the  land 
And  now,  if  men  with  men  in  peace  abide. 

All  other  strength  the  weakest  may  withstand, 

All  worse  assaults  may  safely  be  defied. 


XXVIII. 

JOURNEY  RENEWED. 

I ROSE  while  yet  the  cattle,  heat-opprest. 
Crowded  together  under  rustling  trees. 

Brushed  by  the  current  of  the  water-breeze ; 
And  for  their  sakes,  and  love  of  all  that  rest. 
On  Duddon’s  margin,  in  the  sheltering  nest; 
For  all  the  startled  scaly  tribes  that  slink 
Into  his  coverts,  and  each  fearless  link 
Of  dancing  insects  forged  upon  his  breast ; 

For  these,  and  hopes  and  recollections  worn 
Close  to  the  vital  seat  of  human  clay; 

Glad  meetings  — tender  partings  — that  upstay 
The  drooping  mind  of  absence,  by  vows  sworn 
In  his  pure  presence  near  the  trysting  thorn ; 

1 thanked  the  Leader  of  my  onward  way. 


XXIX. 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance. 

Horse  charging  horse,  ’mid  these  retired  domains; 
Tells  that  their  turf  drank  purple  from  the  veins 
Of  heroes  fallen,  or  struggling  to  advance. 

Till  doubtful  combat  issued  in  a trance 
Of  victor}',  that  struck  through  heart  and  reins. 
Even  to  the  inmost  seat  of  mortal  pains. 

And  lightened  o’er  the  pallid  countenance. 

Yet,  to  the  loyal  and  the  brave,  who  lie 
In  the  blank  earth,  neglected  and  forlorn. 

The  passing  Winds  memorial  tribute  pay  ; 

The  Torrents  chant  their  praise,  inspiring  scorn 
Of  power  usurped  with  proclamation  high. 

And  glad  acknowledgment  of  lawful  sway. 


XXX. 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce 
Of  that  serene  companion  — a good  name. 
Recovers  not  liis  loss;  but  walks  with  shame, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


2D9 


With  doubt,  with  fear,  and  haply  with  remorse: 

And  ofl-times  he,  who,  yielding  to  the  force 
Of  chance-temptation,  ere  his  journey  end. 

From  chosen  comrade  turns,  or  faithful  friend, 

In  v.ain  shall  rue  the  broken  intercourse. 

Not  so  with  such  as  loosely  wear  the  chain 
That  binds  them,  pleasant  River  ! to  thy  side : — 
Through  the  rough  copse  wheel  Thou  with  hasty  stride, 
I choose  to  saunter  o’er  the  grassy  plain. 

Sure,  when  the  separation  has  been  tried. 

That  we,  who  part  in  love,  shall  meet  again. 


XXXI. 

The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  Pilgrim’s  eye 
Is  welcome  as  a Star,  that  doth  present 
Its  shining  forehead  through  the  peaceful  rent 
Of  a black  cloud  diffused  o’er  half  the  sky : 

Or  as  a fruitful  palm-tree  towering  high 
O’er  the  parched  waste  beside  an  Arab’s  tent ; 

Or  the  Indian  tree  whose  branches,  downward  bent. 
Take  root  again,  a boundless  canopy. 

How  sweet  were  leisure  ! could  it  yield  no  more 
Than  ’mid  that  wave-washed  Church-yard  to  recline. 
From  pastoral  graves  extracting  thoughts  divine ; 

Or  there  to  pace,  and  mark  tlie  summits  hoar 
Of  distant  moon-lit  mountains  faintly  shine, 

Soothed  by  the  unseen  River’s  gentle  roar. 


XXXII. 

Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep ; 
Lingering  no  more  ’mid  flower-enamelled  lands 
And  blooming  thickets ; nor  by  rocky  bands 
Held; — but  in  radiant  progress  tow’rd  the  Deep 
Where  mightiest  rivers  into  powerless  sleep 
Sink,  and  forget  their  nature ; — now  expands 
Majestic  Duddon,  over  smooth  flat  sands 
Gliding  in  silence  with  unfettered  sweep ! 

Beneath  an  ampler  sky  a region  wide 

Is  opened  round  him  : — hamlets,  towers,  and  towns. 

And  blue-topped  hills,  behold  him  from  afar; 

In  stately  mien  to  sovereign  Thames  allied. 
Spreading  his  bosom  under  Kentish  Downs, 

With  Commerce  freighted,  or  triumphant  War. 

XXXIII. 

CONCLUSION. 

But  here  no  cannon  thunders  to  the  gale ; 

Upon  the  wave  no  haughty  pendants  cast 
A crimson  splendour;  lowly  is  the  mast 
That  rises  here,  and  humbly  spread  the  sail; 

While,  less  disturbed  than  in  the  narrow  Vale 
Through  which  with  strange  vicissitudes  he  passed. 


The  Wanderer  seeks  that  receptacle  vast 
Where  all  his  unambitious  functions  fail. 

And  may  thy  Poet,  cloud-born  Stream  ! be  free. 
The  sweets  of  earth  contentedly  resigned. 

And  each  tumultuous  working  left  behind 
At  seemly  distance,  to  advance  like  Thee, 
Prepared,  in  peace  of  heart,  in  calm  of  mind 
And  soul,  to  mingle  with  Eternity. 


A FTLR-THOUGIIT. 

I THOUGHT  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide. 

As  being  past  away.  — Vain  sympathies ! 

For,  backward,  Duddon  ! as  I cast  my  eyes, 

I see  what  was,  and  is,  and  will  abide ; 

Still  glides  the  Stream,  and  shall  not  cease  to  glide ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies; 

While  we,  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise. 

We  Men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ; — be  it  so ! 

Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour; 

And  if,  as  tow’rd  the  silent  tomb  we  go. 

Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith’s  transcendent 
dower. 

We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know.* 


POSTSCRIPT. 


A Poet,  whose  works  are  not  yet  known  as  they  de- 
serve to  be,  thus  enters  upon  his  description  of  the 
“ Ruins  of  Rome 

“ The  rising  Sun 

Flames  on  the  ruins  in  the  purer  air 
Towering  aloft;” 

and  ends  thus  — 

“ The  selling  Sun  displays 
Ilis  visible  great  round,  between  yon  towers, 

As  through  two  shady  cliffs.” 

Mr.  Crowe,  in  his  excellent  loco-descriptive  Poem, 
“ Lewesdon  Hill,”  is  still  more  expeditious,  finishing 
the  whole  on  a May-morning,  before  breakfast. 

“ To-morrow  for  severer  thought,  but  now 
To  breakfast,  and  keep  festival  to-day.” 

No  one  believes,  or  is  desired  to  believe,  that  these 
Poems  were  actually  composed  within  such  limits  of 
time  ; nor  was  there  any  reason  why  a prose  statement 
should  acquaint  the  Reader  with  the  plain  fact,  to  the 
disturbance  of  poetic  credibility.  But,  in  the  present 
case,  I am  compelled  to  mention,  that  the  above  series 
of  Sonnets  was  the  growth  of  many  years;  — the  one 
which  stands  the  14th  was  the  first  produced;  and 

*“  And  feel  that  I am  happier  than  I know.” — Miltox. 

The  allusion  to  the  Greek  Poet  will  be  obvious  to  the  classi- 
cal reader. 


300 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


others  were  added  upon  occasional  visits  to  the  Stream, 
or  as  recollections  of  the  scenes  upon  its  banks 
awakened  a wish  to  describe  them.  In  this  manner  I 
had  proceeded  insensibly,  without  perceiving-  that  I 
was  trespassing  upon  ground  pre-occupied,  at  least  as 
far  as  intention  went,  by  Mr.  Coleridge ; who,  more 
than  twenty  years  ago,  used  to  speak  of  writing  a rural 
Poem,  to  be  entitled  “ The  Brook,”  of  wliich  he  has 
given  a sketch  in  a recent  publication.  But  a par- 
ticular subject  cannot,  I think,  much  interfere  with  a 
general  one ; and  I have  been  further  kept  from  en- 
croaching upon  any  right  Mr.  C.  may  still  wish  to  ex- 
ercise, by  the  restriction  which  the  frame  of  the  Son- 
net imposed  upon  me,  narrowing  unavoidably  the  range 
of  thought,  and  precluding,  though  not  without  its  ad- 
vantages, many  graces  to  which  a freer  movement  of 
verse  would  naturally  have  led. 

May  I not  venture,  then,  to  hope,  that,  instead  of 
being  a hindcrance,  by  anticipation  of  any  part  of  the 
subject,  these  Sonnets  may  remind  Mr.  Coleridge  of 


his  own  more  comprehensive  design,  and  induce  him 

to  fulfil  it? There  is  a sympathy  in  streams, — 

“one  calleth  to  another  and,  I would  gladly  believe, 
that  “ The  Brook”  will,  ere  long,  murmur  in  concert 
with  “The  Duddon.”  But,  asking  pardon  for  thi» 
fancy,  I need  not  scruple  to  say,  that  those  verses 
must  indeed  be  ill-fated  which  can  enter  upon  such 
pleasant  walks  of  nature,  without  receiving  and  giving 
inspiration.  The  power  of  waters  over  the  minds  of 
Poets  has  been  acknowledged  from  the  earliest  ages; 
— through  the  “Flumina  amcm  sylvasque  inglorius” 
of  Virgil,  down  to  the  sublime  apostrophe  to  the 
great  river.s  of  the  earth,  by  Armstrong,  and  the 
simple  ejaculation  of  Burns,  (chosen,  if  I recollect 
right,  by  Mr.  Coleridge,  as  a motto  for  his  embryo 
“ Brook,”) 

“ The  Muse  nae  Poet  ever  fand  her, 

Till  by  himsel’  he  learned  to  wander, 

Adown  some  trotting  bum’s  meander. 

And  na’  think  lang.” 


YARROW  REVISITED,  AND  OTHER  POEMS, 

COMPOSED  (TWO  EXCEPTED)  DURING  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND,  AND  ON 
THE  ExNGLISII  BORDER,  IN  THE  AUTUxMN  OF  1831. 


TO 

SAMUEL  ROGERS,  ESQ. 

AS 

A TESTIMONY  OF  FRIENDSHIP, 

AND 

AN  ACKNOWLEDGMENT  OF  INTELLECTUAL  OBLIGATIONS, 
THESE  POEMS 
ARE  AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED 
BY 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 
Rydal  Mount,  Dec.  11,  1834. 


YARROW  REVISITED. 


[The  following  Stanzas  are  a memorial  of  a day  passed  with 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  other  Friends  visiting  the  Banks  of  the 
Yarrow  under  his  guidance,  immediately  before  his  departure 
from  Abbotsford,  for  Naples. 

The  title  Yarrow  Revisited  will  stand  in  no  need  of  explana- 
tion, for  Readers  acquainted  with  the  Autnor’s  previous  poems 
suggested  by  that  celebrated  stream  See  pp.  202  and  210.] 


The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained, 
Or  seeks,  a “Winsome  Marrow,” 

Was  but  an  Infant  in  the  lap 
When  first  I looked  on  Yarrow ; 


Once  more,  by  Newark’s  Castle-gate 
Long  left  without  a Warder, 

I stood,  looked,  listened,  and  with  Thee, 
Great  Minstrel  of  the  Border ! 

Grave  thoughts  ruled  wide  on  that  sweet  day. 
Their  dignity  installing 
In  gentle  bosoms,  while  sere  leaves 
Were  on  the  bough,  or  falling  ; 

But  breezes  played,  and  sunshine  gleamed  — 
The  forest  to  embolden; 

Reddened  the  fiery  hues,  and  shot 
Transparence  through  the  golden. 

For  busy  thoughts  the  Stream  flowed  on 
In  foamy  agitation; 

And  slept  in  many  a crystal  pool 
For  quiet  contemplation: 

No  public  and  no  private  care 
The  freeborn  mind  enthralling. 

We  made  a day  of  happy  liours. 

Our  happy  days  recalling. 

Brisk  Youth  appeared,  the  Morn  of  youth, 
With  freaks  of  graceful  folly, — 

Life’s  temperate  Noon,  her  sober  Eve, 

Her  Night  not  melancholy. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


301 


Past,  present,  future,  all  appeared 
In  harmony  united. 

Like  guests  that  meet,  and  some  from  far. 
By  cordial  love  invited. 

And  if,  as  Yarrow,  through  the  woods 
And  down  the  meadow  ranging. 

Did  meet  us  with  unaltered  face. 

Though  we  were  changed  and  changing ; 
If,  then,  some  natural  shadows  spread 
Our  inward  prospect  over. 

The  soul’s  deep  valley  was  not  slow 
Its  brightness  to  recover. 

Eternal  blessings  on  the  Muse, 

And  her  divine  employment  ! 

The  blameless  Muse,  who  trains  her  Sons 
For  hope  and  calm  enjoyment ; 

Albeit  sickness  lingering  yet 
Has  o’er  their  pillow  brooded 
And  Care  waylay  their  steps  — a sprite 
Not  easily  eluded. 

For  thee,  O Scott  ! compelled  to  change 
Green  Eildon-hill  and  Cheviot 
For  warm  Vesuvio’s  vine-clad  slopes ; 

And  leave  thy  Tweed  and  Teviot 
For  mild  Sorento’s  breezy  waves; 

May  classic  Fancy,  linking 
With  native  Fancy  her  fresh  aid. 

Preserve  thy  heart  from  sinking ! 

O ! while  they  minister  to  thee. 

Each  vying  with  the  other. 

May  Health  return  to  mellow  Age, 

With  Strength,  her  venturous  brother; 
And  Tiber,  and  each  brook  and  rill 
Renowned  in  song  and  story. 

With  unimagined  beauty  shine. 

Nor  lose  one  ray  of  glory  ! 

For  Thou,  upon  a hundred  streams, 

By  tales  of  love  and  sorrow, 

Of  faithful  love,  undaunted  truth, 

' Hast  shed  the  power  of  Yarrow; 

And  streams  unknown,  hills  yet  unseen. 
Where’er  thy  path  invite  thee. 

At  parent  Nature’s  grateful  call. 

With  gladness  must  requite  Thee. 

A gracious  welcome  shall  be  thine. 

Such  looks  of  love  and  honour 
As  thy  own  Yarrow  gave  to  me 
When  first  I gazed  upon  her; 

Beheld  what  I had  feared  to  see. 

Unwilling  to  surrender 
Dreams  treasured  up  from  early  days. 

The  holy  and  the  tender. 


And  what,  for  this  frail  world,  were  all 
That  mortals  do  or  suffer 
Did  no  responsive  harp,  no  pen. 

Memorial  tribute  offer? 

Yea,  what  were  mighty  Nature’s  self? 

Her  features,  could  they  win  us. 

Unhelped  by  the  poetic  voice 
That  hourly  speaks  within  us? 

Nor  deem  that  localized  Romance 
Plays  false  with  our  affections ; 
Unsanctifies  our  tears  — made  sport 
For  fanciful  dejections: 

Ah,  no ! the  visions  of  the  past 
Sustain  the  heart  in  feeling 
Life  as  she  is  — our  changeful  Life, 

With  friends  and  kindred  dealing. 

Bear  witness.  Ye,  whose  thoughts  that  day 
In  Yarrow’s  groves  were  center’d ; 

Who  through  the  silent  portal  arch 
Of  mouldering  Newark  entered. 

And  clomb  the  winding  stair  that  once 
Too  timidly  was  mounted 
By  the  “ last  Minstrel,”  (not  the  last) 

Ere  he  his  Tale  recounted 

Flow  on  for  ever.  Yarrow  Stream  ! 

Fulfil  thy  pensive  duty. 

Well  pleased  that  future  Bards  should  chant 
For  simple  hearts  thy  beauty. 

To  dream-light  dear  while  yet  unseen. 

Dear  to  the  common  sunshine. 

And  dearer  still,  as  now  I feel. 

To  memory’s  shadowy  moonshine! 


ON  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  FRO.M 
ABBOTSFORD,  FOR  NAPLES. 

A TROUBLE,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain. 

Nor  of  the  setting  sun’s  pathetic  light 
Engendered,  hangs  o’er  Eildon’s  triple  height : 

Spirits  of  Power,  assembled  there,  complain 
For  kindred  Power  departing  from  their  sight ; 

While  Tweed,  best  pleased  in  chanting  a blithe  strain, 
Saddens  his  voice  again,  and  yet  again. 

Lift,  up  your  hearts,  ye  mourners!  for  the  might 
Of  the  whole  world’s  good  wishes  with  him  goes ; 
Blessings  and  prayers  in  nobler  retinue 
Than  sceptred  King  or  laurelled  Conqueror  knows, 
Follow  this  wondrous  Potentate.  Be  true. 

Ye  winds  of  ocean,  and  the  midland  sea. 

Wafting  your  Charge  to  soft  Parthenope  ! 


302 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


II. 

A PLACE  OF  BURIAL  IN  THE  SOUTH  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Part  fenced  by  man,  part  by  a ragged  steep 
That  curbs  a foaming  brook,  a Grave-yard  lies; 

The  Hare’s  best  couching-place  for  fearless  sleep 
Which  moonlit  Elves,  far  seen  by  credulous  eyes, 

Enter  in  dance.  Of  Church,  or  Sabbath  ties. 

No  vestige  now  remains ; yet  thither  creep 
Bereft  Ones,  and  in  lowly  anguish  weep 
Their  prayers  out  to  the  wind  and  naked  skies. 

Proud  tomb  is  none  ; but  rudely-sculptured  knights. 

By  humble  choice  of  plain  old  times,  are  seen 
Level  with  earth,  among  the  hillocks  green: 

Union  not  sad,  when  sunny  daybreak  smites 
The  spangled  turf,  and  neighbouring  thickets  ring 
With  jubilate  from  the  choirs  of  spring  ! 

III. 

ON  THE  SIGHT  OF  A MANSE  IN  THE  SOUTH  OF 
SCOTLAND. 

Say,  ye  far-travelled  clouds,  far-seeing  hills. 

Among  the  happiest-looking  Homes  of  men 
Scatter’d  all  Britain  over,  through  deep  glen. 

On  airy  upland,  and  by  forest  rills. 

And  o’er  wide  plains  whereon  the  sky  distils 

Her  lark’s  loved  warblings ; does  aught  meet  your  ken 

More  fit  to  animate  the  Poet’s  pen, 

Aught  that  more  surely  by  its  aspect  fills 
Pure  minds  with  sinless  envy,  than  the  Abode 
Of  the  good  Priest;  who,  faithful  through  all  hours 
To  his  high  charge,  and  truly  serving  God, 

Has  yet  a heart  and  hand  for  trees  and  flowers. 

Enjoys  the  walks  his  Predecessors  trod. 

Nor  covets  lineal  rights  in  lands  and  towers. 


IV. 

COMPOSED  IN  ROSLIN  CHAPEL,  DURING  A STORM. 
The  wind  is  now  thy  organist;  — a clank 
(We  know  not  whence)  ministers  for  a bell 
To  mark  some  change  of  service.  As  the  swell 
Of  music  reached  its  height,  and  even  when  sank 
The  notes,  in  prelude,  Rosi.in  ! to  a blank 
Of  silence,  how  it  thrilled  thy  sumptuous  roof. 

Pillars,  and  arches,  — not  in  vain  time-proof. 

Though  Christian  rites  be  wanting ! From  what  bank 
Came  those  live  herbs  1 by  what  hand  were  they  sown 
Where  dew  falls  not,  where  rain-drops  seem  unknown  1 
Yet  in  the  Temple  they  a friendly  niche 
Share  with  their  sculptured  fellows,  that,  green-grown. 
Copy  their  beauty  more  and  more,  and  preach. 

Though  mute,  of  all  things  blending  into  one. 


V. 

THE  TROSACHS. 

There ’s  not  a nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, 

But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone. 

That  Life  is  but  a tale  of  morning  grass. 

Withered  at  eve.  From  scenes  of  art  that  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  ’mid  Nature’s  old  felicities. 

Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glass 
Untouched,  unbreathed  upon.  Thrice-happy  Quest, 

If  from  a golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October’s  workmanship  to  rival  May) 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
This  moral  sweeten  by  a heaven-taught  lay. 

Lulling  the  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest. 

VI. 

CHANGES. 

The  Pibroch’s  note,  discountenanced  or  mute ; 

The  Roman  kilt,  degraded  to  a toy 
Of  quaint  apparel  for  a half-spoilt  boy  ; 

The  target  mouldering  like  ungathered  fruit; 

The  smoking  steam-boat  eager  in  pursuit. 

As  eagerly  pursued  ; the  umbrella  spread 
To  weather-fend  the  Celtic  herdsman’s  head  — 

All  speak  of  manners  withering  to  the  root. 

And  some  old  honours,  too,  and  passions  high : 

Then  may  we  ask,  though  pleased  that  thought  should 
range 

Among  the  conquests  of  civility. 

Survives  imagination  — to  the  change 
Superior  1 Help  to  virtue  does  it  give 7 
If  not,  O Mortals,  better  cease  to  live ! 


VII. 

COMPOSED  IN  THE  GLEN  OF  LOCH  ETIVE. 
This  Land  of  Rainbows,  spanning  glens  whose  walls, 
Rock-built,  are  hung  with  rainbow-coloured  mists. 

Of  far-stretched  Meres,  whose  salt  flood  never  rests. 
Of  tuneful  caves  and  playful  waterfalls, 

Of  mountains  varying  momently  their  crests  — 

Proud  be  this  Land  ! whose  poorest  Huts  are  Halls 
WTiere  Fancy  entertains  becoming  guests ; 

While  native  song  the  heroic  Past  recalls. 

Thus,  in  the  net  of  her  own  wishes  caught. 

The  Muse  e.vclaimed ; but  Story  now  must  hide 
Her  trophies.  Fancy  crouch ; — the  course  of  pride 
Has  been  diverted,  other  lessons  taught. 

That  make  the  Patriot-spirit  bow  her  head 
Where  the  all-conquering  Roman  feared  to  tread. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


XI. 

AT  TYNDRUM. 


VIII. 

COMPOSED  AFTER  READING  A NEWSPAPER  OF 
THE  DAY. 


303 


“People!  your  chains  are  severing  link  by  link; 

Soon  shall  the  Rich  be  levelled  down  — the  Poor 
Meet  them  half  way.”  Vain  boast ! for  These,  the  more 
They  thus  would  rise,  must  low  and  lower  sink 
Till,  by  repentance  stung,  they  fear  to  think ; 

While  all  lie  prostrate,  save  the  tyrant  few 
Bent  in  quick  turns  each  other  to  undo. 

And  mix  the  poison,  they  themselves  must  drink. 
Mistrust  thyself,  vain  Country  ! cease  to  cry, 

‘ Knowledge  will  save  me  from  the  threatened  woe.” 
For,  if  than  other  rash  ones  more  thou  know. 

Yet  on  presumptuous  wing  as  far  would  fly 
Above  thy  knowledge  as  they  dared  to  go. 

Thou  wilt  provoke  a heavier  penalty. 


IX. 

EAGLES. 

COMPOSED  AT  DUNOLLIE  CASTLE  IN  THE  BAY 
OF  OBAN. 

Dishonoured  Rock  and  Ruin ! that,  by  law 
Tyrannic,  keep  the  Bird  of  Jove  embarred 
Like  a lone  criminal  whose  life  is  spared. 

Vexed  is  he,  and  screams  loud.  The  last  I saw 
Was  on  the  wing ; stooping,  he  struck  with  awe 
Man,  bird,  and  beast ; then,  with  a Consort  paired, 
From  a bold  headland,  their  loved  eiry’s  guard. 

Flew  high  above  Atlantic  waves,  to  draw 
Light  from  the  fountain  of  the  setting  sun. 

Such  was  this  Prisoner  once ; and,  when  his  plumes 
The  sea-blast  ruffles  as  the  storm  comes  on. 

In  spirit,  for  a moment,  he  resumes 

His  rank  ’mong  freeborn  creatures  that  live  free, 

His  power,  his  beauty,  and  his  majesty. 


X. 

IN  THE  SOUND  OF  MULL. 

Tr.\dition,  be  thou  mute ! Oblivion,  throw 
Thy  veil,  in  mercy,  o’er  the  records  hung 
Round  strath  and  mountain,  stamped  by  the  ancient 
tongue 

On  rock  and  ruin  darkening  as  we  go,  — 

Spots  where  a word,  ghost-like,  survives  to  show 
What  crimes  from  hate,  or  desperate  love,  have  sprung ; 
From  honour  misconceived,  or  fancied  wrong. 

What  feuds,  not  quenched  but  fed  by  mutual  woe : 
Yet,  though  a wild  vindictive  Race,  untamed 
By  civil  arts  and  labours  of  the  pen. 

Could  gentleness  be  scorned  by  these  fierce  Men, 
Who,  to  spread  wide  the  reverence  that  they  claimed 
For  patriarchal  occupations,  named 
Yon  towering  Peaks,  “Shepherds  of  Etive  Glen  I”* 


Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook, 

; And  all  that  Greece  and  Italy  have  sung 
Of  Swains  reposing  myrtle  groves  among ! 

I Ours  couched  on  naked  rocks,  will  cross  a brook 
1 Swoln  with  chill  rains,  nor  ever  cast  a look 
This  way  or  that,  or  give  it  even  a thought 
More  than  by  smoothest  pathway  may  be  brought 
Into  a vacant  mind.  Can  written  book 
Teach  what  they  learn  1 Up,  hardy  Mountaineer! 
And  guide  the  Bard,  ambitious  to  be  One 
Of  Nature’s  privy  council,  as  thou  art. 

On  cloud-sequestered  heights,  that  see  and  hear 
To  what  dread  Power  He  delegates  his  part 
On  earth,  who  works  in  the  heaven  of  heavens,  alone. 


XTI. 

THE  EARL  OF  BREADALBANE’S  RUINED  MANSION 
AND  FAMILY  BURIAL-PLACE,  NEAR  KILLIN. 

Well  sang  the  Bard  who  called  the  Grave,  in  strains 
Thoughtful  and  sad,  the  “ Narrow  House.’’  No  style 
Of  fond  sepulchral  flattery  can  beguile 
Grief  of  her  sting ; nor  cheat,  where  he  detains 
The  sleeping  dust,  stern  Death : how  reconcile 
With  truth,  or  with  each  other,  decked  Remains 
Of  a once  warm  Abode,  and  that  new  Pile, 

For  the  departed,  built  with  curious  pains 
And  mausolean  pomp!  Yet  here  they  stand 
Together,  — ’mid  trim  walks  and  artful  bowers. 

To  be  looked  down  upon  by  ancient  hills. 

That,  for  the  living  and  the  dead,  demand 
And  prompt  a harmony  of  genuine  powers ; 

Concord  that  elevates  the  mind,  and  stills. 


XIII. 

REST  AND  BE  THANKFUL,  AT  THE  HEAD  OF 
GLENCROE. 

Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious  walk. 

Who,  that  has  gained  at  length  the  wished-for  Height, 
This  brief  this  simple  way-side  call  can  slight. 

And  rests  not  thankful  1 Whether  cheered  by  talk 
With  some  loved  Friend,  or  by  the  unseen  Hawk 
Whistling  to  clouds  and  sky-born  streams,  that  shine 
At  the  sun’s  outbreak,  as  with  light  divine, 

Ere  they  descend  to  nourish  root  and  stalk 
Of  valley  flowers.  Nor,  while  the  limbs  repose. 

Will  we  forget  that,  as  the  Fowl  can  keep 
Absolute  stillness,  poised  aloft  in  air. 

And  Fishes  front,  unmoved,  the  torrent’s  sweep, — 

So  may  the  Soul,  through  powers  that  Faith  bestows. 
Win  rest,  and  ease,  and  peace,  with  bliss  that  Angels 
share. 


In  Gaelic,  Vuachaill  Eite. 


304 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XIV. 

HIGHLAND  HUT. 

See  what  gay  wild  flowers  deck  this  earth-built  Cot, 
Whose  smoke,  forth-issuing  whence  and  how  it  may. 
Shines  in  the  greeting  of  the  Sun’s  first  ray 
Like  wreaths  of  vapour  without  stain  or  blot. 

The  limpid  mountain  rill  avoids  it  not; 

And  why  shouldst  thou  1 If  rightly  trained  and  bred. 

Humanity  is  humble,  — finds  no  spot 

Which  her  Heaven-guided  feet  refuse  to  tread. 

Tlie  walls  are  cracked,  sunk  is  the  flowery  roof. 
Undressed  the  pathway  leading  to  the  door; 

But  love,  as  Nature  loves,  the  lonely  Poor ; 

Search,  for  their  worth,  some  gentle  heart  wrong-proof. 
Meek,  patient,  kind,  and,  were  its  trials  fewer. 

Belike  less  happy.  — Stand  no  more  aloof!* 

XV. 

THE  BROWNIE. 

Upon  a small  island,  not  far  from  the  head  of  Loch  Lomond, 
are  some  remains  of  an  ancient  building,  which  was  for  several 
years  the  abode  of  a solitary  Individual,  one  of  the  last  survivors 
of  the  Clan  of  Macfarlane,  once  powerful  in  that  neighbourhood. 
Passing  along  the  shore  opposite  this  island  in  the  year  1814,  the 
Author  learned  these  particulars,  and  that  this  person  then  living 
there  had  acquired  the  appellation  of  “ TAe  Brownie.”  (See 
“ The  Brownie’s  Cell,”  p.  207,  to  which  the  following  Sonnet  is 
a sequel. 


“ How  disappeared  he  1”  Ask  the  newt  and  toad ; 
Ask  of  his  fellow-men,  and  they  will  tell 
How  he  was  found,  cold  as  an  icicle. 

Under  an  arch  of  that  forlorn  abode; 

Where  he,  unpropp’d,  and  by  the  gathering  flood 
Of  years  hemm’d  round,  had  dwelt,  prepared  to  try 
Privation’s  worst  extremities,  and  die 
With  no  one  near  save  the  omnipresent  God. 

Verily  so  to  live  was  an  awful  choice  — 

A choice  that  wears  the  aspect  of  a doom ; 

But  in  the  mould  of  mercy  all  is  cast 
For  Souls  familiar  with  the  eternal  Voice; 

And  this  forgotten  Taper  to  the  last 

Drove  from  itself,  we  trust,  all  frightful  gloom. 


XVI. 

TO  THE  PLANET  VENUS.  AN  EVENING  STAR. 
COMPOSED  AT  LOCH  LOMOND. 

Though  joy  attend  thee  orient  at  the  birth 

Of  dawn,  it  cheers  the  lofty  spirit  most 

To  watch  thy  course  when  Day-light,  fled  from  earth. 


In  the  gray  sky  hath  left  his  lingering  Ghost, 
Perplexed  as  if  between  a splendour  lost 
And  splendour  slowly  mustering.  Since  the  Sun, 
The  absolute,  the  world-absorbing  One, 

Relinquished  half  his  empire  to  the  Host 
Emboldened  by  thy  guidance,  holy  Star, 

Holy  as  princely,  who  that  looks  on  thee 
Touching,  as  now,  in  thy  humility 
Tlie  mountain  borders  of  this  seat  of  care. 

Can  question  that  thy  countenance  is  bright. 

Celestial  Power,  as  much  with  love  as  light? 

XVII.  . 

BOTHWELL  CASTLE. 

Immured  in  Bothwell’s  Towers,  at  times  the  Brave 
(So  beautiful  is  Clyde)  forgot  to  mourn 
The  liberty  they  lost  at  Bannockbourn. 

Once  on  those  steeps  I roamed  at  large,  and  have 
In  mind  the  landscape,  as  if  still  in  sight  ;* 

The  river  glides,  the  woods  before  me  wave; 

But,  by  occasion  tempted,  now  I crave 
Needless  renewal  of  an  old  delight. 

Better  to  thank  a dear  and  long-past  day 
For  joy  its  sunny  hours  were  free  to  gwe 
Than  blame  the  present,  that  our  wish  hath  crost. 
Memory,  like  Sleep,  hath  powers  which  dreams  obej, 
Dreams,  vivid  dreams,  that  are  not  fugitive; 

How  little  that  she  cherishes  is  lost ! 


XVIII. 

PICTURE  OF  DANIEL  IN  THE  LIONS’  DEN  aT 
HAMILTON  PALACE. 

Amid  a fertile  region  green  with  wood 
And  fresh  w’ith  rivers,  well  doth  it  become 
The  Ducal  Owner,  in  his  Palace-home 
To  naturalize  this  tawny  Lion  brood ; 

Children  of  Art,  that  claim  strange  brotherhood. 
Couched  in  their  Den,  with  those  that  roam  at  largo 
Over  the  burning  wilderness,  and  charge 
The  wind  with  terror  while  they  roar  for  food. 

But  these  are  satiate,  and  a stillness  drear 
Calls  into  life  a more  enduring  fear; 

Yet  is  the  Prophet  calm,  nor  would  the  cave 
Daunt  him — if  his  Companions,  now  be-drowsed 
Yawning  and  listless,  were  by  hunger  loused  : 

Man  placed  him  here,  and  God,  he  knows,  can  save 


See  Note. 


See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


30r> 


XIX. 

Tllli  AVON  {a  feeder  of  the  Annan.) 

Avon  — a precious,  an  immortal  name! 

Yet  is  it  one  tliat  other  Rivulets  bear 
Like  this  unheard-of,  and  their  channels  wear 
Like  this  contented,  though  unknown  to  Fame : 

For  great  and  sacred  is  the  modest  claim 
Of  streams  to  Nature’s  love,  vvliere’er  they  flow ; 

And  ne’er  did  genius  slight  them,  as  they  go. 

Tree,  flower,  and  green  herb,  feeding  without  blame. 
But  Praise  can  waste  her  voice  on  work  of  tears. 
Anguish,  and  death;  full  ofl  where  innocent  blood 
Has  mixed  its  current  with  the  limpid  flood. 

Her  heaven-ofiending  trophies  Glory  rears ; 

Never  for  like  distinction  may  the  good 

Shrink  from  thy  name,  pure  Rill,  with  unplcased  ears ! 


XX. 

SUGGESTED  BY  A VIEW  FROM  AN  EMINENCE  IN 
INGLEWOOD  FOREST. 

The  forest  huge  of  ancient  Caledon 
Is  but  a name,  nor  more  is  Inglewood, 

That  swept  from  hill  to  hill,  from  flood  to  flood: 

On  her  last  thorn  the  nightly  Moon  has  shone ; 

Yet  still,  though  unappropriate  Wild  be  none. 

Fair  parks  spread  wide  where  Adam  Bell  might  deign 
With  Clym  o’  the  Clough,  were  they  alive  again. 

To  kill  for  merry  feast  their  venison. 

Nor  wants  the  holy  Abbot’s  gliding  Shade 
His  Church  with  monumental  wreck  bestrewn; 

The  feudal  Warrior-chief,  a Ghost  unlaid. 

Hath  still  his  Castle,  though  a Skeleton, 

That  he  may  watch  by  night,  and  lessons  con 
Of  Power  that  perishes,  and  Rights  that  fade. 


XXL 

HART’S-HORN  TREE,  NEAR  PENRITH. 

Here  stood  an  Oak,  that  long  had  borne  affixed 
To  his  huge  trunk,  or,  with  more  subtle  art. 

Among  its  withering  topmost  branches  mixed. 

The  palmy  antlers  of  a hunted  Hart, 

Whom  the  dog  Hercules  pursued  — his  part 
Each  desperately  sustaining,  till  at  last 
Both  sank  and  died,  the  life-veins  of  the  chased 
And  chaser  bursting  here  with  one  dire  smart. 

Mutual  the  Victory,  mutual  the  Defeat ! 

High  was  the  trophy  hung  with  pitiless  pride; 

Say,  rather,  with  that  generous  sympathy 
That  wants  not,  even  in  rudest  breasts,  a seat ; 

And,  for  this  feeling’s  sake,  let  no  one  chide 
Verse  that  would  guard  thy  memory,  Hart's-horn 
Tree  !* 

*See  Note. 

20 


XXII. 

COUNTESS’S  PILLAR. 

On  the  road-side  between  Penrith  and  Appleby,  there  stands 
a pillar  with  the  following  inscription  ; — 

“This  pillar  w'as  erected,  in  the  year  105G,  by  Anne  Countess 
Dowager  of  Pembroke,  &c.  for  a memorial  of  her  last  parting 
with  her  pious  mother,  Margaret  Countess  Dowager  of  Cum- 
berland, on  the  2d  of  April,  ICIG;  in  memory  whereof  she  hath 
left  an  annuity  of  4/.  to  be  distributed  to  the  poor  of  the  parish 
of  Brougham,  every  2d  day  of  April  for  ever,  upon  the  stone 
table  placed  hard  by.  Laus  Deo !” 


While  the  Poor  gather  round,  till  the  end  of  time 
May  this  bright  flower  of  Charity  display 
Its  bloom,  unfolding  at  the  appointed  day  ; 

Flower  than  the  loveliest  of  the  vernal  prime 
Lovelier  — transplanted  from  heaven’s  purest  clime! 
“ Charity  never  faileth  on  that  creed. 

More  than  on  written  testament  or  deed. 

The  pious  Lady  built  with  hope  sublime. 

Alms  on  this  stone  to  be  dealt  out,  for  ever ! 

"Laus  Deo Many  a Stranger  passing  by 
Has  with  that  parting  mi.xed  a filial  sigh. 

Blest  its  humane  Memorial’s  fond  endeavour ; 

And,  fastening  on  those  lines  an  eye  tear-glazed. 

Has  ended,  though  no  Clerk,  with  “ God  be  praised  !” 


XXIII. 

ROMAN  ANTIQUITIES. 

(FROM  THE  ROMAN  STATION  AT  OLD  PENRITH.) 
How  profitless  the  relics  that  we  cull. 

Troubling  the  last  holds  of  ambitious  Rome, 
Unless  they  chasten  fancies  that  presume 
Too  high,  or  idle  agitations  lull  ! 

Of  the  world’s  flatteries  if  the  brain  be  full, 

To  have  no  seat  for  thought  were  better  doom. 
Like  this  old  helmet,  or  the  eyeless  skull 
Of  him  who  gloried  in  its  nodding  plume. 

Heaven  out  of  view,  our  wishes  what  are  they  1 
Our  fond  regrets,  insatiate  in  their  grasp  1 
The  Sage’s  theory!  the  Poet’s  lay! 

Mere  Fibulse  without  a robe  to  clasp  ; 

Obsolete  lamps,  whose  light  no  time  recalls;. 
Urns  without  ashes,  tearless  lacrymals  ! 


APOLOGY. 

No  more:  the  end  is  sudden  and  abrupt, 
Abrupt  — as  without  preconceived  design 
Was  the  beginning,  yet  the  several  Lays 
Have  moved  in  order,  to  each  other  bound 
By  a continuous  and  acknowledged  tie 
Though  unapparent,  like  those  Shapes  distinct 
That  yet  survive  ensculptured  on  the  walls 
26* 


806 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  Palace,  or  of  Temple,  ’mid  the  wreck 
Of  famed  Persepolis;  each  following  each. 

As  might  beseem  a stately  embassy. 

In  set  array ; these  bearing  in  their  hands 
Ensign  of  civil  power,  weapon  of  war. 

Or  gift,  to  be  presented  at  the  Throne 
Of  the  Great  King;  and  others,  as  they  go 
In  priestly  vest,  with  holy  offerings  charged, 

Or  leading  victims  drest  for  sacrifice. 

Nor  will  the  Muse  condemn,  or  treat  with  scorn 
Our  ministration,  humble  but  sincere. 

That  from  a threshold  loved  by  every  Muse 
Its  impulse  took  — that  sorrow-stricken  door, 
Whence,  as  a current  from  its  fountain-head. 

Our  thoughts  have  issued,  and  our  feelings  ffowed. 
Receiving,  willingly  or  not,  fresh  strength 
From  kindred  sources;  while  around  us  sighed 
(Life’s  three  first  seasons  having  passed  away) 
Leaf-scattering  winds,  and  hoar-frost  sprinklings  fell. 
Foretaste  of  winter,  on  the  moorland  heights ; 

And  every  day  brought  with  it  tidings  new 
Of  rash  change,  ominous  for  the  public  weal. 

Hence,  if  dejection  have  too  oft  encroached 
Upon  that  sweet  and  tender  melancholy 
Which  may  itself  be  cherished  and  caressed 
More  than  enough,  a fault  so  natural. 

Even  with  the  young,  the  hopeful,  or  the  gay, 

For  prompt  forgiveness  will  not  sue  in  vain. 


THE  HIGHLAND  BROACH. 


The  silver  Broach  of  massy  frame. 

Worn  at  the  breast  of  some  grave  Dame 
On  road  or  path,  or  at  the  door 
Of  fern-thatched  Hut  on  heathy  moor: 

But  delicate  of  yore  its  mould. 

And  the  material  finest  gold; 

As  might  beseem  the  fairest  Fair, 
Whether  she  graced  a royal  chair, 

Or  shed,  within  a vaulted  Hall, 

No  fancied  lustre  on  the  wall 
Where  shields  of  mighty  Heroes  hung. 
While  Fingal  heard  what  Ossian  sung. 

The  heroic  age  expired  — it  slept 
Deep  in  its  tomb:  — the  bramble  crept 
O’er  Fingal’s  hearth ; the  grassy  sod 
Grew  on  the  floors  his  Sons  had  trod: 
Malvina!  where  art  thou?  Their  state 
The  noblest-born  must  abdicate. 

The  fairest,  while  with  fire  and  sword 
Come  spoilers  — horde  impelling  horde, 
Must  walk  the  sorrowing  mountains,  drest 
By  ruder  hands  in  homelier  vest. 

Yet  still  the  female  bosom  lent. 

And  loved  to  borrow,  ornament; 

Still  was  its  inner  world  a place 
Reached  by  the  dews  of  heavenly  grace; 
Still  Pity  to  this  last  retreat 
Clove  fondly ; to  his  favourite  seat 
Love  wound  his  way  by  soft  approach. 
Beneath  a massier  Iligliland  Broach. 


If  to  Tradition  faith  be  due. 

And  echoes  from  old  verse  speak  true. 

Ere  the  meek  Saint,  Columba,  bore 
Glad  tidings  to  Iona’s  shore. 

No  common  light  of  nature  blessed 
The  mountain  region  of  the  west, 

A land  where  gentle  manners  ruled 
O’er  men  in  dauntless  virtues  schooled. 
That  raised,  for  centuries,  a bar 
Impervious  to  the  tide  of  war; 

Yet  peaceful  Arts  did  entrance  gain 
Where  haughty  Force  had  striven  in  vain; 
And,  ’mid  the  works  of  skilful  hands. 

By  W’anderers  brought  from  foreign  lands 
And  various  climes,  was  not  unknown 
The  clasp  that  fixed  the  Roman  Gown ; 
The  Fibula,  whose  shape,  I ween. 

Still  in  the  Highland  Broach  is  seen,* 


*The  exact  resemblance  which  the  old  Broach  (still  in  use, 
thonirh  rarely  met  with,  among  the  Highlanders)  bears  to  the 
Roman  Fibula,  must  strike  every  one,  and  eoncurs  with  the 
plaid  and  kilt  to  recall  to  mind  the  eommunication  which  the 
ancient  Romans  had  with  this  remote  country.  How  much  the 
Broach  is  sometimes  prized  by  persons  in  humble  stations  may 
be  gathered  from  an  occurrence  mentioned  to  me  by  a female 
friend.  She  had  had  an  opportunity  of  benefiting  a poor  old 


When  alternations  came  of  rage 
Yet  fiercer,  in  a darker  age; 

And  feuds,  where,  clan  encountering  clan. 
The  weaker  perished  to  a man; 

For  maid  and  mother,  when  despair 
IVIight  else  have  triumphed,  baffling  prayer, 
One  small  possession  lacked  not  power. 
Provided  in  a calmer  hour. 

To  meet  such  need  as  might  befall  — 

Roof,  raiment,  bread,  or  burial : 

For  woman,  even  of  tears  bereft. 

The  hidden  silver  Broach  was  left. 

As  generations  come  and  go. 

Their  arts,  their  customs,  ebb  and  flow  ; 
Fate,  fortune,  sweep  strong  powers  away. 
And  feeble,  of  themselves,  decay; 

What  poor  abodes  the  heir-loom  hide, 

In  which  the  castle  once  took  pride ! 


woman  in  her  own  hut,  who,  wishing  to  make  a return,  said  to 
her  daughter,  in  Frse,  in  a tone  of  plaintive  earnesmess,  “ I 
would  give  any  thing  I have,  but  I hope  she  docs  not  wish  for 
my  Broach!”  and,  uttering  these  words,  she  put  her  h.and  upon 
the  Broach  which  fastened  her  kerchief,  and  which,  she  ima 
gined,  had  attracted  the  eye  of  her  benefactress. 


POEMS  OF  TPIE  IMAGINATION. 


307 


Tokens,  once  kept  as  boasted  wealth, 

If  saved  at  all,  are  saved  by  stealth. 

IjO  ! ships,  from  seas  by  nature  barred. 
Mount  alontr  ways  by  man  prepared ; 

And  in  far-stretching  vales,  whose  streams 
Seek  other  seas,  their  canvas  gleams. 

Lo!  busy  towns  spring  up,  on  coasts 
Thronged  yesterday  by  airy  ghosts; 

Soon,  like  a lingering  star  forlorn 
Among  the  novelties  of  morn. 

While  young  delights  on  old  encroach. 
Will  vanish  the  last  Highland  Broach. 


But  when,  from  out  their  viewless  bed. 

Like  vapours,  years  have  rolled  and  spread ; 
And  this  poor  verse,  and  worthier  lays. 

Shall  yield  no  light  of  love  or  praise. 

Then,  by  the  spade,  or  cleaving  plough, 

Or  torrent  from  the  mountain’s  brow. 

Or  whirlwind,  reckless  what  his  might 
Entonab.s,  or  forces  into  light. 

Blind  Chance,  a volunteer  ally. 

That  oft  befriends  Antiquity, 

And  clears  Oblivion  from  reproach. 

May  render  back  the  Highland  Broach. 


SONNETS 

COMPOSED  OR  SUGGESTED  DURING  A TOUR  IN  SCOTLAND, 
IN  THE  SUMMER  OF  18.33. 


Having  been  prevented  by  the  lateness  of  the  season,  in  1831, 
from  visiting  Stafla  and  Iona,  the  author  made  these  the  princi- 
pal objects  of  a short  tour  in  the  summer  of  1833,  of  which  the 
following  series  of  sonnets  is  a Memorial.  The  course  pursued 
■was  down  the  Cumberland  river  Derwent,  and  to  Whitehaven; 
thence  (by  the  Isle  of  Man,  where  a few  days  were  past)  up  the 
Frith  of  Clyde  to  Greenock,  then  to  Oban,  Staflii,  Iona ; and 
back  towards  England,  by  Loch  Awe,  Inverary,  Loch  Goil-head, 
Greenock,  and  through  parts  of  Renfrewshire,  Ayrshire,  and 
Dumfries-shire  to  Carlisle,  and  thence  up  the  river  Eden,  and 
homewards  by  Ullswaler. 


L 

Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels  I that  have  grown 
And  spread  as  if  ye  knew  that  days  might  come 
When  ye  would  shelter  in  a happy  home. 

On  this  fair  Mount,  a Poet  of  your  own, 

One  who  ne’er  ventured  for  a Delphic  crown 
To  sue  the  God  ; but,  haunting  your  green  shade 
All  seasons  through,  is  humbly  pleased  to  braid 
Ground-flowers,  beneath  your  guardianship,  self-sown. 
Farewell ! no  Minstrels  now  with  Harp  new-strung 
For  summer  wandering  quit  their  household  bowers ; 
Yet  not  for  this  wants  Poesy  a tongue 
To  cheer  the  Itinerant  on  whom  she  pours 
Her  spirit,  while  he  crosses  lonely  moors, 

Or  musing  sits  forsaken  halls  among. 


II. 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  through  this 
Isle, 

Repine  as  if  his  hour  were  come  too  late  I 
Not  unprotected  in  her  mouldering  state, 

Antiquity  salutes  him  with  a smile, 

’Mid  fruitful  fields  that  ring  with  jocund  toil. 


And  pleasure-grounds  where  Taste,  refined  Co-mate 
Of  Truth  and  Beauty,  strives  to  imitate. 

Far  as  she  may,  primeval  Nature’s  style. 

Fair  land  ! by  Time’s  parental  love  made  free, 

By  social  Order’s  watchful  arms  embraced. 

With  unexampled  union  meet  in  thee. 

For  eye  and  mind,  the  present  and  the  past; 

With  golden  prospect  for  futurity. 

If  what  is  rightly  reverenced  may  last. 


III. 

They  called  Thee  merry  England,  in  old  time ; 

A happy  people  won  for  thee  that  name 
With  envy  heard  in  many  a distant  clime; 

And,  spite  of  change,  for  me  fliou  keep’st  the  same 
Endearing  title,  a responsive  chime 
To  the  heart’s  fond  belief,  though  some  there  are 
Whose  sterner  judgments  deem  that  word  a snare 
For  inattentive  Fancy,  like  the  lime 
Which  foolish  birds  are  caught  with.  Can,  I ask. 
This  face  of  rural  beauty  be  a mask 
For  discontent,  and  poverty,  and  crime; 

These  spreading  towns  a cloak  for  lawless  will ; 
Forbid  it.  Heaven  ! — that  “ merry  England”  still 
May  be  thy  rightful  name,  in  prose  and  rhyme ! 


IV. 

TO  THE  RIVER  GRETA,  NEAR  KESWICK. 

Greta,  what  fearful  listening ! when  huge  stones 
Rumble  along  thy  bed,  block  after  block  : 

Or,  whirling  with  reiterated  shock 

Combat,  while  darkness  aggravates  the  groans  : 


308 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But  if  thou  (like  Cocytus*  from  the  moans 
Heard  on  his  rueful  margin)  thence  vvert  named 
The  Mourner,  thy  true  nature  was  defamed, 

And  the  habitual  murmur  that  atones 
For  thy  worst  rage,  forgotten.  Oft  as  Spring 
Decks,  on  thy  sinuous  banks,  her  thousand  thrones. 
Seats  of  glad  instinct  and  love’s  carolling. 

The  concert,  for  the  happy,  then  may  vie 
With  liveliest  peals  of  birth-day  harmony: 

To  a grieved  heart,  the  notes  are  benisons. 


V. 

TO  THE  RIVER  DERVVENT.t 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  stream ! 
Thou  near  the  Eagle’s  nest  — within  brief  sail, 

I,  of  his  bold  wing  floating  on  the  gale. 

Where  thy  deep  voice  could  lull  me  ! Faint  the  beam 
Of  human  life  when  first  allowed  to  gleam 
On  mortal  notice.  — Glory  of  the  Vale, 

Such  thy  meek  outset,  with  a crown,  though  frail, 
Kept  in  perpetual  verdure  by  the  steam 
Of  thy  soft  breath  ! — Less  vivid  wreath  entwined 
Nemffian  victor’s  brow;  less  bright  was  worn. 

Meed  of  some  Roman  chief — in  triumph  borne 
With  captives  chained  ; and  shedding  from  his  car 
The  sunset  splendours  of  a finished  war 
Upon  the  proud  enslavers  of  mankind  ! 


VI. 

IN  SIGHT  OF  THE  TOWN  OF  COCKERMOUTH. 
(where  the  author  was  born,  and  ms  father’s  remains 

ARE  LAID.) 

A POINT  of  life  between  my  Parents’  dust, 

And  yours,  my  buried  Little-ones ! am  I ; 

And  to  those  graves  looking  habitually 
In  kindred  quiet  I repose  my  trust. 

Death  to  the  innocent  is  more  than  just, 

And,  to  the  sinner,  mercifully  bent; 

So  may  I hope,  if  truly  I repent 

And  meekly  bear  the  ills  which  bear  I must: 

And  You,  my  Offspring  ! that  do  still  remain. 

Yet  may  outstrip  me  in  the  appointed  race. 

If  e’er,  through  fault  of  mine,  in  mutual  pain 
We  breathed  together  for  a moment’s  space. 

The  wrong,  by  love  provoked,  let  love  arraign. 

And  only  love  keep  in  your  hearts  a place. 

* See  Note. 

tThis  sonnet  has  already  appeiiro<i  in  several  editions  of  the 
author’s  poems;  but  he  is  tempted  lo  reprint  it  in  this  place,  as 
a natural  introduction  to  the  two  that  follow  it. 


VII. 

ADDRESS  FRO.M 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  COCKERMOUTH  CASTLE. 

Thou  look’s!  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think. 

Poet ! that,  stricken  as  both  are  by  years. 

We,  differing  once  so  much,  are  now  Compeers, 
Prepared,  when  each  has  stoot^his  time,  to  sink 
Into  the  dust.  Erewhile  a sterner  link 
United  us ; when  thou,  in  boyish  play. 

Entering  my  dungeon,  didst  become  a prey 
To  soul-appalling  darkness.  Not  a blink 
Of  light  was  there ; — and  thus  did  I,  thy  Tutor, 
Make  thy  young  thoughts  acquainted  with  the  grave  • 
While  thou  wert  chasing  the  wing’d  butterfly 
Through  my  green  courts;  or  climbing,  a bold  suitor. 
Up  to  the  flowers  whose  golden  progeny 
Still  round  my  shattered  brow  in  beauty  wave. 


VIII. 

NUN’S  WELL,  BRIGHAM. 

The  cattle  crowding  round  this  beverage  clear 
To  slake  their  thirst,  with  reckless  hoofs  have  trod 
The  encircling  turf  into  a barren  clod  ; 

Through  which  the  waters  creep,  then  disappear. 
Born  to  be  lost  in  Derwent  flowing  near ; 

Yet,  o’er  the  brink,  and  round  the  limestone-cell 
Of  the  pure  spring  (they  call  it  the  “ Nun’s  well,” 
Name  that  first  struck  by  cbance  my  startled  ear) 
A tender  Spirit  broods  — the  pensive  Shade 
Of  ritual  honours  to  this  Fountain  paid 
By  hooded  Votaries];  with  saintly  cheer ; 

Albeit  oft  the  Virgin-mother  mild 
Looked  down  with  pity  upon  eyes  beguiled 
Into  the  shedding  of  “ too  soft  a tear.” 


IX. 

TO  A FRIEND. 

(ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  DERWENT.) 

Pastor  and  Patriot ! at  whose  bidding  rise 
These  modest  Walls,  amid  a flock  that  need 
For  one  who  comes  to  watch  them  and  to  feed 
A fixed  Abode,  keep  down  presageful  sighs. 

Threats  which  the  unthinking  only  can  despise. 
Perplex  the  Church  ; but  be  thou  firm,  — be  true 
To  thy  first  hope,  and  this  good  work  pursue. 

Poor  as  thou  art.  A welcome  sacrifice 

Dost  thou  prepare,  whose  sign  will  be  the  smoke 

t Attached  to  the  church  of  Brigham  was  formerly  a chantry 
which  held  a moiety  of  the  manor ; and  in  the  decayed  parson 
age  some  vestiges  of  monastic  architecture  are  still  to  be  seen. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


309 


Of  lliy  new  hearth  ; and  sooner  shall  its  wreaths, 
Mounting  while  earth  her  morning  incense  breathes, 
From  wandering  fiends  of  air  receive  a yoke. 

And  straightway  cease  to  aspire,  tlian  God  disdain 
This  humble  tribute  as  ill-timed  or  vain. 


X. 

MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS, 

.LANDING  AT  THE  MOUTH  OF  THE  DERWENT,  WORKINGTON.*) 

Dear  to  the  I.A)ves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed. 

The  Queen  drew  back  the  wimple  that  she  wore; 

And  to  the  throng  how  touchingly  she  bowed 
That  hailed  her  landing  on  the  Cumbrian  shore ; 
Bright  as  a Star  (that,  from  a sombre  cloud 
Of  pine-tree  foliage  poised  in  air,  forth  darts. 

When  a soft  summer  gale  at  evening  parts 
The  gloom  that  did  its  loveliness  enshroud) 

She  smiled ; but  Time,  the  old  Saturnian  Seer, 

Sighed  on  the  wing  as  her  foot  pressed  the  strand. 
With  step  prelusive  to  a long  array 
Of  woes  and  degradations  hand  in  hand. 

Weeping  captivity,  and  shuddering  fear 
Stilled  by  the  ensanguined  block  of  Fotheringay ! 


XI. 

IN  THE  CHANNEL,  BETWEEN  THE  COAST  OF  CUM- 
BERLAND AND  THE  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

Ranging  the  Heights  of  Scawfell  or  Black-coom, 

In  his  lone  course  the  Shepherd  oft  will  pause. 

And  strive  to  fathom  the  mysterious  laws 
By  which  the  clouds,  arrayed  in  light  or  gloom. 

On  Mona  settle,  and  the  shapes  assume 
Of  all  her  peaks  and  ridges.  What  He  draws 
From  sense,  faith,  reason,  fancy,  of  the  cause 
He  will  take  with  him  to  the  silent  tomb: 

Or,  by  his  fire,  a Child  upon  his  knee. 

Haply  the  untaught  Philosopher  may  speak 
Of  the  strange  sight,  nor  hide  his  theory 
That  satisfies  the  simple  and  the  meek. 

Blest  in  their  pious  ignorance,  though  weak 
To  cope  with  Sages  undevoutly  free. 


* “The  fears  and  impatience  of  Mary  were  so  great,”  says 
Robertson,  “ that  she  got  into  a fisher-boat,  and  with  about  twenty 
attendants  landed  at  Workington,  in  Cumberland ; and  thence 
she  was  conducted  with  many  marks  of  respect  to  Carlisle.” 
The  apartment  in  which  the  Queen  iiua  siept  at  Workington 
Hall  (where  she  was  received  by  .Sir  Henry  Curvven  as  became 
her  rank  and  misfortunes)  was  long  preserved,  out  of  respect  to 
her  memory,  as  she  had  left  it ; and  one  cannot  but  regret  that 
some  necessary  alterations  in  the  mansion  could  not  be  eflected 
without  its  destruction.” 


XII. 

AT  SEA,  OFF  'I’llE  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

Bold  words  affirmed,  in  days  wlien  faith  was  strong. 
That  no  adventurer’s  bark  had  power  to  gain 
These  shores  if  he  approached  them  bent  on  wrong; 
For,  suddenly  up-conjured  from  the  Main, 

Mists  rose  to  hide  the  Land — tliat  search,  though  lon^ 
And  eager,  might  be  still  pursued  in  vain. 

O Fancy,  what  an  age  was  that  for  song ! 

That  age,  when  not  by  laws  inanimate. 

As  men  believed,  the  waters  were  impelled. 

The  air  controlled,  the  stars  their  courses  held. 

But  element  and  orb  on  ads  did  wait 
Of  Powers  endued  with  visible  form,  instinct 
With  will,  and  to  their  work  by  passion  linked. 

XIII. 

Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recall  1 
To  reinstate  wild  Fancy  would  we  hide 
Truths  whose  thick  veil  Science  has  drawn  aside. 

No,  — let  this  Age,  high  as  she  may,  install 
In  her  esteem  the  thirst  that  wrought  man’s  fall. 

The  universe  is  infinitely  wide. 

And  conquering  Reason,  if  self-glorified. 

Can  nowhere  move  uncrossed  by  some  new  wall 
Or  gulf  of  mystery,  which  thou  alone. 

Imaginative  Faith!  canst  overleap. 

In  progress  toward  the  fount  of  Love,  — the  throne 
Of  Power,  whose  ministering  Spirits  records  keep 
Of  periods  fixed,  and  laws  established,  less 
Flesh  to  exalt  than  prove  its  nothingness. 

XIV. 

ON  ENTERING  DOUGLAS  BAY,  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

“ Dignum  laude  viruin  Musa  vetat  morL” 

The  feudal  Keep,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn, 

Even  when  they  rose  to  check  or  to  repel 
Tides  of  aggressive  war,  oft  served  as  well 
Greedy  ambition,  armed  to  treat  with  scorn 
Just  limits;  but  yon  tower,  whose  smiles  adorn 
This  perilous  bay,  stands  clear  of  all  offence ; 

Blest  work  it  is  of  love  and  innocence, 

A Tower  of  refuge  to  the  else  forlorn. 

Spare  it,  ye  waves,  and  lift  the  mariner. 

Struggling  for  life,  into  its  saving  arms! 

Spare,  too,  the  human  helpers!  Do  they  stir 
’Mid  your  fierce  shock  like  men  afraid  to  die  : 

No,  their  dread  service  nerves  the  heart  it  warms. 

And  they  are  led  by  noble  Hillary.! 

t The  Tower  of  Refuge,  an  ornament  to  Douglas  Bav,  was 
erected  chiefly  through  the  humanity  and  zeal  of  Sir  Williani 
Hillary;  and  he  also  w.as  the  founder  of  the  life-boat  establish- 
ment, at  that  place;  by  which,  under  his  supertntendcnce,  and 
often  by  his  exertions  at  the  imtnincnt  h.azard  of  hts  own  bfe 
many  seamen  and  passengers  have  bee.i  saved. 


310 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XV. 

BY  THE  SEA-SHORE,  ISLE  OF  MAN. 
Why  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling  Brine 
With  wonder,  smit  by  its  transparency, 

And  all  enraptured  with  its  purity  1 
Because  the  unstained,  the  clear,  the  crystalline. 
Have  ever  in  them  something  of  benign; 
Whether  in  gem,  in  water,  or  in  sky, 

A sleeping  infant’s  brow,  or  wakeful  eye 
Of  a young  maiden,  only  not  divine. 

Scarcely  the  hand  forbears  to  dip  its  palm 
For  beverage  drawn  as  from  a mountain  well : 
Temptation  centres  in  the  liquid  Calm; 

Our  daily  raiment  seems  no  obstacle 
To  instantaneous  plunging  in,  deep  Sea ! 

And  revelling  in  long  embrace  with  Thee. 


XVI. 

ISLE  OF  MAN. 

A YOUTH  too  certain  of  his  power  to  wade 
On  the  smooth  bottom  of  this  clear  bright  sea. 

To  sight  so  shallow,  with  a bather's  glee 

I.eapt  from  this  rock,  and  surely,  had  not  aid 

Been  near,  must  soon  have  breathed  out  life,  betrayed 

By  fondly  trusting  to  an  element 

Fair,  and  to  others  more  than  innocent; 

Then  had  sea-nymphs  sung  dirges  for  him  laid 
In  peaceful  earth  : for,  doubtless,  he  was  frank. 
Utterly  in  himself  devoid  of  guile; 

Knew  not  the  double-dealing  of  a smile; 

Nor  aught  that  makes  men’s  promises  a blank. 

Or  deadly  snare : and  He  survives  to  bless 
The  Power  that  saved  him  in  his  strange  distress. 


XVII. 

THE  RETIRED  MARINE  OFFICER,  ISLE  OF  MAN. 
Not  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  time  too  keen. 

Grief  that  devouring  waves  had  caused,  nor  guilt 
Which  they  had  witnessed,  swayed  the  man  who  built 
This  homestead,  placed  where  nothing  could  be  seen. 
Nought  heard  of  ocean,  troubled  or  serene. 

A tired  Ship-soldier  on  paternal  land. 

That  o’er  the  channel  holds  august  command. 

The  dwelling  raised,  — a veteran  Marine; 

Who,  in  disgust,  turned  from  the  neighbouring  sea 
To  shun  the  memory  of  a listless  life 
That  hung  between  two  callings.  May  no  strife 
More  hurtful  here  beset  him,  doomed,  though  free, 
Self-doomed  to  worse  inaction,  till  his  eye 
Shrink  from  the  daily  sight  of  earth  and  sky ! 


XVUI. 

BY  A RETIRED  MARINER. 

(A  FRIEND  OF  THE  AUTHOR.)* 

From  early  youth  I ploughed  the  restless  Main, 

My  mind  as  restless  and  as  apt  to  change; 
Through  every  clime  and  ocean  did  I range. 

In  hope  at  length  a competence  to  gain ; 

For  poor  to  Sea  I went,  and  poor  I still  remain. 
Year  after  year  I strove,  but  strove  in  vain. 

And  hardships  manifold  did  I endure. 

For  Fortune  on  me  never  deigned  to  smile; 

Yet  I at  last  a resting-place  have  found. 

With  just  enough  life’s  comforts  to  procure. 

In  a snug  Cove, on  this  our  favoured  Isle, 

A peaceful  spot  where  Nature’s  gills  abound  ; 
Then  sure  I have  no  reason  to  complain. 

Though  poor  to  Sea  I went,  and  poor  I still  remain. 


XTX. 

AT  BALA-SALA,  ISLE  OF  MAN. 

(sCPrOSED  TO  BE  WRITTEN  BY  A FRIEND  OP  THE  AUTHOR.) 

Broken  in  fortune,  but  in  mind  entire 
And  sound  in  principle,  I seek  repose 
Where  ancient  trees  this  convent-pile  enclose,! 

In  ruin  beautiful.  When  vain  desire 
Intrudes  on  peace,  I pray  the  eternal  Sire 
To  cast  a soul-subduing  shade  on  me, 

A gray-haired,  pensive,  thankful  Refugee, 

A shade  but  with  some  sparks  of  heavenly  fire 
Once  to  these  cells  vouchsafed.  And  when  I note 
The  old  Tower’s  brow  yellowed  as  with  the  beams 
Of  sunset  ever  there,  albeit  streams 
Of  stormy  weather-stains  that  semblance  wrought, 

I thank  the  silent  Monitor,  and  say, 

“ Shine  so,  my  aged  brow,  at  all  hours  of  the  day  !” 

XX. 

TYNWALD'  HILL. 

Once  on  the  top  of  Tynwald’s  formal  mound 
(Still  marked  with  green  turf  circles  narrowing 
Stage  above  stage!  would  sit  this  Island’s  King 
The  laws  to  promulgate,  enrobed  and  crowned  ; 
While,  compassing  the  little  mount  around. 

Degrees  and  Orders  stood,  each  under  each : 

Now,  like  to  things  within  fate’s  easiest  reach. 


* Tills  unpretending  sonnet  is  by  a gentleman  nearly  connect- 
ed with  the  author,  who  hopes,  as  it  falls  so  easily  into  its  place 
that  both  the  writer  and  the  reader  will  excuse  its  appearance 
here. 

tRushcD  Abhev. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


311 


T)ie  power  is  merged,  the  pomp  a grave  has  found. 
Off  with  yon  cloud,  old  Snafell  !* ••  that  thine  eye 
Over  three  Realms  may  take  its  widest  range  ; 
And  let,  for  them,  thy  fountains  utter  strange 
Voices,  thy  winds  break  forth  in  prophecy,  . 

If  the  whole  State  must  suffer  mortal  change. 

Like  Mona’s  miniature  of  sovereignty. 


XXL 

Despond  who  will  — I heard  a voice  exclaim, 
“Though  fierce  the  assault, and  shattered  the  defence, 
It  cannot  be  that  Britain’s  social  frame. 

The  glorious  work  of  time  and  providence, 

Before  a flying  season’s  rash  pretence. 

Should  fall;  that  She,  whose  virtue  put  to  shame. 
When  Europe  prostrate  lay,  the  Conqueror’s  aim. 
Should  perish,  self-subverted.  Black  and  dense 
The  cloud  is ; but  brings  that  a day  of  doom 
To  Liberty  I Her  sun  is  up  the  white. 

That  orb  whose  beams  round  Saxon  Alfred  shone. 
Then  laugh,  ye  innocent  Vales  ! ye  Streams,  sweep  on. 
Nor  let  one  billow  of  our  heaven-blest  Isle 
Toss  in  the  fanning  wind  a humbler  plume.” 


• XXII. 

IN  THE  FRITH  OF  CLYDE,  AILSA  CRAG. 

(JULY  n,  im) 

Since  ri  >en  from  (^ean,  ocean  to  defy. 

Appeared  the  Crag  of  Ailsa  : ne’er  did  morn 
With  gleaming  lights  more  gracefully  adorn 
His  sides,  or  wreathe  with  mist  his  forehead  high : 
Now,  faintly  darkening  with  the  sun’s  eclipse, 

Still  is  he  seen,  in  lone  sublimity. 

Towering  above  the  sea  and  little  ships; 

For  dwarfs  the  tallest  seem  while  sailing  by 
Each  for  her  haven  ; with  her  freight  of  Care, 
Pleasure,  or  Grief,  and  Toil  that  seldom  looks 
Into  the  secret  of  to-morrow’s  fare; 

Though  poor,  yet  rich,  without  the  wealth  of  books. 

Or  aught  that  watchful  Love  to  Nature  owes 

For  her  mute  Powers,  fixed  Forms,  and  transient  Shows. 


* The  «ummit  of  tliis  mounlain  is  well  chosen  by  Cowley,  as 
the  scene  of  the  “ V'ision,”  in  which  the  spectral  angel  discour- 
ses with  him  concerning  the  government  of  Oliver  Cromwell. 

••  I found  myself,”  says  he,  “on  the  top  of  that  famous  hill  in  the 
Island  Mona,  which  has  the  prospect  of  three  great,  and  not  long 
since  most  happy,  kingdoms.  As  soon  as  ever  I looked  upon 
them,  they  called  forth  the  sad  representation  of  all  the  sins  and 
all  the  miseries  that  had  overwhelmed  them  these  twenty  years.” 
It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  changes  now  in  pn)grcss,  and  the 
passions,  and  the  way  in  which  they  work,  strikingly  resemble 
those  which  led  to  the  disasters  the  philosophic  writer  so  feel- 
ngly  bewails.  God  grant  that  the  resemblance  may  not  become 
Kill  more  striking  as  month?  and  yerrs  advance ! 


XXIII. 

ON  THE  FRITH  OF  CLYDE. 

(IN  A STEAM-BOAT.) 

Arran!  a single-crcstcd  Teneriffe, 

A St.  Helena  next  — in  shape  and  hue. 
Varying  her  crowded  peaks  and  ridges  blue ; 
Who  but  must  covet  a cloud-seat  or  skiff 
Built  for  the  air,  or  winged  Hippogriff, 

That  he  might  fly,  where  no  one  could  pursue, 
From  this  dull  Monster  and  her  sooty  crew; 
And,  like  a God,  light  on  thy  topmost  cliff. 
Impotent  wish ! which  reason  would  despise 
If  the  mind  knew  no  union  of  extremes. 

No  natural  bond  between  the  boldest  schemes 
Ambition  frames,  and  heart-humilitie.s. 

Beneath  stern  mountains  many  a soft  vale  lies. 
And  lofty  springs  give  birth  to  lowly  streams. 


XXIV. 

ON  REVISITING  DUNOLLY  CASTLE.t 
[See  Sonnet  IX.  of  former  series,  p.  255. 


The  captive  Bird  was  gone;  — to  cliff  or  moor 
Perchance  had  flown,  delivered  by  the  storm  ; 

Or  he  had  pined,  and  sunk  to  feed  the  worm  : 
Him  found  we  not;  but,  climbing  a tall  tower, 
There  sav\%  impaved  with  rude  fidelity 
Of  art  mosaic,  in  a roofless  floor. 

An  Eagle  with  stretched  wings,  but  beamless  eye  - 
An  Eagle  that  could  neither  wail  nor  soar. 
Effigies  of  the  Vanished,  (shall  I dare 
To  call  thee  so  1)  or  symbol  of  past  times, 

That  towering  courage,  and  the  savage  deeds 
Those  times  were  proud  of,  take  Thou  too  a share. 
Not  undeserved,  of  the  memorial  rhymes 
That  animate  my  way  where’er  it  leads! 

XXV. 

THE  DUNOLLY  EAGLE. 

Not  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  cliff,  he  flew; 

But  when  a storm,  on  sea  or  mountain  bred. 

Came  and  delivered  him,  alone  he  sped 
Into  the  Castle-dungeon’s  darkest  mew. 

Now,  near  his  Master’s  house  in  open  view 
He  dwells,  and  hears  indignant  tempests  howl. 
Kennelled  and  chained.  Ye  tame  domestic  Fowl, 
Beware  of  him  ! Thou,  saucy  Cockatoo, 


t This  ingenious  piece  of  workmanship,  as  the  author  after 
wards  learned,  liad  been  executed  for  their  ovvn  amusement  by 
some  labourer.?  employed  about  the  place. 


312 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Look  to  thy  plumage  and  thy  life ! — The  Roe, 

Fleet  as  the  west  wind,  is  for  him  no  quarry ; 
Balanced  in  ether,  he  will  never  tarry, 

Eying  the  sea’s  blue  depths.  Poor  Bird  ! even  so 
Doth  Man  of  Brother-man  a creature  make. 

That  clings  to  slavery  for  its  own  sad  sake. 

XXVI. 

CAVE  OF  STAFF  A. 

We  saw,  but  surely,  in  the  motley  crowd. 

Not  One  of  us  has  felt,  the  far-famed  sight ; 

IIow  could  we  feel  it?  each  the  other’s  blight. 
Hurried  and  hurrying,  volatile  and  loud. 

O for  those  motions  only  that  invite 
The  Ghost  of  Fingal  to  his  tuneful  Cave' 

By  the  breeze  entered,  and  wave  after  wave 
Softly  embosoming  the  timid  light 
And  by  one  Votary  who  at  will  might  stand 
Gazing,  and  take  into  his  mind  and  heart. 

With  imdistracted  reverence,  the  effect 
Of  those  proportions  where  the  almighty  hand 
Tliat  made  tlio  worlds,  tlie  sovereign  Architect, 

Has  deigned  to  work  as  if  with  human  Art! 

xxvir. 

CAVE  OF  STAFFA.* 

I Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  Spot  — fit  school 
I For  the  presumptuous  thoughts  that  would  assign 
I Mechanic  laws  to  agency  divine ; 

I And,  measuring  heaven  by  earth,  would  overrule 
I Infinite  Power.  The  pillared  vestibule, 

I E.xp»anding  yet  precise,  the  roof  embowed. 

Might  seem  designed  to  humble  Man,  when  proud 
Of  his  best  workmanship  by  plan  and  tool. 
Down-bearing  with  his  whole  Atlantic  weight 
Of  tide  and  tempest  on  the  Structure’s  base, 

And  flashing  upwards  to  its  topmost  height. 

Ocean  has  proved  its  strength,  and  of  its  grace 
In  calms  is  conscious,  finding  for  his  freight 
Of  softest  music  some  responsive  place. 

XXVIII. 

CAVE  OF  STAFFA. 

Ye  shadowy  Beings,  that  have  rights  and  claims 
In  every  cell  of  Fingal’s  mystic  Grot, 

Where  are  ye  ? Driven  or  venturing  to  the  spot, 

* The  reader  may  be  tempted  to  exclaim,  “ IIow  came  this  and 
the  two  following  sonnets  to  be  written,  after  the  dissatisfaction 
expressed  in  the  preceding  one?”  In  litct,  at  the  risk  of  incur- 
ring the  reasonable  displeasure  of  the  master  of  the  steam-boat, 
the  author  returned  to  the  cave,  and  explored  it  under  circum- 
stances more  favoumblc  to  those  imaginative  impressions,  which 
It  is  so  wonderfully  fitted  to  make  upon  the  mind. 


Our  Fathers  glimpses  caught  of  your  thin  Frames, 
And,  by  your  mien  and  bearing,  knew  your  names; 
And  they  could  hear  his  ghostly  song  who  trod 
Earth,  till  the  flesh  lay  on  him  like  a load. 

While  he  struck  his  desolate  harp  without  hopes  oi 
aims. 

Vanished  ye  are,  but  subject  to  recall ; 

Why  keep  we  else  the  instincts  whose  dread  law 
Ruled  here  of  yore,  till  what  men  felt  they  saw. 

Not  by  black  arts  but  magic  natural ! 

If  eyes  be  still  sw’orn  vassals  of  belief. 

Yon  light  shapes  forth  a Bard,  that  shade  a Chief. 


XXIX. 

FLOWERS  ON  THE  TOP  OF  THE  PILLARS  AT  THE 
ENTRANCE  OF  THE  CAVE. 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast. 

Children  of  Summer !+  Ye  fresh  flowers  that  brave 
What  Summer  here  escapes  not,  the  fierce  wave. 

And  whole  artillery  of  the  western  blast, 

Battering  the  Temple’s  front,  its  long-drawn  nave 
Smiting,  as  if  each  moment  were  their  last. 

But  ye,  bright  flowers,  on  frieze  and  architrave 
Survive,  and  once  again  the  Pile  stands  fast. 

Calm  as  the  Universe,  from  spiecular  Towers 
Of  heaven  contemplated  by  Spirits  pore  — 

Suns  and  their  systems,  diverse  yet  sustained 
In  symmetry,  and  fashioned  to  endure, 

Dnhurt,  the  assault  of  Time  with  all  his  hours. 

As  the  supreme  Artificer  ordained. 


XXX. 

On  to  Iona ! — What  can  she  afford 
To  us  save  matter  for  a thoughtful  sigh, 

Heaved  over  ruin  with  stability 
In  urgent  contrast?  To  diffuse  the  Word 
(Thy  Paramount,  mighty  Nature  ! and  Time’s  Lord) 
Her  Temples  rose,  ’mid  pagan  gloom  ; but  why. 

Even  for  a moment,  has  our  verse  deplored 
Their  wrongs,  since  they  fulfilled  their  destiny  ^ 

And  w’hen,  subjected  to  a common  doom 
Of  mutability,  those  far-famed  Piles 
Shall  disappear  from  both  tlie  sister  Isles, 

Iona’s  Saints,  forgetting  not  past  days. 

Garlands  shall  wear  of  amaranthine  bloom, 

While  heaven’s  vast  sea  of  voices  chants  their  praise. 

+ Upon  the  lieail  of  the  columns  xvhieh  form  the  front  of  the 
enve,  rests  a bwiy  of  decomposeti  basaltic  matter,  which  was 
richly  decorated  with  that  large  briglit  flower,  the  ox-eyed 
daisy.  The  author  liad  noticed  the  same  flower  growing  with 
[irofusion  among  the  bold  rocks  on  tlve  western  coast  of  the  Isle 
of  Man  ; making  a brilliant  contrast  with  their  black  and  gloomy 
surfaces. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


313 


XXXI. 

IONA. 

(UPON  LANDING.) 

With  earnest  look,  to  every  voyager, 

Some  ragged  child  holds  up  for  sale  his  store 
Of  wave-worn  pebbles,  pleading  on  the  shore 
Where  once  came  monk  and  nnn  with  gentle  stir, 
Blessings  to  give,  news  ask,  or  suit  prefer. 

But  see  yon  neat  trim  church,  a grateful  speck 
Of  novelty  amid  this  sacred  wreck  — 

Nay,  spare  thy  scorn,  haughty  Pliilosopher  ! 

Fallen  though  she  be,  this  Glory  of  the  west. 

Still  on  her  sons  the  beams  of  mercy  shine; 

And  “hopes,  perhaps  more  heavenly  bright  than  thine, 
A grace  by  thee  unsought  and  unpossest, 

A faith  more  fixed,  a rapture  more  divine 
Shall  gild  their  passage  to  eternal  rest.”* 


XXXII, 

THE  BLACK  STONES  OF  IONA. 

[See  Martin’s  Voyage  among  the  W’estern  Isles.] 

Here  on  their  knees  men  swore : the  stones  were 
black. 

Black  in  the  People’s  minds  and  words,  yet  they 
Were  at  that  time,  as  now,  in  colour  gray. 

But  what  is  colour,  if  upon  the  rack 
Of  conscience  souls  are  placed  by  deeds  that  lack 
Concord  with  oaths  1 What  differ  night  and  da}'- 
Then,  when  before  the  Perjured  on  his  way 
Hell  opens,  and  the  heavens  in  vengeance  crack 
Above  his  head  uplifted  in  vain  prayer 
To  Saint,  or  Fiend,  or  to  the  Godhead  whom 
He  had  insulted  — Peasant,  King,  or  Thane. 

Fly  where  the  culprit  may,  guilt  meets  a doom  ; 

And,  from  invisible  worlds  at  need  laid  bare. 

Come  links  for  social  order’s  awful  chain. 


XXXIII. 

Homeward  we  turn.  Isle  of  Columba’s  Cell, 

Where  Christian  piety’s  soul-cheering  spark 
(Kindled  from  Heaven  between  the  light  and  dark 
Of  time)  shone  like  the  morning-star,  farewell ! — 
Remote  St.  Kilda,  art  thou  visible  I 
No — but  farewell  to  thee,  beloved  sea-mark 
For  many  a voyage  made  in  Fancy’s  bark. 

When,  wiih  more  hues  than  in  the  rainbow  dwell. 
Thou  a mysterious  intercourse  dost  hold ; 

Extracting  from  clear  skies  and  air  serene. 

And  out  of  sun-bright  waves,  a lucid  veil, 

* The  four  last  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  adopted  from  a well- 
known  sonnet  of  Russel,  as  conveying  the  author’s  feeling  bet- 
ter than  any  words  of  his  own  could  do. 

2P 


That  thickens,  spreads,  and,  mingling  fold  with  fold 
Makes  known,  when  thou  no  longer  canst  be  seen. 
Thy  whereabout,  to  warn  the  approaching  sail. 

XXXIV. 

GREENOCK. 

Per  me  si  va  nella  Citta  dolente. 


We  have  not  passed  into  a doleful  City, 

We  who  were  led  to-day  down  a grim  Dell, 

By  some  too  boldly  named  “ the  Jaws  of  Hell 
Where  be  the  wretched  Ones,  the  sights  for  pity  I 
These  crowded  streets  resound  no  plaintive  ditty : 

As  from  the  hive  where  bees  in  summer  dwell. 

Sorrow  seems  here  excluded  ; and  that  knell, 

I It  neither  damps  the  gay,  nor  checks  the  witty. 

Too  busy  Mart!  thus  fared  it  with  old  Tyre, 

Whose  Merchants  Princes  were,  whose  decks  were 
thrones : 

Soon  may  the  punctual  sea  in  vain  respire 
To  serve  thy  need,  in  union  with  that  Clyde 
Whose  nursling  current  brawls  o’er  mossy  stones. 

The  poor,  the  lonely  Herdsman’s  Joy  and  pride. 


XXXV. 

“ There  !”  said  a Stripling,  pointing  with  meet  pride 
Towards  a low  roof  with  green  trees  half  concealed 
“ Is  Mossgiel  farm ; and  that ’s  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  ploughed  up  the  Daisy.”  Far  and  wide 
A plain  below  stretched  sea-ward,  while,  descried 
Above  sea-clouds,  the  Peaks  of  Arran  rose; 

And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air,  was  vivified. 

Beneath  “ the  random  bield  of  clod  or  stone” 

Myriads  of  Daisies  have  shone  forth  in  flower 
Near  the  lark’s  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 
Have  passed  away,  less  happy  than  the  One 
That  by  the  unwilling  ploughshare  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  Poetry  and  Love. 

XXXVI. 

FANCY  AND  TRADITIOxY. 

The  Lovers  took  within  this  ancient  grove 
Their  last  embrace  ; beside  those  crystal  springs 
The  Hermit  saw  the  Angel  spread  his  wings 
For  instant  flight;  the  Sage  in  yon  alcove 
Sate  musing;  on  that  hill  the  Bard  would  rove, 

Not  mute,  where  now  tlie  Linnet  only  sings : 

Thus  everywhere  to  truth  Tradition  clings, 

27 


314 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  Fancy  localises  Powers  we  love. 

Were  only  History  licensed  to  take  note 
Of  things  gone  by,  her  meagre  monuments 
Would  ill  suffice  for  persons  and  events : 
There  is  an  ampler  page  for  man  to  quote, 
A readier  book  of  manifold  contents. 
Studied  alike  in  palace  and  in  cot. 


XXXVII. 

THE  KIVER  EDEN,  CUMBERLAND. 

Eden  ! till  now  thy  beauty  had  I viewed 
By  glimpses  only,  and  confess  with  shame 
That  verse  of  mine,  whate’er  its  varying  mood. 
Repeats  but  once  the  sound  of  thy  sweet  name ; 
Yet  fetched  from  Paradise*  that  honour  came, 
Riglitfully  borne ; for  Nature  gives  thee  flowers 
That  have  no  rivals  among  British  bowers; 

And  thy  bold  rocks  are  worthy  of  their  fame. 
Measuring  thy  course,  fair  Stream  ! at  length  I pay 
To  my  life’s  neighbour  dues  of  neighbourhood  ; 

But  I have  traced  thee  on  thy  winding  way 
With  pleasure  sometimes  by  the  thought  restrained 
That  things  far  off  are  toiled  for,  while  a good 
Not  sought,  beiaies  too  near,  is  seldom  gained. 


XXXVIII. 

MONUMENT  OF  MRS.  HOWARD, 

{By  NolleJiins,) 

IN  WETIIER.AL  CHURCH,  NEAR  CORBY,  ON  THE  BANKS 
OF  THE  EDEN. 

Stretched  on  the  dying  Mother’s  lap,  lies  dead 
Her  new-born  Babe,  dire  issue  of  bright  hope ! 

But  Sculpture  here,  with  the  divinest  scope 
Of  luminous  faith  heavenward  hath  raised  that  head 
So  patiently ; and  through  one  hand  has  spread 
A touch  so  tender  for  the  insensate  Child, 

Earth’s  lingering  love  to  parting  reconciled ; 

Brief  parting  — for  the  spirit  is  all  but  fled  ; 

That  we,  who  contemplate  the  turns  of  life 
Through  this  still  medium,  are  consoled  and  cheered ; 
Feel  with  the  Mother,  think  the  severed  Wife 
Is  less  to  be  lamented  than  revered ; 

And  own  that  Art,  triumphant  over  strife 
And  pain,  hath  powers  to  Eternity  endeared. 

*It  is  to  be  feared  that  there  is  more  of  the  poet  than  the 
sound  etymologist  in  this  derivatioi\of  the  name  Eden.  On  the 
western  coast  of  Cumberland  is  a rivulet  which  enters  the  sea 
at  Moresby,  known  also  in  the  neighbourhood  by  the  name  of 
Eden.  May  not  the  latter  syllable  come  from  the  word  Dean, 
a valleij  ? Langdale,  near  Ambleside,  is  by  the  inhabitants  called 
Langden.  The  former  syllable  occurs  in  the  name  Eamont,  a 
principal  feeder  of  the  Eden  ; and  the  stream  which  flows 
when  the  tide  is  out,  over  Cartmcl  Sands,  is  called  the  Ea. 


XXXIX. 

Tranquillity  ! the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou 
In  heathen  schools  of  philosophic  lore ; 
Heart-stricken  by  stern  destiny  of  yore 
The  Tragic  Muse  thee  served  with  thoughtful  vow ; 
And  what  of  hope  Elysium  could  allow 
Was  fondly  seized  by  Sculpture,  to  restore 
Peace  to  the  Mourner’s  soul ; but  He  who  wore 
The  crown  of  thorns  around  his  bleeding  brow 
Warmed  our  sad  being  with  his  glorious  light: 

Then  Arts,  which  still  had  drawn  a softening  grace 
From  shadowy  fountains  of  the  Infinite, 

Communed  with  that  Idea  face  to  face ; 

And  move  around  it  now  as  planets  run. 

Each  in  its  orbit,  round  the  central  Sun. 


XL. 

NUNNERY. 

The  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon  be  weary ; 
Down  from  the  Pennine  Alpsf  how  fiercely  sweeps 
Croglin,  the  stately  Eden’s  tributary  ! 

He  raves,  or  through  some  moody  passage  creeps 
Plotting  new  mischief — out  again  he  leaps 
Into  broad  light,  and  sends,  through  regions  airy. 

That  voice  which  soothed  the  Nuns  while  on  the 
steeps 

They  knelt  in  prayer,  or  sang  to  blissful  Mary. 

That  union  ceased : then,  cleaving  easy  walks 
Through  crags,  and  smoothing  paths  beset  with  danger. 
Came  studious  Taste ; and  many  a pensive  Stranger 
Dreams  on  the  banks,  and  to  the  river  talks. 

What  change  shall  Jiappen  next  to  Nunnery  Delll 
Canal,  and  Viaduct,  and  Railway,  tell 


XLI. 

STEAMBOATS,  VIADUCTS,  AND*  RAILWAYS. 

Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war 
With  old  poetic  feeling,  not  for  this. 

Shall  ye,  by  Poets  even,  be  judged  amiss  ! 

Nor  shall  your  presence,  howsoe’er  it  mar 
The  loveliness  of  Nature,  prove  a bar 
To  the  Mind’s  gaining  that  prophetic  sense 
Of  future  change,  that  point  of  vision  whence 
May  be  discovered  what  in  soul  ye  are. 

In  spite  of  all  that  beauty  may  disown 
In  your  harsh  features.  Nature  doth  embra''e 

tThe  chain  of  Crossfell,  w hich  parts  Cumberland  and  West- 
moreland from  Northumberland  and  Durham. 

t .At  Corby,  a few  miles  below  Numier}’,  the  Eden  is  crossed 
by  a magnificent  viaduct ; and  another  of  these  works  is  thrown 
over  a deep  glen  or  ravine  at  a verj-  short  distance  froii;  the 
main  stream. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


815 


Her  lawful  offspring  in  Man’s  art ; and  Time, 
Pleased  with  your  triumphs  o’er  his  brother  Space, 
Accepts  from  your  bold  hands  the  proffered  crown 
Of  hope,  and  smiles  on  you  with  cheer  sublime. 


XLII. 

Lowther  ! in  thy  majestic  pile  are  seen 
Cathedral  pomp  and  grace,  in  apt  accord 
With  the  baronial  castle’s  sterner  mien  ; 

Union  significant  of  God  adored, 

And  charters  won  and  guarded  by  the  sword 
Of  ancient  honour ; whence  that  goodly  state 
Of  Polity  which  wise  men  venerate. 

And  will  maintain,  if  God  his  help  afford. 

Hourly  the  democratic  torrent  swells ; 

For  airy  promises  and  hopes  suborned 

The  strength  of  backvvard-looking  thoughts  is  scorned. 

Fall  if  ye  must,  ye  Towers  and  Pinnacles, 

With  what  ye  symbolise,  authentic  Story 
Will  say,  Ye  disappeared  with  England’s  Glory  ! 


XLiir. 

TO  THE  EARL  OF  LONSDALE.* 
“ Magistratus  indicat  virum.”- 


Lonsdale  ! it  were  unworthy  of  a Guest, 

Whose  heart  with  gratitude  to  thee  inclines, 

If  he  should  speak,  by  fancy  touched,  of  signs 
On  thy  abode  harmoniously  imprest. 

Yet  be  unmoved  with  wishes  to  attest 
How  in  thy  mind  and  moral  frame  agree 
Fortitude  and  that  Christian  Charity 
Which,  filling,  consecrates  the  human  breast. 

And  if  the  Motto  on  thy  ’scutcheon  teach 
With  truth,  “ The  Magistracy  snows  the  Man 
That  searching  test  thy  public  course  has  stood ; 
As  will  be  owned  alike  by  bad  and  good. 

Soon  as  the  measuring  of  life’s  little  span 
Shall  place  thy  virtues  out  of  Envy’s  reach. 


♦This  sonnet  was  written  immediately  after  certain  trials 
which  took  place  at  the  Cumberland  Assizes,  when  the  Earl  of 
Lonsdale,  in  consequence  of  repeated  and  tong  continued  attacks 
upon  his  character,  through  the  local  press,  had  thought  it 
right  to  prosecute  the  conductors  and  proprietors  of  three  several 
journals.  A verdict  of  libel  was  given  tn  one  case  ; and  in  the 
others,  the  prosecutions  were  with<lrawn,  upon  the  individuals 
retracting  and  disavowing  the  charges,  expressing  regret  that 
they  had  been  made,  and  promising  to  abstain  from  the  like  in 
future. 


XLIY. 

TO  CORDELIA  M , 

IIALLSTEADS,  ULI.StVATER. 

Not  in  the  mines  beyond  the  western  main. 

You  tell  me,  Delia!  was  the  metal  sought. 

Which  a fine  skill,  of  Indian  growth,  has  wrought 
Into  this  flexible  yet  faithful  Chain  ; 

Nor  is  it  silver  of  romantic  Spain 
You  say,  but  from  Ilelvellyn’s  depths  was  brought 
Our  own  domestic  mountain.  Thing  and  thought 
Mix  strangely  ; trifles  light,  and  partly  vain. 

Can  prop,  as  you  have  learnt,  our  nobler  being : 
Yes,  Lady,  while  about  your  neck  is  wound 
(Your  casual  glance  off  meeting)  this  bright  cord, 
What  witchery,  for  pure  giffs  of  inward  seeing. 
Lurks  in  it.  Memory’s  Helper,  Fancy’s  Lord, 

For  precious  tremblings  in  your  bosom  fo ir.d ! 


XLV. 

CONCLUSION 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unupliffed  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none. 
While  a fair  region  round  the  Traveller  lies, 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene. 

The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  ; 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way, 
Whate’er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse. 

The  Mind’s  internal  Heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 


STANZAS 

SUGGESTED 

IN  A STEAM-BOAT  OFF  ST.  BEES’  HEADS, 
ON  THE  COAST  OF  CUMBERLAND. 


St.  Bees’  Heads,  anciently  called  the  Cliff  of  Baruth,  are  a 
conspicuous  sea-mark  for  all  vessels  sailing  in  the  N.  E.  parts 
of  the  Irish  Sea.  In  a Bay,  one  side  of  which  is  formed  by  the 
southern  headland,  stands  the  village  of  St.  Bees ; a place  dis- 
tinguished, from  very  early  times,  for  its  religious  and  scholastic 
foundations. 

“ St.  Bees,”  say  Nicholson  and  Bums,  “ had  its  name  from 
Bega,  an  holy  woman  from  Ireland,  who  is  said  to  have  founded 
here,  about  the  year  of  our  Lord  C50,  a small  monastery,  where 
afterwards  a church  was  built  in  memory  of  her. 

“The  aforesaid  religious  house,  being  destroyed  by  the  Danes, 
was  restored  by  William  de  Meschiens,  son  of  Ranulph,  and 
brother  of  Ranulph  de  Meschiens,  first  Earl  of  Cumbenana 
after  the  Conquest;  and  made  a cell  of  a prior  and  six  Bene- 
dictine monks  to  the  Abbey  of  St.  Mary  at  York.” 


316 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Several  traditions  of  miracles,  connected  with  the  foundation 
of  the  first  of  these  religious  houses,  survive  amung  the  people 
of  the  neighbourhood  ; one  of  which  is  alluded  to  in  the  follow- 
ing Stanzas ; and  another,  of  a somewhat  bolder  and  more  pe- 
culiar cliaracter,  has  furnished  the  subject  of  a spirited  poem 
by  the  Rev.  K.  Parkinson,  M.  A.,  late  Divinity  Lecturer  of 
St.  Bees’  College,  and  now’  Fellow  of  the  Collegiate  Church 
of  Mancliester. 

After  the  dissolution  of  the  monasteries.  Archbishop  Grindal 
founded  a free  school  at  St.  Bees,  from  which  the  counties  of 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  have  derived  great  benefit; 
and  recently,  under  the  patronage  of  the  Farl  of  Lonsdale,  a 
college  has  been  established  there  for  the  education  of  ministers 
for  the  English  Church.  The  old  Conventual  Church  has  been 
repaired  under  the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Ainger,  the 
Head  of  the  College ; and  is  well  worthy  of  being  visited  by 
any  strangers  who  might  be  led  to  the  neighbourhood  of  this 
celebrated  spot 

The  form  of  stanza  in  the  following  Piece,  and  something  in 
the  style  of  versification,  are  adopted  from  the  “ St  Monica,” 
a poem  of  much  beauty  upon  a monastic  subject,  by  Charlotte 
Smith;  a lady  to  whom  English  verse  is  under  greater  obliga- 
tions than  are  likely  to  be  either  acknowledged  or  remembered. 
She  wrote  little,  and  that  little  unambitiously,  but  with  true 
feeling  for  nature. 


1. 

If  Life  were  slumber  on  a bed  of  down, 

7’oil  unimposed,  vicissitude  unknown, 

Sad  were  our  lot;  no  Hunter  of  the  Hare 
Exults  like  him  whose  javelin  from  the  lair 
Has  roused  the  Lion ; no  one  plucks  the  Rose, 
Whose  proffered  beauty  in  safe  shelter  blows 
’Mid  a trim  garden’s  summer  lu.\uries. 

With  joy  like  his  tvho  climbs  on  hands  and  knees. 
For  some  rare  Plant,  yon  Headland  of  St.  Bees. 

o 

Tliis  independence  upon  oar  and  sail. 

Tills  new  indifference  to  breeze  or  gale. 

This  straight-lined  progress,  furrowing  a flat  lea, 
And  regular  as  if  locked  in  certainty, 

Depress  the  hours.  Up,  Spirit  of  the  Storm  ! 

That  Courage  may  find  something  to  perform ; 

That  Fortitude,  whose  blood  disdains  to  freeze 
At  Danger’s  bidding,  may  confront  the  seas. 

Firm  as  the  towering  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 

3. 

Dread  Cliff  of  Baruth!  that  wild  wish  may  sleep. 
Bold  as  if  Men  and  Creatures  of  the  Deep 
Breathed  the  same  element : too  many  wrecks 
Have  struck  thy  sides,  too  many  ghastly  decks 
Hast  thou  looked  down  upon,  that  such  a thought 
Should  here  be  welcome,  and  in  verse  enwrought ; 
With  thy  stern  aspect  better  far  agrees 
Utterance  of  thanks  that  we  have  past  with  ease. 

As  millions  thus  shall  do,  the  Headlands  of  St.  Bees. 


4. 

Yet,  while  each  useful  Art  augments  her  store, 

What  boots  the  gain  if  Nature  should  lose  more  I 
And  Wisdom,  that  once  held  a Christian  place 
In  Man’s  intelligence  sublimed  by  grace? 

When  Bega  sought  of  yore  the  Cumbrian  Coast, 
Tempestuous  winds  her  holy  errand  crossed; 

As  high  and  higher  heaved  the  billows,  faith 
Grew  with  them,  mightier  than  the  powers  of  deatn. 
She  knelt  in  prayer  — the  waves  their  wrath  appease; 
And,  from  her  vow  well  weighed  in  Heaven’s  decrees. 
Rose,  where  she  touched  the  strand,  the  Chauntry  of 
St.  Bees. 

5. 

“ Cruel  of  heart  were  they,  bloody  of  hand,” 

Who  in  these  Wilds  then  struggled  for  command ; 
The  strong  were  merciless,  w'ithout  hope  the  weak ; 
Till  this  bright  Stranger  came,  fair  as  Day-break, 

And  as  a Cresset  true  that  darts  its  length 
Of  beamy  lustre  from  a tower  of  strength  ; 

Guiding  the  Mariner  through  troubled  seas. 

And  cheering  oft  his  peaceful  reveries, 

Like  the  fixed  Light  that  crowns  yon  headland  of 
St.  Bees. 

6. 

To  aid  the  Votaries,  miracles  believed 
Wrought  in  men’s  minds,  like  miracles  achieved; 

So  piety  took  root;  and  Song  might  tell 

What  humanizing  Virtues  round  her  Cell 

Sprang  up,  and  spread  their  fragrance  wide  around ; 

How  savage  bosoms  melted  at  the  sound 

Of  gospel-truth  enchained  in  harmonics 

Wafted  o’er  waves,  or  creeping  through  close  trees, 

From  her  religious  Mansion  of  St.  Bees. 

7. 

When  her  sweet  Voice,  that  instrument  of  love, 

Was  glorified,  and  took  its  place,  above 
The  silent  stars,  among  the  angelic  Quire, 

Her  Chauntry  blazed  with  sacrilegious  fire. 

And  perished  utterly  ; but  her^ood  deeds 

Had  sown  the  spot  that  witnessed  them  with  seeds 

Which  lay  in  earth  expectant,  till  a breeze 

With  quickening  impulse  answered  their  mute  pleas, 

And  lo  ! a statelier  Pile,  the  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 

8. 

There  were  the  naked  clothed,  the  hungry  fed 
And  Charity,  extended  to  the  Dead, 

Her  intercessions  made  for  the  soul’s  rest 

Of  tardy  Penitents : or  for  the  best 

Among  the  good  (when  love  might  else  have  slept, 

Sickened,  or  died)  in  pious  memory  kept. 

Thanks  to  the  austere  and  simple  Devotees, 

Wlio,  to  that  service  bound  by  veniel  fees, 

Kept  watch  before  tlie  Altars  of  St.  Bees. 


I'OEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


317 


9. 

Were  not,  in  sooth,  their  Requiems  sacred  ties* 
Woven  out  of  passion’s  sharpest  agonies, 

Subdued,  composed,  and  formalized  by  art. 

To  fix  a wiser  sorrow  in  the  heart  1 

The  prayer  for  them  whose  hour  was  past  away 

Said  to  the  Living,  profit  while  ye  may ! 

A little  part,  and  that  the  worst,  he  sees 
Who  thinks  that  priestly  cunning  holds  the  keys 
That  best  unlock  the  secrets  of  St.  Bees. 

10. 

Conscience,  the  timid  being’s  inmost  light, 

Hope  of  the  dawn  and  solace  of  the  night, 

Cheers  these  Recluses  with  a steady  ray 
In  many  an  hour  when  judgment  goes  astray. 

Ah  ! scorn  not  hastily  their  rule  who  try 
Earth  to  despise,  and  flesh  to  mortify ; 

Consume  with  zeal,  in  winged  ecstasies 
Of  prayer  and  praise  forget  their  rosarie.s, 

Nor  hear  the  loudest  surges  of  St.  Bees. 

11. 

Yet  none  so  prompt  to  succour  and  protect 
The  forlorn  Traveller,  or  Sailor  wrecked 
On  the  bare  coast ; nor  do  they  grudge  the  boon 
Which  staff  and  cockle  hat  and  sandal  shoon 
Claim  for  the  Pilgrim  : and,  though  chidings  sharp 
May  sometimes  greet  the  strolling  Minstrel’s  harp. 
It  is  not  then  when,  swept  with  sportive  ease, 

It  charms  a feast-day  throng  of  all  degrees. 
Brightening  the  archway  of  revered  St.  Bees. 

12. 

How  did  the  Cliffs  and  echoing  Hills  rejoice 
What  time  the  Benedictine  Brethren’s  voice, 
Imploring,  or  commanding  with  meet  pride. 
Summoned  the  Chiefs  to  lay  their  feuds  aside, 

And  under  one  blest  ensign  serve  the  Lord 
In  Palestine.  Advance,  indignant  Sword 
Flaming  till  thou  from  Paynim  hands  release 
That  Tomb,  dread  centre  of  all  sanctities 
Nursed  in  the  quiet  Abbey  of  St.  Bees. 


13. 

On,  Champions,  on  ! — But  mark  ! the  passing  Day 
Submits  her  intercourse  to  milder  sway, 

Witli  tiigh  and  low  whose  busy  thoughts  from  far 
Follow  the  fortunes  which  they  may  not  share. 

While  in  Judea  Fancy  loves  to  roam. 

She  helps  to  make  a Holy-land  at  home: 

The  Star  of  Bethlehem  from  its  sphere  invites 
To  sound  the  crystal  depth  of  maiden  rights; 

And  wedded  life,  through  scriptural  mysteries. 
Heavenward  ascends  with  all  her  charities. 

Taught  by  the  hooded  Celibates  of  St.  Bees. 

14. 

Who  with  the  ploughshare  clove  the  barren  moors. 
And  to  green  meadows  changed  the  swampy  shores? 
Thinned  the  rank  woods ; and  for  the  cheerful  Grange 
Made  room  where  Wolf  and  Boar  were  used  to  range? 
Who  taught,  and  showed  by  deeds,  that  gentler  chains 
Should  bind  the  Vassal  to  his  Lord’s  domains? 

The  thoughtful  Monks,  intent  their  God  to  please. 

For  Christ’s  dear  sake,  by  human  sympathies 
Poured  from  the  bosom  of  thy  Church,  St.  Bees ! 

15. 

But  all  availed  not ; by  a mandate  given 
Through  lawless  will  the  Brotherhood  was  driven 
Forth  from  their  cells  ; — their  ancient  House  laid  low 
In  Reformation’s  sweeping  overthrow. 

But  now  once  more  the  local  Heart  revives, 

The  inextinguishable  Spirit  strives. 

Oh  may  that  Power  who  hushed  the  stormy  seas, 

And  cleared  a way  for  the  first  Votaries, 

Prosper  the  new-born  College  of  St.  Bees ! 

16. 

Alas ! the  Genius  of  our  age  from  Schools 
Less  humble  draws  her  lessons,  aims,  and  rules. 

To  Prowess  guided  by  her  insight  keen. 

Matter  and  Spirit  are  as  one  Machine ; 

Boastful  Idolatress  of  formal  skill. 

She  in  her  own  would  merge  the  eternal  will : 

Expert  to  move  in  paths  that  Newton  trod. 

From  Newton’s  Universe  would  banish  God. 

Better,  if  Reason’s  triumphs  match  with  these, 

Her  flight  before  the  bold  credulities 
That  furthered  the  first  teaching  of  St.  Bee.s. 

27* 


\ 


See  Note. 


318 


WOEDSWORTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


MEMORIALS  OF  A TOUR  IN  ITALY. 

1837. 


TO  HENRY  CRABB  ROBINSON. 


Companion!  by  whose  buoyant  spirit  cheered. 

In  whose  experience  trusting,  day  by  day 
Treasures  I gained  with  zeal  that  neither  feared 
The  toils  nor  felt  the  crosses  of  the  way, 

Rydal  Mount,  Feb.  14(/i,  1842. 


These  records  take,  and  happy  should  I be 
Were  but  the  gift  a meet  return  to  thee 
For  kindnesses  that  never  ceased  to  flow. 

And  pronipt  self-sacrifice  to  which  I owe 
Far  more  than  any  heart  but  mine  can  know. 

VV.  WORDSWORTH. 


Thf  Tour  of  which  the  following  poems  are  very  inadefluate  remembrances  was  shortened  by  report,  too  well  founded,  of  the  prevalence 
,f  cholera  at  Naples.  To  make  some  amends  for  what  was  reluctantly  left  unseen  in  the  South  of  Italy,  we  visited  the  luscan  Sanc- 
tuaries among  the  Apennines,  and  the  principal  Italian  Lakes  among  the  Alps.  Neither  of  those  lakes,  nor  of  Venice  ,s  there  any 
in  these  Poems,  chiefly  because  I have  touched  upon  them  elsewhere.  See,  in  particular,  “Descriptive  Sketches,  ‘ Memorials  of 


1 Tour  on  the  Continent  in  1820,’.’  and  a Sonnet  upon  the  extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic. 


MUSINGS  NEAR  AQUAPENDENTE. 

April,  1837. 

Ye  Apennines!  with  all  your  fertile  vales 
Deeply  embosomed,  and  your  winding  shores 
Of  either  sea,  an  Islander  by  birth, 

A Mountaineer  by  habit,  would  resound 
Your  praise,  in  meet  accordance  with  your  claims 
Bestowed  by  Nature,  or  from  man’s  great  deeds 
Inherited ; — presumptuous  thought ! — it  fled 
Like  vapour,  like  a towering  cloud,  dissolved. 

Not,  therefore,  shall  my  mind  give  way  to  sadness;  — 
Yon  snow-white  torrent-fall,  plumb  down  it  drops 
Yet  ever  hangs  or  seems  to  hang  in  air. 

Lulling  the  leisure  of  that  high  perched  town, 
AtiUAPENDENTE,  in  her  lofty  site 
Its  neighbour  and  its  namesake  — town,  and  flood 
Forth  flashing  out  of  its  own  gloomy  chasm 
Bright  sunbeams  — the  fresh  verdure  of  this  lawn 
Strewn  with  grey  rocks,  and  on  the  horizon’s  verge. 
O’er  intervenient  waste,  through  glimmering  haze. 
Unquestionably  kenned,  that  cone-shaped  hill 
VV’ith  fractured  summit,  no  indifferent  sight 
To  travellers,  from  such  comforts  as  are  thine. 

Bleak  Iladicofani!  escaped  with  joy  — 

These  are  before  me;  and  the  varied  scene 
May  well  suffice,  till  noontide’s  sultry  heat 
Relax  to  fix  and  satisfy  the  mind 


Passive  yet  pleased.  What!  with  this  broom  in  fl 
Close  at  my  side ! She  bids  me  fly  to  greet 
Her  sisters,  soon  like  her  to  be  attired 
With  golden  blossoms  opening  at  the  feet 
Of  my  own  Fairfield.  The  glad  greeting  given, 
Given  with  a voice  and  by  a look  returned 
Of  old  companionsliip.  Time  counts  not  minutes 
Ere,  from  accustomed  paths,  familiar  fields. 

The  local  Genius  hurries  me  aloft. 

Transported  over  that  cloud-wooing  hill. 

Seat  Sandal,  a fond  suitor  of  the  clouds, 


With  dream-like  smoothness,  to  Helvellyn’s  top. 
There  to  alight  upon  crisp  moss  and  range. 

Obtaining  ampler  boon,  at  every  step. 

Of  visual  sovereignty  — hills  multitudinous, 

(Not  Apennine  can  boast  of  fairer)  hills 
Pride  of  two  nations,  wood  and  lake  and  plains. 

And  prospect  right  below  of  deep  coves  shaped 
By  skeleton  arms,  that  from  the  mountain’s  trunk 
Extended,  clasp  the  winds,  with  mutual  moan 
Struggling  for  liberty,  while  undismayed 
The  shepherd  struggles  with  them.  Onward  thence 
And  downward  by  the  skirt  of  Greenside  fell, 

And  by  Glenridding-screes,  and  low  Glencoign, 
Places  forsaken  now,  though  loving  still 
The  muses,  as  they  loved  them  in  the  days 
Of  the  old  minstrels  and  the  border  bards. — 

But  here  am  I fast  bound  ; and  let  it  pass. 

The  simple  rapture;  — who  that  travels  far 
To  feed  his  mind  with  watchful  eyes  could  share 
Or  wish  to  share  it?  — One  there  surely  was, 

“The  Wizard  of  the  North,”  with  anxious  hope 
Brought  to  this  genial  climate,  when  disease 
Preyed  upon  body  and  mind — yet  not  the  less 
Had  his  sunk  eye  kindled  at  those  dear  words 
That  spake  of  bards  and  minstrels;  and  liis  spirit 
Had  flown  with  mine  to  old  Helvellyn’s  brow. 
Where  once  together,  in  his  day  of  strength. 

We  stood  rejoicing,  as  if  earth  were  free 
From  sorrow,  like  the  sky  above  our  heads. 

Years  followed  years,  and  when  upon  the  eve 
Of  his  last  going  from  Tweed-side,  thought  turned, 
Or  by  another’s  sympathy  was  led. 

To  this  bright  land,  Hope  was  for  him  no  friend. 
Knowledge  no  help;  Imagination  shaped 
No  promise.  Still,  in  more  tlian  ear-deep  seats. 
Survives  for  me,  and  cannot  but  survive 
The  tone  of  voice  which  wedded  borrowed  words 


ver 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3ia 


To  sadness  not  their  ovvn,  wiien,  with  faint  smile 
Forced  hy  intent  to  take  from  speech  its  edge, 

He  said,  “When  I am  there,  although  ’tis  fair, 

’Twill  be  another  Yarrow.”*  Prophecy 
More  than  fulfilled,  as  gay  Campania’s  shores 
Soon  witnessed,  and  the  city  of  seven  hills. 

Her  sparkling  fountains,  and  her  mouldering  tombs; 
And  more  than  all,  that  Eminence  which  showed 
Her  splendours,  seen,  not  felt,  the  while  he  stood 
A few  short  steps  (painful  they  were)  apart 
From  Tasso’s  Convent-haven,  and  retired  grave. 

Peace  to  their  Spirits ! why  should  Poesy 
Yield  to  the  lure  of  vain  regret,  and  hover 
In  gloom  on  wings  with  confidence  outspread 
To  move  in  sunshine  1 — Utter  thanks,  my  Soul! 
Tempered  with  awe,  and  sweetened  by  compassion 
For  them  who  in  the  shades  of  sorrow  dwell, 

That  I — so  near  the  term  to  human  life 
Appointed  by  man’s  common  heritage. 

Frail  as  the  frailest,  one  withal  (if  that 
Deserve  a thought)  but  little  known  to  fame  — 

Am  free  to  rove  where  Nature’s  loveliest  looks. 

Art’s  noblest  relics,  history’s  rich  bequests. 

Failed  to  reanimate  and  but  feebly  cheered 
The  whole  world’s  Darling  — free  to  rove  at  will 
O’er  high  and  low,  and  if  requiring  rest. 

Rest  from  enjoyment  only. 

Thanks  poured  forth 

For  what  thus  far  hath  blessed  my  wanderings,  thanks 
Fervent  but  humble  as  the  lips  can  breathe 
Where  gladness  seems  a duty  — let  me  guard 
Those  seeds  of  expectation  which  the  fruit 
Already  gathered  in  this  favoured  Land 
Enfolds  within  its  core.  The  faith  be  mine. 

That  He  who  guides  and  governs  all,  approves 
When  gratitude,  though  disciplined  to  look 
Beyond  these  transient  spheres,  doth  wear  a crown 
Of  earthly  hope  put  on  with  trembling  hand  ; 

Nor  is  least  pleased,  we  trust,  when  goldeu  beams. 
Reflected  through  the  mists  of  age,  from  hours 
Of  innocent  delight,  remote  or  recent. 

Shoot  but  a little  way  — ’tis  all  they  can  — 

Into  the  doubtful  future.  Who  would  keep 
Power  must  resolve  to  cleave  to  it  through  life. 

Else  it  deserts  him,  surely  as  he  lives. 

Saints  would  not  grieve  nor  guardian  angels  frown 
If  one  — while  tossed,  as  was  my  lot  to  be. 

In  a frail  bark  urged  by  two  slender  oars 


* These  words  were  quoted  to  me  from  “Yarrow  Un- 
visited,’’  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  when  I visited  him  at  Ab- 
botsford, a day  or  two  before  his  departure  for  Italy:  and 
the  affecting  condition  in  which  he  was  when  he  looked 
upon  Rome  from  the  Janicular  Mount,  was  reported  to  me 
by  a lady  who  had  the  honour  of  conducting  him  thither. 

[See  also  Mr.  Lockhart’s  interesting  and  pathetic  account 
of  the  interview  of  Scott  and  Wordsworth,  in  the  “Life 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott.”  Chap.  Ixxx.,  Vol.  X.,  p.  104,  &c. 
— H.  R.] 


Over  waves  rough  and  deep,  that,  when  they  broke. 
Dashed  their  white  foam  against  the  palace  walls 
Of  Genoa  the  superb  — should  there  be  led 
To  meditate  upon  his  own  appointed  tasks, 

Hovvever  humble  in  thetnselve.s,  with  thoughts 
Raised  and  sustained  by  memory  of  him 
Who  oftentimes  within  those  narrow  bounds 
Rocked  on  the  surge,  there  tried  his  spirit’s  strength 
And  grasp  of  purpose,  long  ere  sailed  his  ship 
To  lay  a new  world  open. 

Nor  less  prized 

Be  those  impressions  which  incline  the  heart 
To  mild,  to  lowly,  and  to  seeming  weak. 

Bend  that  way  her  desires.  The  dew,  the  storm  — 
The  dew  whose  moisture  fell  in  gentle  drops 
On  the  small  hyssop  destined  to  become. 

By  Hebrew  ordinance  devoutly  kept, 

A purifying  instrument  — the  storm 
That  shook  on  Lebanon  the  cedar’s  top. 

And  as  it  shook,  enabling  the  blind  roots 

Further  to  force  their  way,  endowed  its  trunk 

With  magnitude  and  strength  fit  to  uphold 

The  glorious  temple  — did  alike  proceed 

From  the  same  gracious  will,  were  both  an  offspring 

Of  bounty  infinite. 

Between  Powers  that  aim 
Higher  to  lifl  their  lofty  heads,  impelled 
By  no  profane  ambition.  Powers  that  thrive 
By  conflict,  and  their  opposites,  that  trust 
In  lowliness  — a mid-way  tract  there  lies 
Of  thoughtful  sentiment  for  every  mind 
Pregnant  with  good.  Young,  middle-aged,  and  old. 
From  century  on  to  century,  must  have  known 
The  emotion  — nay,  more  fitly  were  it  said  — 

The  blest  tranquillity  that  sunk  so  deep 
Into  my  spirit,  when  I paced,  enclosed 
In  Pisa’s  Campo  Santo,  the  smooth  floor 
Of  its  Arcades  paved  with  sepulchral  slabs. 

And  through  each  window’s  open  fret-work  looked 
O’er  the  blank  area  of  sacred  earth 
Fetched  from  Mount  Calvary,  or  haply  delved 
In  precincts  nearer  to  the  Saviour’s  tomb. 

By  hands  of  men,  humble  as  brave,  who  fought 
For  its  deliverance  — a capacious  field 
That  to  descendants  of  the  dead  it  holds 
And  to  all  living  mute  memento  breathes. 

More  touching  far  than  aught  which  on  the  walls 
Is  pictured,  or  their  epitaphs  ean  speak. 

Of  the  changed  City's  long  departed  power. 

Glory,  and  wealth,  which,  perilous  as  they  are. 

Here  did  not  kill,  but  nourished,  Piety. 

And,  high  above  that  length  of  cloistral  roof, 

I Peering  in  air  and  baeked  by  azure  sky. 

To  kindred  contemplations  ministers 
The  Baptistery’s  dome,  and  that  which  swells 
From  the  Cathedral  pile;  and  with  the  twain 
Conjoined  in  prospect  mutable  or  fixed 
(As  hurry  on  in  eagerness  the  feet, 

1 Or  pause)  the  summit  of  the  Leaning-tower. 


320 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  less  remuneration  waits  on  him 
Who  having  left  the  Cemetery  stands 
In  the  Tower’s  shadow,  of  decline  and  fall 
Admonished  not  without  some  sense  of  fear, 

Fear  that  soon  vanishes  before  the  sight 
Of  splendor  unextinguished,  pomp  unscathed, 

And  beauty  unimpaired.  Grand  in  itself. 

And  for  itself,  the  assemblage,  grand  and  fair 
To  view,  and  for  the  mind’s  consenting  eye 
A type  of  age  in  man,  upon  its  front 
Bearing  the  world-acknowledged  evidence 
Of  past  exploits,  nor  fondly  after  more 
Struggling  against  the  stream  of  destiny. 

But  with  its  peaceful  majesty  content. 

— Oh  what  a spectacle  at  every  turn 

'J’he  place  unfolds,  from  pavement  skinned  with  moss. 
Or  grass-grown  spaces,  where  the  heaviest  foot 
Provokes  no  echoes  but  must  softly  tread  ; 

Where  Solitude  with  Silence  paired  stops  short 
Of  Desolation,  and  to  Ruin’s  scythe 
Decay  submits  not. 

But  where’er  my  steps 
Shall  wander,  chiefly  let  me  cull  with  care 
Those  images  of  genial  beauty,  oft 
Too  lovely  to  be  pensive  in  themselves 
But  by  reflexion  made  so,  which  do  best 
And  fitliest  serve  to  crown  with  fragrant  wreaths 
Life’s  cup  when  almost  filled  with  years,  like  mine. 

— How  lovely  robed  in  forenoon  light  and  shade. 

Each  ministering  to  each,  didst  thou  appear 
Savona,  Queen  of  territory  fair 

As  aught  that  marvellous  coast  through  all  its  length 
Yields  to  the  Stranger’s  eye.  Remembrance  holds 
As  a selected  treasure  thy  one  cliff, 

'I’hat,  while  it  wore  for  melancholy  crest 
A shattered  Convent,  yet  rose  proud  to  have 
Clinging  to  its  steep  sides  a thousand  herbs 
And  shrubs,  whose  plea.sant  looks  gave  proof  how  kind 
The  breath  of  air  can  be  where  earth  had  else 
Seemed  churlish.  And  behold,  both  far  and  near. 
Garden  and  field  all  decked  with  orange  bloom. 

And  peach  and  citron,  in  Spring’s  mildest  breeze 
Expanding;  and  along  the  smooth  shore  curved 
Into  a natural  port,  a tideless  sea. 

To  that  mild  breeze  with  motion  and  with  voice 
Softly  responsive  ; and,  attuned  to  all 
Those  vernal  charms  of  sight  and  sound,  appeared 
Smooth  space  of  turf  which  from  the  guardian  fort 
Sloped  seaward,  turf  whose  tender  April  green. 

In  coolest  climes  too  fugitive,  might  even  here 
Plead  with  the  sovereign  Sun  for  longer  stay 
Than  his  unmitigated  beams  allow. 

Nor  plead  in  vain,  if  beauty  could  preserve. 

From  mortal  change,  aught  that  is  born  on  earth 
Or  doth  on  time  depend. 

While  on  the  brink 

Of  that  high  Convent-crested  cliff  I stood. 

Modest  Savona!  over  all  did  brood 
A pure  poetic  spirit  — as  the  breeze, 


Mild  — as  the  verdure,  fresh — the  sunshine,  bright  — 
j Thy  gentle  Chiabrera  ! — not  a stone, 
i Mural  or  level  with  the  trodden  floor. 

In  church  or  chapel,  if  my  curious  quest 
Missed  not  the  truth,  retains  a single  name 
Of  young  or  old,  warrior,  of  saint,  or  sage. 

To  whose  dear  memories  his  sepulchral  verse  * 

Paid  simple  tribute,  such  as  might  have  flowed 
From  the  clear  spring  of  a plain  English  heart. 

Say  rather,  one  in  native  fellowship 
With  all  who  want  not  skill  to  couple  grief 
With  praise,  as  genuine  admiration  prompts. 

The  grief,  the  praise,  are  severed  from  their  dust. 

Yet  in  his  page  the  records  of  that  worth 
Survive,  uninjured;  — glory  then  to  words. 

Honour  to  word-preserving  arts,  and  hail 
i Ye  kindred  local  influences  that  still. 

If  Hope’s  familiar  whispers  merit  faith, 

! Await  my  steps  when  they  the  breezy  height 
Shall  range  of  philosophic  Tusculum ; 

Or  Sabine  vales  explored  inspire  a wish 
I To  meet  the  shade  of  Horace  by  the  side 
j Of  his  Bandusian  fount;  or  I invoke 
I His  presence  to  point  out  the  spot  where  once 
I He  sate,  and  eulogized  with  earnest  pen 
j Peace,  leisure,  freedom,  moderate  desires ; ..  v 

[ And  all  the  immunities  of  rural  life 
j Extolled,  behind  Vacuna’s  crumbling  fane. 

I Or  let  me  loiter,  soothed  with  what  is  given 
' Nor  asking  more  on  that  delicious  Bay, 
i Parthenope’s  Domain  — Virgilian  haunt, 

I Illustrated  with  never-dying  verse, 

; And,  by  the  Poet’s  laurel-shaded  tomb, 

I Age  after  age  to  Pilgrim’s  from  all  lands 
Endeared. 

And  who  — if  not  a man  as  cold 
In  heart  as  dull  in  brain  — while  pacing  ground 
Chosen  by  Rome’s  legendary  Bards,  high  minds 
Out  of  her  early  struggles  well  inspired 
To  localize  heroic  acts  — could  look 
Upon  the  spots  with  undelighted  eye. 

Though  even  to  their  last  syllable  the  lays 
And  very  names  of  those  who  gave  them  birth 
Have  perished  1 — Verily  to  her  utmost  depth, 

! Imagination  feels  what  Reason  fears  not 
To  recognise,  the  lasting  virtue  lodged 
In  those  bold  fictions  that,  by  deeds  assigned 
To  the  Valerian,  Fabian,  Curian  Race, 

And  others  like  in  fame,  created  Powers 
I With  attributes  from  History  derived. 

By  Poesy  irradiate,  and  yet  graced. 

Through  marvellous  felicity  of  skill. 

With  something  more  propitious  to  high  aims 


* If  any  English  reader  should  be  desirous  of  knowing 
how  far  I am  justified  in  thus  describing  the  epitaphs  of 
Chiabrera,  he  will  find  translated  specimens  of  them  in 
this  Volume,  under  the  head  of  “Epitaphs  anj  Eegiac 
Pieces.” 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


321 


Tlian  either,  pent  within  her  separate  sphere, 

Can  oft  with.justice  claim. 

And  not  disdaining 
Union  with  those  primeval  energies 
To  virtue  consecrate,  stoop  ye  from  your  height 
Christian  Traditions!  at  my  Spirit’s  call 
Descend,  and  on  the  brow  of  ancient  Rome 
As  she  survives  in  ruin,  manifest 
Your  glories  mingled  with  the  brightest  hues 
Of  her  memorial  halo,  fading,  fading. 

But  never  to  be  extinct  while  Earth  endures. 

O come,  if  undishonoured  by  the  prayer. 

From  all  her  Sanctuaries  I — Open  for  my  feet 
Ye  Catacombs,  give  to  mine  eyes  a glimpse 
Of  the  Devout,  as,  mid  your  glooms  convened 
For  safety,  they  of  yore  enclasped  the  Cross 
On  knees  that  ceased  from  trembling,  or  intoned 
Their  orisons  with  voices  half-suppressed. 

But  sometimes  heard,  or  fancied  to  be  heard, 

Even  at  this  hour. 

And  thou  Mamertine  prison. 

Into  that  vault  receive  me  from  whose  depth 
Issues,  revealed  in  no  presumptuous  vision. 

Albeit  lifting  human  to  divine, 

A Saint,  the  Church’s  Rock,  the  mystic  Keys 
Grasped  in  his  hand  ; and  lo!  with  upright  sword 
Prefiguring  his  own  impendent  doom. 

The  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles;  both  prepared 
To  suffer  pains  with  heathen  scorn  and  hate 
Inflicted  ; — blessed  Men,  for  so  to  Heaven 
They  follow  their  dear  Lord. 

Time  flows  — nor  winds. 
Nor  stagnates,  nor  precipitates  his  course. 

But  many  a benefit  borne  upon  his  breast 
For  human-kind  sinks  out  of  sight,  is  gone. 

No  one  knows  how ; nor  seldom  is  put  forth 
An  angry  arm  that  snatches  good  away. 

Never  perhaps  to  reappear.  The  Stream 
Has  to  our  generation  brought  and  brings 
Innumerable  gains ; yet  we,  who  now 
Walk  in  the  light  of  day,  pertain  full  surely 
To  a chilled  age,  most  pitiably  shut  out 
From  that  which  is  and  actuates,  by  forms. 
Abstractions,  and  by  lifeless  fact  to  fact 
Minutely  linked  with  diligence  uninspired. 

Unrectified,  unguided,  unsustained. 

By  godlike  insight.  To  this  fate  is  doomed 
Science,  wide-spread  and  spreading  still  as  be 
Her  conquests,  in  the  world  of  sense  made  known. 

So  with  the  internal  mind  it  fares ; and  so 
With  morals,  trusting  in  contempt  or  fear 
Of  vital  principle’s  controlling  law. 

To  her  purblind  guide  Expediency ; and  so 
Suffers  religious  faith.  Elate  with  view 
Of  what  is  won,  we  overlook  or  scorn 
The  best  that  should  keep  pace  with  it,  and  must. 

Else  more  and  more  the  general  mind  will  droop. 

Even  as  if  bent  on  perishing.  There  lives 
No  faculty  within  us  which  the  Soul 
2Q 


Can  spare,  and  humblest  earthly  Weal  demands, 

For  dignity  not  placed  beyond  her  reach. 

Zealous  co-operation  of  all  means 
Given  or  acquired,  to  raise  us  from  the  mire 
: And  liberate  our  hearts  from  low  pursuits. 

By  gross  utilities  enslaved  we  need 
More  of  ennobling  impulse  from  the  past. 

If  to  the  future  aught  of  good  must  come 
j Sounder  and  therefore  holier  than  the  ends 
Which,  in  the  giddiness  of  self-applause. 

We  covet  as  supreme.  O grant  the  crown 
That  Wisdom  wears,  or  take  his  treacherous  staff 
From  Knowledge!  — If  the  Muse,  whom  I have  served 
This  day,  be  mistress  of  a single  pearl 
Fit  to  be  placed  in  that  pure  diadem; 

Then,  not  in  vain,  under  these  chesnut  boughs 
Reclined,  shall  I have  yielded  up  my  soul 
To  transports  from  the  secondary  founts 
Flowing  of  time  and  place,  and  paid  to  both 
Due  homage  ; nor  shall  fruitlessly  have  striven. 

By  love  of  beauty  moved,  to  enshrine  in  verse 
Accordant  meditations,  which  in  times 
Vexed  and  disordered,  as  our  own,  may  shed 
Influence,  at  least  among  a scattered  few’. 

To  soberness  of  mind  and  peace  of  heart 
Friendly ; as  here  to  my  repose  hath  been 
This  flowering  broom’s  dear  neighbourhood,  the  light 
And  murmur  issuing  from  yon  pendent  flood. 

And  all  the  varied  landscape.  Let  us  now 
Rise,  and  to-morrow  greet  magnificent  Rome.* 


THE  PINE  OF  MONTE  MARIO  AT  ROME. 

I SAW  far  off  the  dark  top  of  a Pine 
Look  like  a cloud  — a slender  stem  the  tie 
That  bound  it  to  its  native  earth  — poised  high 
’Mid  evening  hues,  along  the  horizon  line. 

Striving  in  peace  each  other  to  outshine. 

But  when  I learned  the  Tree  was  living  there. 
Saved  from  the  sordid  axe  by  Beaumont’s  care. 

Oh,  what  a gush  of  tenderness  was  mine  ! 

The  rescued  Pine-tree,  with  its  sky  so  bright 
And  cloud-like  beauty,  rich  in  thoughts  of  home. 
Death-parted  friends,  and  days  too  swift  in  flight, 
Supplanted  the  whole  majesty  of  Rome 
(Then  first  apparent  from  the  Pincian  Height) 
Crowned  with  St.  Peter’s  everlasting  Dome.f 

AT  ROME. 

Is  this,  ye  Gods,  the  Capitolian  Hill  1 
Yon  petty  Steep  in  truth  the  fearful  Rock, 

Tarpeian  named  of  yore,  and  keeping  still 
That  name,  a local  Phantom  proud  to  mock 


See  Note. 


t See  Note. 


322 


WOKIjSWORTH’ S POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Traveller’s  expectation!  — Could  our  Will 
Destroy  the  ideal  Power  within,  ’t  were  done 
Thro’  what  men  see  and  touch, — slaves  wandering  on. 
Impelled  by  thirst  of  all  but  Heaven-taught  skill. 

Full  oft  our  wish  obtained,  deeply  we  sigh; 

Yet  not  unrecompensed  are  they  who  learn. 

From  that  depression  raised,  to  mount  on  high 
With  stronger  wing,  more  clearly  to  discern 
Eternal  things ; and,  if  need  be,  defy 
Change,  with  a brow  not  insolent,  though  stem. 


AT  ROME.-REGIIETS.— IN  ALLUSION  TO  NIEBUHR  AND 
OTHER  MODERN  HISTORIANS. 

Those  old  credulities,  to  nature  dear. 

Shall  they  no  longer  bloom  upon  the  stock 
Of  History,  stript  naked  as  a rock 
’Alid  a dry  desert!  What  is  it  we  hear! 

The  glory  of  Infant  Rome  must  disappear. 

Her  morning  splendors  vanish,  and  their  place 
Know  them  no  more.  If  Truth,  who  veiled  her  face 
With  those  bright  beams  yet  hid  it  not,  must  steer 
Henceforth  a humbler  course  perplexed  and  slow; 

One  solace  yet  remains  for  us  who  came 
Into  this  world  in  days  when  story  lacked 
Severe  research,  that  in  our  hearts  we  know 
How,  for  exciting  youth’s  heroic  flame, 

Assent  is  power,  belief  the  soul  of  fact. 


CONTINUED. 

Complacent  Fictions  were  they,  yet  the  same 
Involved  a history  of  no  doubtful  sense. 

History  that  proves  by  inward  evidence 
From  what  a precious  source  of  truth  it  came. 
Ne’er  could  the  boldest  eulogist  have  dared  - 
Such  deeds  to  paint,  such  characters  to  frame, 
But  for  coeval  sympathy  prepared 
To  greet  with  instant  faith  their  loftiest  claim. 
None  but  a noble  people  could  have  loved 
Flattery  in  Ancient  Rome’s  pure-minded  style; 
Not  in  like  sort  the  Runic  Scald  was  moved ; 

He,  nursed  ’mid  savage  passions  that  defile 
Humanity,  sang  feats  that  well  might  call 
For  the  blood-thirsty  mead  of  Odin’s  riotous  Hall. 


PLEA  FOR  THE  HISTORIAN. 
Forbear  to  deem  the  Chronicler  unwise, 
Ungentle,  or  untouched  by  seemly  ruth. 

Who,  gathering  up  all  that  Time’s  envious  tooth 
Has  spared  of  sound  and  grave  realities. 

Firmly  rejects  those  dazzling  flatteries. 

Dear  as  they  are  to  unsuspecting  youth. 

That  might  have  drawn  down  Clio  from  the  skies 
To  vindicate  the.  majesty  of  truth. 


Such  was  her  office  while  she  walked  with  men, 
A Muse,  who,  not  unmindful  of  her  sire 
All-ruling  Jove,  whate’er  the  theme  might  be 
Revered  her  Mother,  sage  Mnemosyne, 

And  taught  her  faithful  servants  how  the  lyre 
Should  animate,  but  not  mislead  the  pen.* 


AT  ROME. 

They  — who  have  seen  the  noble  Roman’s  scorn 
Break  forth  at  thought  of  laying  down  his  head. 

When  the  blank  day  is  over,  garreted 

In  his  ancestral  palace,  where,  from  morn 

To  night,  the  desecrated  floors  are  worn 

By  feet  of  purse-proud  strangers;  they — who  have  read 

In  one  meek  smile,  beneath  a peasant’s  shed. 

How  patiently  the  weight  of  wrong  is  borne; 

They  — who  have  heard  some  learned  patriot  treat 
Of  freedom,  with  mind  grasping  the  whole  theme 
From  ancient  Rome,  downwards  through  that  bright 
dream 

Of  Commonwealths,  each  city  a starlike  seat 
Of  rival  glory;  they  — fallen  Italy  — 

Nor  must,  nor  will,  nor  can,  despair  of  Thee ! 


NEAR  ROME,  IN  SIGHT  OF  ST.  PETER’S. 


i 

I 


Long  has  the  dew  been  dried  on  tree  and  lawn ; 
O’er  man  and  beast  a not  unwelcome  boon 
Is  shed,  the  languor  of  approaching  noon ; 

To  shady  rest  withdrawing  or  withdrawn 
Mute  are  all  creatures,  as  this  couchant  fawn. 

Save  insect-swarms  that  hum  in  air  afloat. 

Save  that  the  Cock  is  crowing,  a shrill  note. 
Startling  and  shrill  as  that  which  roused  the  dawru 
— Heard  in  that  hour,  or  when,  as  now,  the  nerve 
Shrinks  from  the  note  as  from  a mis-timed  thing. 
Oft  for  a holy  warning  may  it  serve. 

Charged  with  remembrance  of  his  sudden  sting. 
His  bitter  tears,  whose  name  the  Papal  Chair 
And  yon  resplendent  Church  are  proud  to  bear. 


AT  ALBANO. 

Days  passed  — and  Monte  Calvo  would  not  clear 
His  head  from  mist;  and,  as  the  wind  sobbed  through 
Albano’s  dripping  Hex  avenue. 

My  dull  forebodings  in  a Peasant’s  ear 
Found  casual  vent.  She  said,  Be  of  good  cheer; 
Our  yesterday’s  procession  did  not  sue 
In  vain;  the  sky  will  change  to  sunny  blue, 

Thanks  to  our  Lady’s  grace.”  1 smiled  to  hear. 

But  not  in  scorn  : — the  IMatron’s  Faith  may  lack 
The  heavenly  sanction  needed  to  ensure 

* Quern  virum lyra 

! sumes  celebrare  Cliof 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


32.3 


Fulfilment;  but,  we  trust,  her  upward  track 
Stops  not  at  this  low  point,  nor  wants  the  lure 
Of  flowers  the  Virgin  without  fear  may  own. 
For  by  her  Son’s  blest  hand  the  seed  was  sown. 


Near  Anio’s  stream,  I spied  a gentle  Dove 
Perched  on  an  olive  branch,  and  heard  her  cooing 
’Mid  new-born  blossoms  that  soft  airs  were  wooing, 
While  all  things  present  told  of  joy  and  love. 

But  restless  Fancy  left  that  olive  grove 
To  hail  the  exploratory  Bird  renewing 
Hope  for  the  few,  who,  at  the  world’s  undoing. 

On  the  great  flood  were  spared  to  live  and  move. 

O bounteous  Heaven  ! signs  true  as  dove  and  bough 
Brought  to  the  ark  are  coming  evermore. 

Given  though  we  seek  them  not,  but,  while  we  plough 
This  sea  of  life  without  a visible  shore. 

Do  neither  promise  ask  nor  grace  implore 
In  what  alone  is  ours,  the  living  Now. 


FROM  THE  ALBAN  HILLS  LOOKING  TOWARDS  ROME, 
Forgive,  illustrious  Country  ! these  deep  sighs. 
Heaved  less  for  thy  bright  plains  and  hills  bestrown 
With  monuments  decayed  or  overthrown. 

For  all  that  tottering  stands  or  prostrate  lies. 

Than  for  like  scenes  in  moral  vision  shown. 

Ruin  perceived  for  keener  sympathies; 

Faith  crushed,  yet  proud  of  weeds,  her  gaudy  crown ; 
Virtues  laid  low,  and  mouldering  energies. 

Yet  why  prolong  this  mournful  strain  1 — Fallen  Power, 
Thy  fortunes,  twice  exalted,  might  provoke 
Verse  to  glad  notes  prophetic  of  the  hour 
When  thou,  uprisen,  shalt  break  thy  double  yoke, 

And  enter,  with  prompt  aid  from  the  Most  High, 

On  the  third  stage  of  thy  great  destiny. 


NEAR  THE  LAKE  OF  THRASYMENE. 
When  here  with  Carthage  Rome  to  conflict  came, 
An  earthquake,  mingling  with  the  battle’s  shock. 
Checked  not  its  rage;  unfelt  the  ground  did  rock. 
Sword  dropped  not,  javelin  kept  its  deadly  aim. — 
Now  all  is  sun-bright  peace.  Of  that  day’s  shame. 
Or  glory,  not  a vestige  seems  to  endure. 

Save  in  this  rill  that  took  from  blood  the  name  * 
Which  yet  it  bears,  sweet  Stream  ! as  crystal  pure. 
So  may  all  trace  and  signs  of  deeds  aloof 
From  the  true  guidance  of  humanity. 

Thro’  Time  and  Nature’s  influence,  purify 
Their  spirit ; or,  unless  they  for  reproof 
Or  warning  serve,  thus  let  them  all,  on  ground 
That  gave  them  being,  vanish  to  a sound. 


* Sanguinetto. 


NEAR  THE  SAME  LAKE. 

For  action  born,  existing  to  be  tried. 

Powers  manifold  we  have  that  intervene 
To  stir  the  heart  that  would  too  closely  screen 
Her  peace  from  images  allied. 

What  wonder  if  at  midnight,  by  the  side 
Of  Sanguinetto  or  broad  Thrasymene, 

The  clang  of  arms  is  heard,  and  phantoms  glide. 
Unhappy  ghosts  in  troops  by  moonlight  seen  ; 

And  singly  thine,  O vanquished  Chief!  whose  corse. 
Unburied,  lay  hid  under  heaps  of  slain  : 

But  who  is  He?  — the  Conqueror.  Would  he  force 
His  way  to  Romel  Ah,  no,  — round  hill  and  plain 
Wandering,  he  haunts,  at  fancy’s  strong  command. 
This  spot  — his  shadowy  death-cup  in  his  hand. 


THE  CUCKOO  AT  LAVERNA. 

May  S25th,  1837. 

List  — ’twas  the  Cuckoo.  — O with  what  delight 
Heard  I that  voice ! and  catch  it  now,  though  faint. 

Far  off  and  faint,  and  melting  into  air. 

Yet  not  to  be  mistaken.  Hark  again  ! 

Those  louder  cries  give  notice  that  the  Bird, 

Although  invisible  as  Echo’s  self. 

Is  wheeling  hitherward.  Thanks,  happy  Creature, 

For  this  unthought-of  greeting  ! 

While  allured 

From  vale  to  hill,  from  hill  to  vale  led  on. 

We  have  pursued,  through  various  lands,  a long 
And  pleasant  course ; flower  after  flower  has  blown. 
Embellishing  the  ground  that  gave  them  birth 
With  aspects  novel  to  my  sight;  but  still 
Most  fair,  most  welcome,  when  they  drank  the  dew 
In  a sweet  fellowship  with  kinds  beloved. 

For  old  remembrance  sake.  And  oft  — where  Spring 
Display’d  her  richest  blos.soms  among  files 
Of  orange-trees  bedecked  with  glowing  fruit 
Ripe  for  the  hand,  or  under  a thick  shade 
Of  Ilex,  or,  if  bettor  suited  to  the  hour, 

The  lightsome  Olive’s  twinkling  canopy  — 

Oft  have  I heard  the  Nightingale  and  Thrush 
Blending  as  in  a common  English  grove 
Their  love-songs;  but,  where’er  my  feet  might  roam, 
Whate’er  assemblages  of  new  and  old, 

Strange  and  familiar,  might  beguile  the  way, 

A gratulation  from  that  vagrant  voice 
Was  wanting; — and  most  happily  till  now. 

For  see,  Laverna  ! mark  the  far-famed  Pile, 

High  on  the  brink  of  that  precipitous  rock. 

Implanted  like  a Fortress,  as  in  truth 
It  is,  a Christian  Fortress,  garrisoned 
In  faith  and  hope,  and  dutiful  obedience. 

By  a few  Monks,  a stern  society. 

Dead  to  the  world  and  scorning  earth-born  joys. 

Nay — though  the  hopes  that  drew,  the  fears  that  drove, 


824 


WORDSWORTH’S  POP^TICAL  WORKS. 


St.  Francis,  far  from  Man’s  resort,  to  abide 
Among  these  sterile  heights  of  Apennine, 

Bound  him,  nor,  since  he  raised  yon  House,  liave  ceased 
To  bind  his  spiritual  Progeny,  with  rules 
Stringent  as  flesh  can  tolerate  and  live; 

His  milder  Genius  (thanks  to  the  good  God 
That  made  us)  over  those  severe  restraints 
Of  mind,  that  dread  heart-freezing  discipline. 

Doth  sometimes  here  predominate,  and  w’orks 
By  unsought  means  for  gracious  purposes ; 

For  earth  through  heaven,  for  heaven,  by  changeful 
earth. 

Illustrated,  and  mutually  endeared. 

Rapt  though  He  were  above  the  power  of  sense. 
Familiarly,  yet  out  of  the  cleansed  heart 
Of  that  once  sinful  Being  overflowed 
On  sun,  moon,  stars,  the  nether  elements. 

And  every  shape  of  creature  they  sustain. 

Divine  affections ; and  with  beast  and  bi 
(Stilled  from  afar  — such  marvel  story  tells  — 

By  casual  outbreak  of  his  passionate  words. 

And  from  their  own  pursuits  in  field  or  grove 
Drawn  to  his  side  by  look  or  act  of  love 
Humane,  and  virtue  of  his  innocent  life) 

He  wont  to  hold  companionship  so  free. 

So  pure,  so  fraught  with  knowledge  and  delight 
As  to  be  likened  in  his  followers’  minds 
To  that  which  our  first  Parents,  ere  the  fall 
From  their  high  state  darkened  the  Earth  with  fear. 
Held  with  all  Kinds  in  Eden’s  blissful  bowers. 

Then  question  not  that,  ’mid  the  austere  Band, 

Who  breathe  the  air  he  breathed,  tread  where  he  trod. 
Some  true  partakers  of  his  loving  spirit 
Do  still  survive,  and,  with  those  gentle  hearts 
Consorted,  others,  in  the  power,  the  faith. 

Of  a baptized  imagination,  prompt 
To  catch  from  Nature’s  humblest  monitors 
Whate’er  they  bring  of  impulses  sublime. 

Thus  sensitive  must  be  the  Monk,  though  pale 
With  fasts,  with  vigils  worn,  depressed  by  years. 
Whom  in  a sunny  glade  I chanced  to  see. 

Upon  a pine-tree's  storm  uprooted  trunk. 

Seated  alone,  with  forehead  sky-ward  raised. 

Hands  clasped  above  the  crucifix  he  wore 
Appended  to  his  bosom,  and  lips  closed 
By  the  joint  pressure  of  his  musing  mood 
And  habit  of  his  vow.  That  ancient  Man  — 

Nor  haply  less  the  brother  whom  I marked. 

As  we  approached  the  Convent  gate,  aloft 
Looking  far  forth  from  his  aerial  cell, 

A young  Ascetic  — Poet,  Hero,  Sage, 

He  might  have  been.  Lover  belike  he  was  — 

If  they  received  into  a conscious  ear 
The  notes  whose  first  faint  greeting  startled  me. 
Whose  sedulous  iteration  thrilled  with  joy 
My  heart  — may  have  been  moved  like  me  to  think, 


Ah  ! not  like  me  who  walk  in  tlie  world’s  ways, 

On  the  great  Prophet,  styled  the  Voice  of  One 
Crying  amid  the  wilderness,  and  given. 

Now  that  their  snows  must  melt,  their  herbs  and  flowers 
Revive,  their  obstinate  winter  pass  away, 

Tliat  awful  name  to  Thee,  thee,  simple  Cuckoo, 
Wandering  in  solitude,  and  evermore 
Foretelling  and  proclaiming,  ere  thou  leave 
This  tliy  last  haunt  beneath  Italian  skies 
To  carry  thy  glad  tidings  over  heights 
Still  loftier,  and  to  climes  more  near  the  Pole. 

Voice  of  the  desert,  fare-thee-well ; sweet  Bird ! 

If  that  substantial  title  please  thee  more. 

Farewell!  — but  go  thy  way,  no  need  hast  thou 
Of  a good  wish  sent  after  thee  ; from  bower 
To  bower  as  green,  from  sky  to  sky  as  clear, 

The  gentle  breezes  waft  — or  airs  that  meet 
j Thy  course  and  sport  around  the  softly  fan  — 

I Till  Night , descending  upon  hill  and  vale. 

Grants  to  thy  mission  a brief  term  of  silence. 

And  folds  thy  pinions  up  in  blest  repose. 

AT  THE  CONVENT  OF  CAMALDOLI. 
Grieve  for  the  Man  who  hither  came  bereft. 

And  seeking  consolation  from  above ; 

Nor  grieve  the  less  that  skill  to  him  was  left 
To  paint  this  picture  of  his  lady-love: 

Can  she,  a blessed  saint,  the  work  approve! 

And  O,  good  Brethren  of  the  cowl,  a thing 
So  fair,  to  which  with  peril  he  must  cling. 

Destroy  in  pity,  or  with  care  remove. 

That  bloom  — those  eyes — can  they  assist  to  bind 
Thoughts  that  would  stray  from  Heaven ! The  dv..*i' 
must  cease 

To  be;  by  Faith,  not  sight,  his  soul  must  live  ; 

Else  will  the  enamoured  Monk  too  surely  find 
How  wide  a space  can  part  from  inward  peace 
The  most  profound  repose  his  cell  can  give. 

CONTINUED. 

The  world  forsaken,  all  its  busy  cares 
And  stirring  interests  shunned  with  desperate  flight. 
All  trust  abandoned  in  the  healing  might 
Of  virtuous  action ; all  that  courage  dares, 

Labour  accomplishes,  or  patience  bears  — 

Those  helps  rejected,  they,  whose  minds  perceive 
How  subtly  works  man’s  weakness,  sighs  may  heave 
For  such  a one  beset  w'ith  cloistral  snares. 

Father  of  Mercy ! rectify  his  view. 

If  with  his  vows  this  object  ill  agree ; 

Shed  over  it  thy  grace,  and  thus  subdue 
Imperious  passion  in  a heart  set  free:  — 
i That  earthly  love  may  to  herself  be  true, 

I Give  him  a soul  that  cleaveth  unto  thee.* 

j * See  Note. 


POEMS  OP  THE  IMAGINATION. 


825 


at  t:ie  eremi  te  or  upper  convent  of  camaldoli.  ! 
WiiAT  aim  had  tlioy,  the  Pair  of  Monks,  in  size 
Enormous,  dragged,  while  side  by  side  tliey  sate, 

By  panting  steers  up  to  this  convent  gate  I 
How,  with  empurpled  cheeks  and  pampered  eyes, 

Dare  they  confront  the  lean  austerities 
Of  Brethren  who,  here  fixed,  on  Jesu  wait 
In  sackcloth,  and  God’s  anger  deprecate 
Through  all  that  humbles  flesh  and  mortifies! 

Strange  contrast ! — verily  the  world  of  dreams, 

Where  mingle,  as  for  mockery  combined. 

Things  in  their  very  essences  at  strife. 

Shows  not  a sight  incongruous  as  the  extremes 
That  everywhere,  before  the  thoughtful  mind, 

Meet  on  the  solid  ground  of  waking  life.* 

AT  VALLOMBROSA. 

Tliick  as  autumnal  leaves  that  strew  the  brooks 

Vallambrosa,  where  Etrurian  shades 

High  over-arch’d  embower.f  Paradise  Lost. 

“ Vallombrosa  — I longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood 
To  slumber,  reclined  on  the  moss-covered  floor!” 

Fond  wish  that  was  granted  at  last,  and  the  Flood, 

That  lulled  me  asleep,  bids  me  listen  once  more. 

Its  murmur  how  soft!  as  it  falls  down  the  steep. 

Near  that  Cell — yon  sequestered  Retreat  high  in  air — 
Where  our  Milton  was  wont  lonely  vigils  to  keep 
For  converse  with  God,  sought  through  study  and 
prayer. 

The  Monks  still  repeat  the  tradition  with  pride. 

And  its  truth  who  shall  doubt!  for  his  Spirit  is  here; 

In  the  cloud-piercing  rocks  doth  her  grandeur  abide. 

In  the  pines  pointing  heavenward  her  beauty  austere; 

In  the  flower-besprent  meadows  his  genius  we  trace 
Turned  to  humbler  delights,  in  which  youth  might 
confide. 

That  would  yield  him  fit  help  while  prefiguring  that 
place 

Where,  if  Sin  had  not  entered.  Love  never  had  died. 

When  with  life  lengthened  out  came  a desolate  time. 
And  darkness  and  danger  had  compassed  him  round. 
With  a thought  he  would  flee  to  these  haunts  of  his 
prime. 

And  here  once  again  a kind  shelter  be  found. 

And  let  me  believe  that  when  nightly  the  Muse 
Did  waft  him  to  Sion,  the  glorified  hill. 

Here  also,  on  some  favoured  height,  he  would  choose 
To  wander  and  drink  inspiration  at  will. 

Vallambrosa ! of  thee  I first  heard  in  the  page 
Of  that  holiest  of  Bards,  and  the  name  for  my  mind 
Had  a musical  charm,  which  the  winter  of  age 
And  the  changes  it  brings  had  no  power  to  unbind. 


* See  Note. 

t See  for  the  two  first  lines,  “ Stanzas  composed  in  the 
Simplon  Pass,”  p.  287. — See  Note. 


And  now,  ye  Miltonian  shades!  under  you 
I repose,  nor  am  forced  from  sweet  fancy  to  part. 

While  your  leaves  I behold  and  the  brooks  they  will 
strew. 

And  the  realized  vision  is  clasped  to  my  heart. 

Even  so,  and  unblamed,  we  rejoice  as  we  may 
In  Forms  that  must  perish,  frail  objects  of  sense  ; 
Unblamed  — if  the  soul  be  intent  on  the  day 
When  the  Being  of  Beings  shall  summon  her  hence. 
For  he  and  he  only  with  wisdom  is  blest 
Who,  gathering  true  pleasures  wherever  they  grow, 
Looks  up  in  all  places,  for  joy  or  for  rest, 

To  the  Fountain  whence  Time  and  Eternity  flow. 


AT  FLORENCE. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a stately  Pile 
The  dome  of  Florence,  pensive  and  alone. 

Nor  giving  heed  to  aught  that  passed  the  while, 

I stood  and  gazed  upon  a marble  stone. 

The  laurelled  Dante’s  favourite  seat.  A throne. 

In  just  esteem,  it  rivals ; though  no  style 

Be  there  of  decoration  to  beguile 

The  mind,  depressed  by  thought  of  greatness  flown. 

As  a true  man,  who  long  had  served  the  lyre, 

I gazed  with  earnestness,  and  dared  no  more. 

But  in  his  breast  the  mighty  Poet  bore 
A Patriot’s  heart,  warm  with  undying  fire. 

Bold  with  the  thought,  in  reverence  I sate  down. 
And,  for  a moment,  filled  that  empty  Tlirone. 


BEFORE  THE  PICTURE  OF  THE  BAPTIST,  BY  RAPHAEL, 
IN  THE  GALLERY  AT  FLORENI.'E. 

The  Baptist  might  have  been  ordain'd  to  cry 
Forth  from  the  towers  of  that  huge  Pile,  wherein 
His  Father  served  Jehovah;  but  how  win 
Due  audience,  how  for  aught  but  scorn  defy 
The  obstinate  pride  and  wanton  revelry 
Of  the  Jerusalem  below,  her  sin 
And  folly,  if  they  with  united  din 
Drown  not  at  once  mandate  and  prophecy  ! 

Therefore  the  Voice  spake  from  the  Desert,  thence 
To  Her,  as  to  her  opposite  in  peace. 

Silence,  and  holiness,  and  innocence. 

To  Her  and  to  all  Lands  its  warning  sent. 

Crying  with  earnestness  that  might  not  cease, 

“Make  straight  a highway  for  the  Lord  — repent!” 


AT  FLORENCE.  — FROM  MICHAEL  ANGELO 

Rapt  above  earth  by  power  of  one  fair  face. 

Hers  in  whose  sway  alone  my  heart  delights, 

I mingle  with  the  blest  on  tho.se  pure  heights 
Where  Man,  yet  mortal,  rarely  finds  a place. 

28 


y 


J26 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  Him  who  made  the  Work  that  Work  accords 
So  well,  that  by  its  help  and  through  his  grace 
I raise  my  thoughts,  inform  my  deeds  and  words, 
Clasping  her  beauty  in  my  soul’s  embrace. 

Thus,  if  from  two  fair  eyes  mine  cannot  turn, 
f feel  how  in  their  presence  doth  abide 
Light  which  to  God  is  both  the  way  and  guide; 
And,  kindling  at  their  lustre,  if  I burn. 

My  noble  fire  emits  the  joyful  ray 

That  through  the  realms  of  glory  shines  for  aye. 


AT  FLORENCE.  — FROM  M.  ANGELO. 

Eternai,  Lord  ! eased  of  a cumbrous  load. 

And  loosened  from  the  world,  I turn  to  Thee; 

Shun,  like  a shattered  bark,  the  storm,  and  flee 
To  thy  protection  for  a safe  abode. 

The  crowns  of  thorns,  hands  pierced  upon  the  tree, 
The  meek,  benign,  and  lacerated  face, 

To  a sincere  repentance  promised  grace. 

To  the  sad  soul  give  hope  of  pardon  free. 

With  justice  mark  not  Thou,  O Light  divine. 

My  fault,  nor  hear  it  with  thy  sacred  ear ; 

Neither  put  forth  that  way  thy  arm  severe ; 

Wash  with  thy  blood  my  sins;  thereto  incline 
More  readily  the  more  my  years  require 
Help,  and  forgiveness  speedy  and  entire. 


AMONG  THE  RUINS  OF  A CONVENT  IN  THE  APENNINES. 

Ye  Trees  ! whose  slender  roots  entwine 
Altars  tliat  piety  neglects; 

Whose  infant  arms  enclasp  the  shrine 
Which  no  devotion  now  respects; 

If  not  a straggler  from  the  herd 
Here  ruminate,  nor  shrouded  bird. 

Chanting  her  low-voiced  hymn,  take  pride 
In  aught  that  ye  would  grace  or  hide  — 

How  sadly  is  your  love  misplaced. 

Fair  Trees,  your  bounty  run  to  waste  t 

Ye,  too,  wild  Flowers!  that  no  one  heeds, 

And  ye  — full  often  spurned  as  weeds  — 

In  beauty  clothed,  or  breathing  sweetness 
From  fractured  arch  and  mouldering  wall  — 

Do  but  more  touchingly  recal 
Man’s  headstrong  violence  and  Time’s  fleetness, 
Making  the  precincts  ye  adorn 
Appear  to  sight  still  more  forlorn. 


IN  LOMBARDY 

See,  where  his  difficult  way  that  Old  Man  wins 
Lent  by  a load  of  Mulberry  leaves ! — most  hard 
Appears  his  lot,  to  the  small  Worm’s  compared, 
For  whom  his  toil  with  early  day  begins. 


Acknowledging  no  task-master,  at  will 
(As  if  her  labour  and  her  ease  were  twins) 
She  seems  to  work,  at  pleasure  to  lie  still ; — 

I And  softly  sleeps  within  the  thread  she  spins, 
j So  fare  they  — the  Man  serving  as  her  Slave. 
! Ere  long  their  fates  do  each  to  each  conform  : 

1 Both  pass  into  new  being,  — but  the  Worm, 
Transfigured,  sinks  into  a hopeless  grave; 

His  volant  Spirit  will,  he  trusts,  ascend 
To  bliss  unbounded,  glory  without  end. 


AFTER  LEAVING  ITALY. 

Fair  Land  ! Thee  all  men  greet  with  joy  ; how  few, 
Whose  souls  take  pride  in  freedom,  virtue,  fame, 

Part  from  thee  without  pity  dyed  in  shame : 

I could  not  — while  from  Venice  we  withdrew. 

Led  on  till  an  Alpine  strait  confined  our  view 
Within  its  depths,  and  to  the  shore  we  came 
Of  Lago  Morto,  dreary  sight  and  name. 

Which  o’er  sad  thoughts  a sadder  colouring  threw 
Italia!  on  the  surface  of  thy  spirit, 

(Too  aptly  emblemed  by  that  torpid  lake) 

Shall  a few  partial  breezes  only  creep  ? — 

Be  its  depths  quickened  ; what  thou  dost  inherit 
Of  the  world’s  hopes,  dare  to  fulfil ; awake. 

Mother  of  Heroes,  from  thy  death-like  sleep! 


CONTINUED. 

As  indignation  mastered  grief,  my  tongue 
Spake  bitter  words;  words  that  did  ill  agree 
With  those  rich  stores  of  Nature’s  imagery. 

And  divine  Art,  that  fast  to  memory  clung  — 

Thy  gifts,  magnificent  Region,  ever  young 
In  the  sun’s  eye,  and  in  his  sister’s  sight 
How  beautiful ! how  worthy  to  be  sung 
In  strains  of  rapture,  or  subdued  delight ! 

I feign  not ; witness  that  unwelcome  shock 
That  followed  the  first  sound  of  German  speech. 
Caught  the  far-winding  barrier  Alps  among. 

In  that  announcement,  greeting  seemed  to  mock 
Parting;  the  casual  word  had  power  to  reach 
My  heart,  and  filled  that  heart  with  conflict  strong. 


COMPOSED  AT  RYDAL  ON  MAY  MORNING,  1838. 

If  with  old  love  of  you,  dear  Hills  ! I share 
New  love  of  many  a rival  image  brought 
From  far,  forgive  the  wanderings  of  my  thought: 
Nor  art  thou  wronged,  sweet  May  ! when  I compare 
Thy  present  birtli-rnorn  with  thy  last,  so  fair. 

So  rich  to  me  in  favours.  For  my  lot 
Then  was,  within  the  famed  Egerian  Grot 
To  sit  and  muse,  fanned  by  its  dewy  air 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


327 


Mingling  with  thy  soft  breath  ! That  morning  too, 
Warblers  I heard  their  joy  unbosoming 
Amid  the  sunny,  shadowy  Coliseum  ; 

Heard  them,  unchecked  by  aught  of  saddening  hue. 
For  victories  there  won  by  flower-crowned  Spring, 
Chant  in  full  choir  their  innocent  Te  Deum. 


THE  PILLAR  OF  TRAJAN. 

Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds 
O’er  mutilated  arches  shed  their  seeds ; 

And  temples,  doomed  to  milder  change,  unfold 
A new  magnificence  that  vies  with  old ; 

Firm  in  its  pristine  majesty  hath  stood 
A votive  Column,  spared  by  fire  and  flood:  — 

And,  though  the  passions  of  man’s  fretful  race 
Have  never  ceased  to  eddy  round  its  base. 

Not  injured  more  by  touch  of  meddling  hands 
Than  a lone  obelisk,  ’mid  Nubian  sands. 

Or  aught  in  Syrian  deserts  left  to  save 
From  death  the  memory  of  the  good  and  brave. 
Historic  figures  round  the  shaft  embost 
Ascend,  with  lineaments  in  air  not  lost: 

Still  as  he  turns,  the  charmed  spectator  sees 
Group  winding  after  group  with  dream-like  ease  ; 
Triumphs  in  sunbright  gratitude  displayed. 

Or  softly  stealing  into  modest  shade. 

— So,  pleased  with  purple  clusters  to  entwine 
Some  lofty  elm-tree,  mounts  the  daring  vine ; 

The  woodbine  so,  with  spiral  grace,  and  breathes 
Wide-spreading  odours  from  her  flowery  wreaths. 

Borne  by  the  Muse  from  rills  in  shepherd’s  ears 
Murmuring  but  one  smooth  story  for  all  years, 

I gladly  commune  with  the  mind  and  heart 
Of  him  who  thus  survives  by  classic  art. 

His  actions  witness,  venerate  his  mien. 

And  study  Trajan  as  by  Pliny  seen ; 

Behold  how  fought  the  Chief  whose  conquering  sword 
Stretched  far  as  earth  might  own  a single  lord  ; 

In  the  delight  of  moral  prudence  schooled. 

How  feelingly  at  home  the  Sovereign  ruled ; 


Best  of  the  good — in  pagan  faith  allied 
To  more  than  man  by  virtue  deified. 

Memorial  Pillar!  ’mid  the  wrecks  of  Time 
Preserve  thy  charge  with  confidence  sublime  — 

The  exultations,  j)omi)s,  and  cares  of  Rome, 

Whence  half  the  breathing  world  received  its  doom; 
Things  that  recoil  from  language;  that,  if  shown 
By  apter  pencil,  from  the  light  had  flown. 

A Pontiff,  Trajan  here  the  Gods  implores. 

There  greets  an  Embassy  from  Indian  shores; 

Lo  ! he  harangues  his  cohorts  — there  the  storm 
Of  battle  meets  him  in  authentic  form  ! 

Unharnessed,  naked,  troops  of  Moorisli  horse 
Sweep  to  the  charge  ; more  high,  the  Dacian  force. 
To  hoof  and  finger  mailed ; * — yet,  higli  or  low. 
None  bleed,  and  none  lie  prostrate  but  the  fi>3; 

In  every  Roman,  through  all  turns  of  fate 
Is  Roman  dignity  inviolate; 

Spirit  in  him  pre-eminent,  who  guides. 

Supports,  adorns,  and  over  all  presides; 

Distinguished  only  by  inherent  stale 
From  honoured  Instruments  that  round  him  wait; 
Rise  as  he  may,  his  grandeur  scorns  the  test 
Of  outward  symbol,  nor  will  deign  to  rest 
On  aught  by  which  afiother  is  deprest. 

— Alas!  that  one  thus  disciplined  could  toil 
To  enslave  whole  nations  on  their  native  soil; 

So  emulous  of  Macedonian  fame. 

That,  when  his  age  was  measured  with  his  aim. 

He  drooped,  ’mid  else  unclouded  victories, 

And  turned  his  eagles  back  with  deep-drawn  sighs: 
O weakness  of  the  Great ! O folly  of  the  Wise ! 

Where  now  the  haughty  Empire  that  was  spread 
With  such  fond  hope]  her  very  speech  is  dead; 

Yet  glorious  Art  the  power  of  Time  defies. 

And  Trajan  still,  through  various  enterprise. 

Mounts,  in  this  fine  illusion,  toward  the  skies: 

Still  are  we  present  with  the  imperial  Chief, 

Nor  cease  to  gaze  upon  the  bold  Relief 
Till  Rome,  to  silent  marble  unconfined. 

Becomes  with  all  her  years  a vision  of  the  Mind, 


• Here  and  infra,  see  Forsyth. 


328 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  WHITE  DOE  OF  RYLSTONE; 


THE  FATE  OF  THE  NORTONS. 


"They  that  deny  a God,  destroy  Man’s  nobility : for  certainly  Man  is  of  kinn  to  the  Beasts  by  his  Body  ; and  if  he 
be  not  of  kinn  to  God  by  his  Spirit,  he  is  a base  ignoble  Creature.  It  destroys  likewise  Magnanimity,  and  the  raising 
of  humane  Nature : for  take  an  example  of  a Dogg,  and  mark  what  a generosity  and  courage  he  will  put  on,  when  he 
finds  himself  maintained  by  a Man,  who  to  him  is  instead  of  a God,  or  Melior  Natura.  Which  courage  is  manifestly 
such,  as  that  Creature  without  that  confidence  of  a better  Nature  than  his  own  cou.ld  never  attain.  So  Man,  when 
he  resteth  and  assureth  himself  upon  Divine  protection  and  favour,  gathereth  a force  and  faith  which  human  Nature 
in  itself  could  not  obtain.” Lord  B.voon. 


Duri.ng  the  Summer  of  1807,  the  Author  visited, 
for  the  first  time,  the  beautiful  scenery  that  surrounds 
Bolton  Priory,  in  Yorkshire  ; and  the  Poem  of  tlte 
White  Doe,  founded  upon  a Tradition  connected  with 
the  place,  was  composed  at  the  close  of  the  same  year.* 


In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay. 

And,  Mary  ! oft  beside  our  blazing  fire. 

When  years  of  wedded  life  were  as  a day 
Wliose  current  answers  to  the  heart’s  desire. 

Did  we  together  read  in  Spenser’s  Lay 
How  Una,  sad  of  soul  — in  sad  attire,  • 

The  gentle  Una,  born  of  heavenly  birth. 

To  seek  her  Knight  W'ent  wandering  o’er  the  earth. 

Ah,  then.  Beloved ! pleasing  was  the  smart. 

And  the  tear  precious  in  compassion  shed 
For  Her,  who,  pierced  by  sorrow’s  thrilling  dart. 
Did  meekly  bear  the  pang  unmerited ; 

Meek  as  that  emblem  of  her  lowly  heart 
The  milk-white  Lamb  which  in  a line  she  led,  — 
And  faithful,  loyal  in  her  innocence. 

Like  the  brave  Lion  slain  in  her  defence. 

Notes  could  we  hear  as  of  a faery  shell 
Attuned  to  words  with  sacred  wisdom  fraught ; 

Free  Fancy  prized  each  specious  miracle. 

And  all  its  finer  inspiration  caught; 

Till  in  the  bosom  of  our  rustic  Cell, 

We  by  a lamentable  change  were  taught 
That  “ bliss  with  mortal  Man  may  not  abide  — 
How  nearly  joy  and  sorrow  are  allied ! 

For  us  the  stream  of  fiction  ceased  to  flow, 

For  us  the  voice  of  melody  was  mute. 

— But,  as  soft  gales  dissolve  the  dreary  snow. 

And  give  the  timid  herbage  leave  to  shoot, 
Heaven’s  breathing  influence  failed  not  to  bestow 
A timely  promise  of  unlooked-for  fruit. 

See  Note. 


Fair  fruit  of  pleasure  and  serene  content 
From  blossoms  wild  of  fancies  innocent. 

It  soothed  us  — it  beguiled  us  — then,  to  hear. 

Once  more,  of  troubles  wrought  by  magic  spell ; 

And  griefs  whose  aery  motion  comes  not  near 
The  pangs  that  tempt  the  Spirit  to  rebel  ; 

Then,  with  mild  Una  in  her  sober  cheer. 

High  over  hill  and  low  adown  the  dell 
Again  we  wandered,  willing  to  partake 
All  that  she  suffered  for  her  dear  Lord’s  sake. 

Then,  too,  this  Song  of  mine  once  more  could  please, 
Wliere  anguish,  strange  as  dreams  of  restless  sleep. 

Is  tempered  and  allayed  by  sympathies 
Aloft  ascending,  and  descending  deep. 

Even  to  the  inferior  Kinds ; whom  forest  trees 
Protect  from  beating  sunbeams,  and  the  sweep 
Of  the  sharp  winds;  — fair  Creatures!  — to  whom 
Heaven 

A calm  and  sinless  life,  with  love,  hath  given. 

This  tragic  Story  cheered  us  ; for  it  speaks 
Of  female  patience  winning  firm  repose; 

And  of  the  recompense  which  conscience  seeks 
A bright,  encouraging  e.xample  shows ; 

Needful  when  o’er  wide  realms  the  tempest  breaks, 
Needful  amid  life’s  ordinary  woes;  — 

Hence,  not  for  them  unfitted  who  would  bless 
A happy  hour  with  holier  happiness. 

He  serves  the  Muses  erringly  and  ill. 

Whose  aim  is  pleasure  light  and  fugitive: 

O,  that  my  mind  were  equal  to  fulfil 

The  comprehensive  mandate  which  they  give  — 

Vain  aspiration  of  an  earnest  will ! 

Yet  in  this  moral  Strain  a power  may  live. 

Beloved  Wife  ! such  solace  to  impart 
As  it  hath  yielded  to  thy  tender  heart 

Rydal  Mount,  Wk.stmorel.\nd. 

Afril  20.  1815. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION, 


32G 


CANTO  FIRST. 

From  Bolton’s  old  monastic  tower* 

The  bells  ring  loud  with  gladsome  power  ; 
The  sun  is  bright;  the  fields  are  gay 
With  people  in  their  best  array 
Of  stole  and  doublet,  hood  and  scarf, 

Along  the  banks  of  crystal  Wharf, 

Through  the  Vale  retired  and  lowly. 
Trooping  to  that  summons  holy. 

And,  up  among  the  moorlands,  see 
What  sprinklings  of  blithe  company  ! 

Of  lasses  and  of  shepherd  grooms, 

That  down  the  steep  hills  force  their  wa}^ 
Like  cattle  through  the  budded  brooms; 
Path,  or  no  path,  what  care  they  1 
And  thus  in  joyous  mood  they  hie 
To  Bolton’s  mouldering  Priory. 

What  would  they  there  1 — Full  fifty  years 
That  sumptuous  Pile,  with  all  its  peers. 

Too  harshly  hath  been  doomed  to  taste 
The  bitterness  of  wrong  and  waste : 

Its  courts  are  ravaged ; but  the  tower 
Is  standing  with  a voice  of  power. 

That  ancient  voice  which  wont  to  call 
To  mass  or  some  high  festival; 

And  in  the  shattered  fabric’s  heart 
Remaineth  one  protected  part; 

A rural  Chapel,  neatly  drest,f 
In  covert  like  a little  nest ; 

And  thither  young  and  old  repair. 

This  Sabbath-day,  for  praise  and  prayer. 

Fast  the  church-yard  fills;  — anon 
Look  again,  and  they  all  are  gone; 

The  cluster  round  the  porch,  and  the  folk 
Who  sate  in  the  shade  of  the  Prior’s  Oak !}: 
And  scarcely  have  they  disappeared 
Ere  the  prelusive  hymn  is  heard  ; — 

With  one  consent  the  people  rejoice. 

Filling  the  church  with  a lofty  voice  ! 


* It  is  to  be  regretted  that  at  the  present  day  Bolton  Abbey 
wants  this  ornament ; but  the  Poem,  according  to  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  Poet,  is  composed  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time.  “ For- 
merly,” says  Dr.  Wliitaker,  “over  the  Transept  was  a tower. 
This  is  proved  not  only  from  the  mention  of  bells  at  the  Disso- 
lution, when  they  could  have  had  no  other  place,  but  from  the 
pointed  roof  of  the  choir,  which  must  have  terminated  west- 
ward, in  some  building  of  superior  height  to  the  ridge.” 
t “ The  Nave  of  the  Church  having  been  reserved  at  the  Dis- 
solution. for  the  use  of  the  Saxon  Cure,  is  still  a parochial 
Chapel ; and,  at  this  day,  is  as  well  kept  as  the  neatest  English 
Cathedral.” 

J “ At  a small  distance  from  the  great  gateway  stood  the  Pri- 
or’s Oak,  which  was  felled  about  the  year  1720,  and  sold  for  70Z. 
According  to  the  price  of  wood  at  that  time,  it  could  scarcely 
have  contained  less  than  1400  feet  of  timber.” 

2R 


They  sing  a service  which  they  feel; 

For  ’t  is  the  sunrise  now  of  zea.. 

And  faith  and  liope  are  in  their  prime 
In  great  Eliza’s  golden  time. 

A moment  ends  the  fervent  din. 

And  all  is  hushed,  without  and  within; 

For  though  the  priest,  more  tranquilly. 
Recites  the  holy  liturgy. 

The  only  voice  wliich  you  can  hear 
Is  the  river  murmuring  near. 

— When  soft!  — the  dusky  trees  between. 
And  down  the  path  through  the  open  green, 
Where  is  no  living  thing  to  be  seen; 

And  through  yon  gateway,  where  is  found. 
Beneath  the  arch  with  ivy  bound. 

Free  entrance  to  the  church-yard  ground; 
And  right  across  the  verdant  sod 
Towards  the  very  house  of  God; 

— Comes  gliding  in  with  lovely  gleam. 
Comes  gliding  in  serene  and  slow. 

Soft  and  silent  as  a dream, 

A solitary  Doe! 

White  she  is  as  lily  of  June, 

And  beauteous  as  the  silver  moon 
When  out  of  sight  the  clouds  are  driven 
And  she  is  left  alone  in  heaven ; 

Or  like  a ship  some  gentle  day 
In  sunshine  sailing  far  away, 

A glittering  ship,  that  hath  the  plain 
Of  ocean  for  her  own  domain. 

Lie  silent  in  your  graves,  ye  dead ! 

Lie  quiet  in  your  church-yard  bed ! 

Ye  living,  tend  your  holy  cares; 

Ye  multitude,  pursue  your  prayers  ; 

And  blame  not  me  if  my  heart  and  sight 
Are  occupied  with  one  delight ! 

’T  is  a work  for  sabbath  hours 
If  I with  this  bright  Creature  go : 

Whether  she  be  of  forest  bowers. 

From  the  bowers  of  earth  below ; 

Or  a Spirit,  for  one  day  given, 

A gift  of  grace  from  purest  heaven. 

What  harmonious  pensive  changes 
Wait  upon  her  as  she  ranges 
Round  and  through  this  Pile  of  state. 
Overthrown  and  desolate ! 

Now  a step  or  two  her  way 
Is  through  space  of  open  day. 

Where  the  enamoured  sunny  light 
Brightens  her  that  was  so  bright; 

Now  doth  a delicate  shadow  fall. 

Falls  upon  her  like  a breath. 

From  some  lofty  arch  or  ■wall. 

As  she  passes  underneath; 


830 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  some  gloomy  nook  partakes 
Of  the  glory  that  she  makes, — 
High-ribbed  vault  of  stone,  or  cell 
With  perfect  cunning  framed  as  well 
Of  stone,  and  ivy,  and  the  spread 
Of  the  elder’s  bushy  head ; 

Some  jealous  and  forbidding  cell. 

That  doth  the  living  stars  repel. 

And  where  no  flower  hath  leave  to  dwell. 

The  presence  of  this  wandering  Doe 
Fills  many  a damp  obscure  recess 
With  lustre  of  a saintly  show; 

And,  re-appearing,  she  no  less 
To  the  open  day  gives  blessedness. 

But  say,  among  these  holy  places. 

Which  thus  assiduously  she  paces. 

Comes  she  with  a votary’s  task. 

Rite  to  perform,  or  boon  to  ask  ] 

Fair  Pilgrim  ! harbours  she  a sense 
Of  sorrow,  or  of  reverence! 

Can  she  be  grieved  for  quire  or  shrine. 
Crushed  as  if  by  wrath  divine  1 
For  what  survives  of  house  where  God 
Was  worshipped,  or  where  Man  abode; 
For  old  magnificence  undone; 

Or  for  the  gentler  work  begun 
By  Nature,  softening  and  concealing, 

And  busy  with  a hand  of  healing,  — 

For  altar,  whence  the  cross  was  rent, 

Now  rich  with  mossy  ornament,  — 

Or  dormitory’s  length  laid  bare. 

Where  the  wild  rose  blossoms  fair; 

And  sapling  ash,  whose  place  of  birth 
Is  that  lordly  chamber’s  hearth  1 

— She  sees  a warrior  carved  in  stone. 
Among  the  thick  weeds,  stretched  alone 
A warrior,  with  his  shield  of  pride 
Cleaving  humbly  to  his  side, 

And  hands  in  resignation  prest. 

Palm  to  palm,  on  his  tranquil  breast: 
Methinks  she  passeth  by  the  sight. 

As  a common  creature  might : 

If  she  be  doomed  to  inward  care. 

Or  service,  it  must  lie  elsewhere. 

— But  hers  are  eyes  serenely  bright. 

And  on  she  moves  — with  pace  how  light! 
Nor  spares  to  stoop  her  head,  and  taste 
The  dewy  turf  with  flowers  bestrown ; 

And  thus  she  fares,  until  at  last 
Beside  the  ridge  of  a grassy  grave 
In  quietness  she  lays  her  down ; 

Gently  as  a weary  wave 

Sinks,  when  the  summer  breeze  hath  died, 

Against  an  anchored  vessel’s  side  ; 

Even  so,  without  distress,  doth  she 
Lie  down  in  peace,  and  lovingly. 


The  day  is  placid  in  its  going, 

To  a lingering  motion  bound. 

Like  the  river  in  its  flowing  — 

Can  there  be  a softer  sound  1 
So  the  balmy  minutes  pass, 

While  this  radiant  Creature  lies 
Couched  upon  the  dewy  grass. 

Pensively  with  downcast  eyes. 

— When  now  again  the  people  rear 
A voice  of  praise,  with  awful  cheer  I 
It  is  the  last,  the  parting  song ; 

And  from  the  temple  forth  they  throng  — 
And  quickly  spread  themselves  abroad  — 
While  each  pursues  his  several  road. 

But  some,  a variegated  band. 

Of  middle-aged,  and  old,  and  young. 

And  little  children  by  the  hand 
Upon  their  leading  mothers  hung. 

Turn,  with  obeisance  gladly  paid. 

Towards  the  spot,  where,  full  in  view, 

The  lovely  Doe,  of  whitest  hue. 

Her  sabbath  couch  has  made. 

It  was  a solitary  mound ; 

Which  two  spears’-length  of  level  ground 
Did  from  all  other  graves  divide : 

As  if  in  some  respect  of  pride  ; 

Or  melancholy’s  sickly  mood. 

Still  .shy  of  human  neighbourhood ; 

Or  guilt,  that  humbly  would  e.xpress 
A penitential  loneliness. 

“ Look,  there  she  is,  my  Child ! draw  near ; 
She  fears  not,  wherefore  should  we  fear? 

She  means  no  harm;” — but  still  the  Boy 
To  whom  the  words  were  softly  said. 

Hung  back,  and  smiled,  and  blushed  for  joy, 
A shame-faced  blush  of  glowing  red  ! 

Again  the  Mother  whispered  low, 

“ Now  you  have  seen  the  famous  Doe ; 

From  Rylstone  she  hath  found  her  w’ay 
Over  the  hills  this  sabbath-day  ; 

Her  work,  whale’ er  it  be,  is  done. 

And  she  will  depart  wdien  we  are  gone ; 

Thus  doth  she  keep,  from  year  to  year. 

Her  sabbath  morning,  foul  or  fair.” 

This  whisper  soft  repeats  what  he 
Had  known  from  early  infancy. 

Bright  is  the  Creature  — as  in  dreams 
The  Boy  had  seen  her  — yea,  more  bright ; 
But  is  she  truly  what  she  seems? 

He  asks  with  insecure  delight. 

Asks  of  himself — and  doubts  — and  still 
The  doubt  returns  against  his  will : 

Though  he,  and  all  the  standers-bv, 

Could  tell  a tragic  history 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


331 


Of  facts  divulged,  wherein  appear 
Substantial  motive,  reason  clear, 

Why  thus  the  milk-white  Doe  is  found 
Couchant  beside  that  lonely  mound 
And  why  ohe  duly  loves  to  pace 
The  circuit  of  this  hallowed  place. 

Nor  to  the  Ci.ild's  inquiring  mind 
Is  such  peiplex'ty  confinved  : 

For,  spite  of  sober  truth,  that  sees 
A world  of  fixed  remembrances 
Which  to  this  mystery  beloiig. 

If,  undeceived,  my  ckil!  can  trace 
The  characters  of  every  face, 

There  lack  not  strange  delusion  here, 

Conjecture  vague,  and  idle  fear, 

4nd  superstitious  fancies  strong, 

Which  do  the  gentle  Creature  wrong. 

That  bearded,  staff-supported  Sht, 

;\Vho  in  his  youth  hath  often  fed 
f’nil  cheerily  on  convent  bread. 

And  heard  old  tales  by  the  convent-nrs-. 

And  lately  hath  brought  home  the  soara 
Gathered  in  long  and  distant  wars) 

That  Old  Man  — studious  to  expound 
The  spectacle  — hath  mounted  high 
To  days  of  dim  antiquity  ; 

When  Lady  Aaliza  mourned* 

Her  Son,  and  felt  in  her  despair. 

The  pang  of  unavailing  prayer; 

Her  Son  in  Wharf’s  abysses  drowned. 

The  noble  Boy  of  Egremound. 

From  which  affliction,  when  God’s  gras.' 

At  length  had  in  her  heart  found  place, 

A pious  structure,  fair  to  see. 

Rose  up  — this  stately  Priory  ! 

The  Lady’s  work, — but  now  laid  low; 

To  the  grief  of  her  soul  tliat  doth  come  a-d 
In  the  beautiful  form  of  this  innocent  Doe : 

Which,  though  seemingly  doomed  in  its  breast  U 
sustain 

A softened  remembrance  of  sorrow  and  pain. 

Is  spotless,  and  holy,  and  gentle,  and  bright ; 

And  glides  o’er  the  earth  like  an  angel  of  light. 

Pass,  pass  who  will,  yon  chantry  door  ;f 
And,  through  the  chink  in  the  fractured  floor, 

* The  detail  of  this  tradition  may  be  found  in  Dr.  Whitaker’s 
book,  and  in  a Poem  at  page  412,  of  this  edition,  entitled 
“ The  Force  of  Prayer,”  &c. 

t “ At  the  East  end  of  the  North  aisle  of  Bolton  Priory 
Church,  is  a chantry  belonging  to  Bethmesly  Hall,  and  a vault, 
where,  according  to  tradition,  the  Claphams”  (who  inherited 
this  estate,  by  the  female  line,  from  the  Mauleverers)  “were  in- 
terred upright.”  John  de  Clapham,  of  whom  this  ferocious  act 
is  recorded,  was  a man  of  great  note  in  this  time:  “he  was  a 
vehement  partisan  of  the  bouse  of  Lancaster,  in  whom  the  spirit 
of  its  chieftains,  the  Cliffords,  seemed  to  survive.” 


Look  down,  and  see  a grisly  sight; 

A vault  where  the  bodies  are  buried  upright! 
There,  face  by  face,  and  hand  by  hand. 

The  Claphams  and  Mauleverers  stand ; 

And,  in  his  place,  among  son  and  sire. 

Is  John  de  Clapham,  that  fierce  Esquire, 

A valiant  man,  and  a name  of  dread. 

In  the  rutliless  wars  of  the  White  and  Red ; 

Who  dragged  Earl  Pembroke  from  Banbury  church. 
And  smote  off  his  head  on  the  stones  of  the  porch ! 
Look  down  among  them,  if  you  dare 
Oft  does  tlie  White  Doe  loiter  there. 

Prying  into  the  darksome  rent; 

Nor  can  it  be  with  good  intent : — 

So  thinks  that  Dame  of  haughty  air. 

Who  hath  a Page  her  book  to  hold. 

And  wears  a frontlet  edged  with  gold. 

Well  may  her  thoughts  be  harsh;  for  she 
Numbers  among  her  ancestry 
Earl  Pembroke,  slain  so  impiously  ! 

That  slender  Youth,  a scholar  pale, 

From  Oxford  come  to  his  native  vale, 

He  also  hath  his  own  conceit: 

It  i.s,  thinks  he,  the  gracious  Fairy, 

Who  loved  the  Sliepherd  Lord  to  meet! 

In  his  wanderings  solitary: 

Wild  notes  she  in  his  hearing  sang, 

A song  of  Nature's  liidden  powers; 

That  whistled  like  the  wind,  and  rang 
Among  the  rocks  and  holly  bowers. 

’T  w'as  said  that  she  all  shapes  could  wear; 

And  oftentimes  before  him  stood. 

Amid  the  trees  of  some  thick  wood. 

In  semblance  of  a lady  fair; 

And  taught  him  signs,  and  showed  him  sights, 

In  Craven’s  dens,  on  Cumbrian  heights; 

Whan  under  cloud  of  fear  he  lay, 

A E-hepherd  clad  in  homely  gray, 

Noi  left  him  at  his  later  day. 

And  hence,  when  he,  with  spear  and  shield, 

Kodfi  fui!  cf  years  to  Flodden  field, 

IJis  eye  co:ild  see  the  hidden  spring. 

And  how  the  current  was  to  flow; 

The  fatal  end  of  Scotland’s  King, 

And  all  that  hopeless  overthrow. 

But  not  in  wars  did  he  delight. 

This  Clifford  wished  for  worthier  might; 

Nor  in  broad  pomp,  or  courtly  state ; 

Him  his  own  thougi.ts  did  elev.ate, — 

IMost  happy  in  ths  ohy  recess 
Of  Barden’s  humble  quietness. 

And  choice  of  studious  friends  had  he 
Of  Bolton’s  dear  fraternity  ; 

Who,  standing  on  this  old  church  tower. 

In  many  a calm  propitious  hour. 


t See  Note. 


332 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Perused,  with  him,  the  starry  sky ; 

Or,  in  their  cells,  with  him  did  pry 
For  other  lore,  — through  strong  desire 
Searching  the  earth  with  chemic  fire : 

But  they  and  their  good  works  are  fled  — 
And  all  is  now  disquieted  — 

And  peace  is  none,  for  living  or  dead ! 

Ah,  pensive  Scholar,  think  not  so. 

But  look  again  at  the  radiant  Doc ! 

What  quiet  watch  she  seems  to  keep, 
Alone,  beside  that  grassy  heap ! 

Why  mention  other  thoughts  unmeet 
For  vision  so  composed  and  sweet  1 
While  stand  the  people  in  a ring. 

Gazing,  doubting,  questioning ; 

Yea,  many  overcome  in  spite 
Of  recollections  clear  and  bright ; 

Which  yet  do  unto  some  impart 
An  undisturbed  repose  of  heart. 

And  all  the  assembly  own  a law 
Of  orderly  respect  and  awe 
But  see  — they  vanish  one  by  one. 

And  last,  the  Doe  herself  is  gone. 

Harp!  we  have  been  full  long  beguiled 
By  busy  dreams,  and  fancies  wild ; 

To  which,  with  no  reluctant  strings. 

Thou  hast  attuned  thy  murmurings; 

And  now  before  this  Pile  we  stand 
In  solitude,  and  utter  peace: 

But,  harp!  thy  murmurs  may  not  cease  — 
Thou  hast  breeze-like  visitings; 

For  a Spirit  with  angel-wings 

Hath  touched  thee,  and  a Spirit’s  hand : 

A voice  is  with  us  — a command 
To  chant,  in  strains  of  heavenly  glory, 

A tale  of  tears,  a mortal  story ! 


CANTO  SECOND. 

The  Harp  in  lowliness  obeyed ; 

And  first  we  sang  of  the  green-wood  shade 
And  a solitary  Maid; 

Beginning,  where  the  song  must  end. 

With  her,  and  with  her  sylvan  Friend; 

The  Friend  who  stood  before  her  sight. 

Her  only  unextinguished  light; 

Her  last  companion  in  a dearth 
Of  love,  upon  a hopeless  earth. 

For  she  it  was  — this  Maid,  who  wrought 
Meekly,  with  foreboding  thought. 

In  vermeil  colours  and  in  gold. 

An  unblest  work  ; which,  standing  by, 

Her  Father  did  with  joy  behold,  — 

Exulting  in  the  imagery; 


A Banner,  one  that  did  fulfil 
Too  perfectly  his  headstrong  will: 

For  on  this  Banner  had  her  hand 
Embroidered  (such  was  the  command) 

The  Sacred  Cross;  and  figured  there 
The  five  dear  wounds  our  Lord  did  bear; 

Full  soon  to  be  uplifted  high. 

And  float  in  rueful  company ! 

It  was  the  time  when  England’s  Queen 
Twelve  years  had  reigned,  a Sovereign  dread , 
Nor  yet  the  restless  crown  had  been 
Disturbed  upon  her  virgin  head; 

But  now  the  inly-working  North 
Was  ripe  to  send  its  thousands  forth, 

A potent  vassalage,  to  fight 
In  Percy’s  and  in  Neville’s  right. 

Two  Earls  fast  leagued  in  discontent. 

Who  gave  their  wishes  open  vent; 

And  boldly  urged  a general  plea. 

The  rites  of  ancient  piety 
To  be  triumphantly  restored, 

By  the  dread  justice  of  the  sword ! 

And  that  same  Banner,  on  whose  breast 
The  blameless  Lady  had  exprest 
Memorials  chosen  to  give  life 
And  sunshine  to  a dangerous  strife ; 

That  Banner,  waiting  for  the  call. 

Stood  quietly  in  Rylstone  Hall. 

It  came,  — and  Francis  Norton  said, 

“O  Father!  rise  not  in  this  fray  — 

The  hairs  are  white  upon  your  head; 

Dear  Father,  hear  me  when  I say 
It  is  for  you  too  late  a day ! 

Bethink  you  of  your  own  good  name : 

A just  and  gracious  Queen  have  we, 

A pure  religion,  and  the  claim 
Of  peace  on  our  humanity. 

’T  is  meet  that  I endure  your  scorn,  — 

I am  your  son,  your  eldest  born; 

But  not  for  lordship  or  for  land. 

My  Father,  do  I clasp  your,  knees  — 

The  Banner  touch  not,  stay  your  hand, — 

This  multitude  of  men  disband. 

And  live  at  home  in  blameless  ease; 

For  these  my  brethren’s  sake,  for  me; 

And,  most  of  all,  for  Emily !” 

Loud  noise  w’as  in  the  crowded  hall. 

And  scarcely  could  the  Father  hear 
That  name  — which  had  a dying  fall. 

The  name  of  his  only  Daughter  dear,  — 

And  on  the  banner  which  stood  near 
He  glanced  a look  of  holy  pride. 

And  his  moist  eyes  were  glorified; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION 


333 


Then  seized  the  staff,  and  thus  did  say: 

“ Thou,  Richard,  boar’st  thy  father’s  name, 
Keep  thou  this  ensign  till  the  day 
When  I of  thee  require  the  same: 

Thy  place  be  on  my  better  hand;  — 

Ana  seven  as  true  as  thou,  I see. 

Will  cleave  to  this  good  cause  and  me.” 

He  spake,  and  eight  brave  sons  straightway 
All  followed  him,  a gallant  band! 

Forth  when  Sire  and  Sons  appeared 
A gratulating  shout  was  reared, 

With  din  of  arms  and  minstrelsy, 

From  all  his  warlike  tenantry. 

All  horsed  and  harnessed  with  him  to  ride ; 
— A shout  to  which  the  hills  replied! 

But  Francis,  in  the  vacant  hall. 

Stood  silent  under  dreary  weight,  — 

A phantasm,  in  which  roof  and  wall 
Shook  — tottered  — swam  before  his  sight ; 

A phantasm  like  a dream  of  night! 

Thus  overwhelmed,  and  desolate. 

He  found  his  way  to  a postern-gate; 

And,  when  he  waked  at  length,  his  eye 
Was  on  the  calm  and  silent  sky  ; 

With  air  about  him  breathing  sweet. 

And  earth’s  green  grass  beneath  his  feet; 
Nor  did  he  fail  ere  long  to  hear 
A sound  of  military  cheer. 

Faint  — but  it  reached  that  sheltered  spot ; 
He  heard,  and  it  disturbed  him  not. 

There  stood  he,  leaning  on  a lance 
Which  he  had  grasped  unknowingly,  — 

Had  blindly  grasped  in  that  strong  trance. 
That  dimness  of  heart  agony ; 

There  stood  he,  cleansed  from  the  despair 
And  sorrow  of  his  fruitless  prayer. 

The  past  he  calmly  hath  reviewed  : 

But  where  will  be  the  fortitude 
Of  this  brave  Man,  when  he  shall  see 
That  Form  beneath  the  spreading  tree, 

And  know  that  it  is  Emily  1 

Oh ! hide  them  from  each  other,  hide, 

Kind  Heaven,  this  pair  severely  tried ! 

He  saw  her  where  in  open  view 
She  sate  beneath  the  spreading  yew,  — 

Her  head  upon  her  lap,  concealing 
In  solitude  her  bitter  feeling; 

How  could  he  choose  but  shrink  or  sigh  I 
He  shrunk,  and  muttered  inwardly, 

“ Might  ever  son  command  a sire. 

The  act  were  justified  to-day.” 

This  to  himself — and  to  the  Maid, 

Whom  now  he  had  approached,  he  said, 

— “ Gone  are  they,  — they  have  their  desire ; 
And  I with  thee  one  hour  will  stay. 

To  give  thee  comfort  if  I may.” 


He  paused,  her  silence  to  partake. 

And  long  it  was  before  he  spake : 

Then,  all  at  once,  his  thoughts  turned  round, 
And  fervent  words  a passage  found. 

“ Gone  are  they,  bravely,  though  misied ; 

With  a dear  Father  at  their  head ! 

The  Sons  obey  a natural  lord ; 

The  Father  had  given  solemn  word 

To  noble  Percy,  — and  a force 

Still  stronger,  bends  him  to  his  course. 

This  said,  our  tears  to-day  may  fall 
As  at  an  innocent  funeral. 

In  deep  and  awful  channel  runs 
This  sympathy  of  Sire  and  Sons; 

Untried  our  Brothers  were  beloved. 

And  now  their  faithfulness  is  proved: 

For  faithful  we  must  call  them,  bearing 
That  soul  of  con.scientious  daring. 

— There  were  they  all  in  circle  — there 
Stood  Richard,  Ambrose,  Christopher, 

John  with  a sword  that  will  not  fail. 

And  Marmaduke  in  fearless  mail. 

And  those  bright  Twins  were  side  by  side 
And  there,  by  fresh  hopes  beautified. 

Stood  He,  whose  arm  yet  lacks  the  power 
Of  man,  our  youngest,  fairest  flower! 

I,  by  the  right  of  eldest  born. 

And  in  a second  father’s  place. 

Presumed  to  grapple  with  their  scorn. 

And  meet  their  pity  face  to  face; 

Yea,  trusting  in  God’s  holy  aid, 

I to  my  Father  knelt  and  prayed. 

And  one,  the  pensive  Marmaduke, 

Methought,  was  yielding  inwardly. 

And  would  have  laid  his  purpose  by. 

But  for  a glance  of  his  Father’s  eye, 

W’hich  I myself  could  scarcely  brook. 

Then  be  we,  each,  and  all,  forgiven ! 

Thee,  chiefly  thee,  my  Sister  dear. 

Whose  pangs  are  registered  in  heaven 
The  stifled  sigh,  the  hidden  tear. 

And  smiles,  that  dared  to  take  their  place, 
Meek  filial  smiles,  upon  thy  face, 

As  that  unhallowed  Banner  grew 
Beneath  a loving  old  man’s  view. 

Thy  part  is  done  — thy  painful  part ; 

Be  thou  then  satisfied  in  heart ! 

A further,  though  far  easier,  task 
Than  thine  hath  been,  my  duties  ask; 

With  theirs  my  efforts  cannot  blend, 

I cannot  for  such  cause  contend ; 

Their  aims  I utterly  forswear; 

But  I in  body  will  be  there. 

Unarmed  and  naked  will  I go, 

Be  at  their  side,  come  weal  or  woe: 


334 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


On  kind  occasions  I may  wait, 

See,  hear,  obstruct,  or  mitigate. 

Bare  breast  1 take  and  an  empty  hand.”* — 
Therewith  he  threw  away  the  lance. 

Which  he  had  grasped  in  that  strong  trance. 
Spurned  it  — like  something  that  would  stand 
Between  him  and  the  pure  intent 
Of  love  on  which  his  soul  was  bent. 

“For  thee,  for  thee,  is  left  the  sense 
Of  trial  past  without  offence 
To  God  or  Man;  — such  innocence. 

Such  consolation,  and  the  excess 
Of  an  unmerited  distress; 

In  that  thy  very  strength  must  lie. 

— O Sister,  I could  prophesy  ! 

The  time  is  come  that  rings  the  knell 
Of  all  we  loved,  and  loved  so  well;  — 

Hope  nothing,  if  I thus  may  speak 
To  thee  a woman,  and  thence  weak ; 

Hope  nothing,  I repeat;  for  we 
Are  doomed  to  perish  utterly: 

’Tis  meet  that  thou  with  me  divide 
The  thought  while  I am  by  thy  side. 
Acknowledging  a grace  in  this, 

A comfort  in  the  dark  abyss: 

But  look  not  for  me  when  I am  gone. 

And  be  no  farther  wrought  upon. 

Farewell  all  wishes,  all  debate. 

All  prayers  for  this  cause,  or  for  that! 

Weep,  if  that  aid  thee;  but  depend 
Upon  no  help  of  outward  friend  ; 

Espouse  thy  doom  at  once,  and  cleave 
To  fortitude  without  reprieve. 

For  we  must  fall,  both  we  and  ours, — 

This  Mansion  and  these  pleasant  bower.s. 
Walks,  pools,  and  arbours,  homestead,  hall. 

Our  fate  is  theirs,  will  reach  them  all; 

The  young  Horse  must  forsake  his  manger. 

And  learn  to  glory  in  a Stranger  ; 

The  Hawk  forget  his  perch  — the  Hound 
Be  parted  from  his  ancient  ground : 

The  blast  will  sweep  us  all  away. 

One  desolation,  one  decay ! 

And  even  this  Creature  !”  which  words  saying. 
He  pointed  to  a lovely  Doe, 

A few  steps  distant,  feeding,  straying; 

Fair  Creature,  and  more  white  than  snow ! 
“Even  she  will  to  her  peaceful  woods 
Return,  and  to  her  murmuring  floods. 

And  be  in  heart  and  soul  the  same 
She  was  before  she  hither  came, — 

Ere  she  had  learned  to  love  us  all. 

Herself  beloved  in  Rylstone  Hall. 

— But  thou,  my  Sister,  doomed  to  be 
The  last  leaf  which  by  Heaven’s  decree 
Must  hang  upon  a blasted  tree; 

*See  the  Old  Ballad,  — ‘ The  Rising  of  the  North.” 


If  not  in  vain  we  breathed  the  breath 
Together  of  a purer  faith  — 

If  hand  in  hand  we  have  been  led. 

And  thou,  (O  happy  thought  this  day !) 
Not  seldom  foremost  in  the  way  — 

If  on  one  thought  our  minds  have  fed. 
And  we  have  in  one  meaning  read  — 

If,  when  at  home  our  private  weal 
Hath  suffered  from  the  shock  of  zeal. 
Together  we  have  learned  to  prize 
Forbearance  and  self-sacrifice  — 

If  we  like  combatants  have  fared. 

And  for  this  issue  been  prepared  — 

If  thou  art  beautiful,  and  youth 
And  thought  endue  thee  with  all  truth  — 
Be  strong; — be  worthy  of  the  grace 
Of  God,  and  fill  thy  destined  place  ; 

A Soul,  by  force  of  sorrows  high. 

Uplifted  to  the  purest  sky 
Of  undisturbed  humanity  !” 

He  ended,  — or  she  heard  no  more  ; 

He  led  her  from  the  Yew-tree  shade. 
And  at  the  Mansion’s  silent  door. 

He  kissed  the  consecrated  Maid  ; 

And  down  the  Valley  he  pursued. 

Alone,  the  armed  Multitude. 


CANTO  THIRD. 

Now  joy  for  you  and  sudden  cheer. 

Ye  Watchmen  upon  Brancepeth  Towers  ;t 
Looking  forth  in  doubt  and  fear. 

Telling  melancholy  hours  ! 

Proclaim  it,  let  your  masters  hear 
That  Norton  with  his  Band  is  near ! 

The  Watchmen  from  their  station  high 
Pronounced  the  word,  — and  the  Earls  descry 
Forthwith  the  armed  Company 
Marching  down  the  banks  of  Were. 

Said  fearless  Norton  to  the  Pair 
Gone  forth  to  hail  him  on  the  Plain  — 

“ This  meeting,  noble  Lords ! looks  fair, 

I bring  with  me  a goodly  train ; 

Their  hearts  are  with  you  : — hill  and  dale 
Have  helped  us:  — Ure  we  crossed,  and  Swale, 

And  Horse  and  Harness  followed  — see 
The  best  part  of  their  yeomanry  ! 

— Stand  forth,  my  Sons ! — these  eight  are  mine. 
Whom  to  this  service  I commend; 

Which  way  soe’er  our  fate  incline. 

These  will  be  faithful  to  the  end ; 

They  are  my  all” — voice  failed  him  here, 

“ My  all  save  one,  a Daughter  dear ! 

t Brancepeth  Castle  stands  near  the  river  Were,  a few  miles 
from  the  eily  of  Durham.  It  formerly  belonged  to  the  Nevilles 
Earls  of  Westmoreland.  See  Dr.  Percy’s  account 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


335 


Whom  I have  left,  tlie  mildest  birth, 

Tlie  meekest  Child  on  this  blessed  earth, 

I had  — but  these  are  by  my  side. 

These  Eight,  and  this  is  a day  of  pride ! 
The  time  is  ripe  — with  festive  din 
Lo!  how  the  people  are  flocking  in, — 

Like  hungry  Fowl  to  the  Feeder’s  hand 
When  snow  lies  heavy  upon  the  land.” 

He  spake  bare  truth ; for  far  and  near 
From  every  side  came  noisy  swarms 
Of  Peasants  in  their  homely  gear ; 

And,  mixed  with  these,  to  Brancepeth  came 
Grave  Gentry  of  estate  and  name, 

And  Captains  known  for  wortli  in  arms; 

And  prayed  the  Earls  in  self-defence 
To  rise,  and  prove  their  innocence.  — 
“Rise,  noble  Earls,  put  forth  your  might 
For  holy  Church,  and  the  People’s  right !” 

The  Norton  flxed,  at  this  demand. 

His  eye  upon  Northumberland, 

And  said,  “ The  Minds  of  Men  will  own 
No  loyal  rest  while  England’s  Crown 
Remains  without  an  Heir,  the  bait 
Of  strife  and  factions  desperate  ; 

Who,  paying  deadly  hate  in  kind 
Through  all  things  else,  in  this  can  find 
A mutual  hope,  a common  mind  ; 

And  plot,  and  pant  to  overwhelm 
All  ancient  honour  in  the  realm. 

— Brave  Earls ! to  whose  heroic  veins 
Our  noblest  blood  is  given  in  trust. 

To  you  a suffering  State  complains. 

And  ye  must  raise  her  from  the  dust. 

With  wishes  of  still  bolder  scope 

On  you  we  look,  with  dearest  hope. 

Even  for  our  Altars,  — for  the  prize 
In  Heaven,  of  life  that  never  dies ; 

For  the  old  and  holy  Church  we  mourn. 

And  must  in  joy  to  her  return. 

Behold  !” — and  from  his  Son  whose  stand 
Was  on  his  right,  from  that  guardian  hand 
He  took  the  Banner,  and  unfurled 
The  precious  folds — “behold,”  said  he, 

“ The  ransom  of  a sinful  world  ; 

Let  this  your  preservation  be, — 

The  wounds  of  hands  and  feet  and  side. 

And  the  sacred  Cross  on  which  Jesus  died 

— This  bring  I from  an  ancient  hearth. 
These  Records  wrought  in  pledge  of  love 
By  hands  of  no  ignoble  birth, 

A Maid  o’er  whom  the  blessed  Dove 
Vouchsafed  in  gentleness  to  brood 
While  she  the  holy  work  pursued.” 

“Uplift  the  Standard!”  was  the  cry 
From  all  the  Listeners  that  stood  round. 


“Plant  it, — by  this  we  live  or  die”  — 

The  Norton  ceased  not  for  that  sound. 

But  said,  “ The  prayer  which  ye  have  heard. 

Much  injured  Earls ! by  these  preferred. 

Is  offered  to  tlie  Saints,  the  sigh 
Of  tens  of  thousands,  secretly.” 

“ Uplift  it !”  cried  once  more  the  Band, 

And  then  a thoughtful  pause  ensued. 

“Uplift  it!”  said  Northumberland  — 

Whereat,  from  all  the  multitude. 

Who  saw  the  Banner  reared  on  high 
In  all  its  dread  emblazonry. 

With  tumult  and  indignant  rout 
A voice  of  uttermost  joy  brake  out : 

The  transport  was  rolled  down  the  river  of  Were, 
And  Durham,  the  time-honoured  Durham,  did  hear. 
And  the  Towers  of  Saint  Cuthbert  were  stirred  by 
tlie  shout! 

Now  was  the  North  in  arms : — they  shine 
In  warlike  trim  from  Tweed  to  Tyne, 

At  Percy’s  voice  : and  Neville  sees 
His  Followers  gathering  in  from  Tees, 

From  Were,  and  all  the  little  Rills 
Concealed  among  the  forked  Hills  — 

Seven  Hundred  Knights,  Retainers  all 
Of  Neville,  at  their  Master’s  call 
Had  sate  together  in  Raby  Hall ! 

Such  strength  that  Earldom  held  of  yore ; 

Nor  wanted  at  this  time  rich  store 
Of  well-apjeointed  Chivalry. 

— Not  loth  the  sleepy  lance  to  wield. 

And  greet  thee  old  paternal  shield. 

They  heard  the  summons;  — and,  furthermore. 
Horsemen  and  Foot  of  each  degree. 

Unbound  by  pledge  of  fealty. 

Appeared,  with  free  and  open  hate. 

Of  novelties  in  Church  and  State ; 

Knight,  Burgher,  Yeoman,  and  Esquire; 

And  Romish  Priest,  in  Priest’s  attire. 

And  thus,  in  arms,  a zealous  Band 
Proceeding  under  joint  command. 

To  Durham  first  their  course  they  bear; 

And  in  Saint  Cuthbert’s  ancient  seat 
Sang  Mass,  — and  tore  the  book  of  Prayer,  — 

And  trod  the  Bible  beneath  their  feet. 

Thence  marching  southward  smooth  and  free, 

“They  mustered  their  Host  at  Wetherby, 

Full  sixteen  thousand  fair  to  see;”* 

The  choicest  Warriors  of  the  North  ! 

But  none  for  beauty  and  for  worth 
Like  those  Eight  Sons — embosoming 
Determined  thoughts  — who,  in  a ring, 

Each  with  a lance,  erect  and  tall, 

A falchion,  and  a buckler  small, 

* From  the  old  Ballad. 


836 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Stood  by  their  Sire,  on  ClifFord-moor, 

To  guard  tlie  Standard  which  he  bore. 

— With  feet  that  firmly  pressed  the  ground 
They  stood,  and  girt  their  Father  round ; 
Such  was  his  choice,  — no  Steed  will  he 
Henceforth  bestride ; — triumphantly 

He  stood  upon  the  grassy  sod, 

Trusting  himself  to  the  earth,  and  God. 

Rare  sight  to  embolden  and  inspire ! 

Proud  was  the  field  of  Sons  and  Sire, 

Of  him  tlie  most ; and,  sootli  to  say. 

No  shape  of  Man  in  all  the  array 
So  graced  the  sunshine  of  that  day. 

The  monumental  pomp  of  age 
Was  with  this  goodly  Personage; 

A stature  undepressed  in  size. 

Unbent,  which  rather  seemed  to  rise. 

In  open  victory  o’er  the  weight 
Of  seventy  years,  to  higher  height; 

Magnific  limbs  of  withered  state,  — 

A face  to  fear  and  venerate,  — 

Eyes  dark  and  strong,  and  on  his  head 
Bright  locks  of  silver  hair,  thick-spread. 
Which  a brown  morion  half-concealed. 

Light  as  a hunter’s  of  the  field  ; 

And  thus,  with  girdle  round  his  waist. 
Whereon  the  Banner-staff  might  rest 
At  need,  he  stood,  advancing  high 
The  glittering,  floating  Pageantry. 

Who  sees  him  1 — many  see,  and  One 
With  unparticipated  gaze; 

Who  ’mong  these  thousands  Friend  hath  none. 
And  treads  in  solitary  ways. 

He,  following  wheresoe’er  he  might. 

Hath  watched  the  Banner  from  afar. 

As  Shepherds  watch  a lonely  star. 

Or  Mariners  the  distant  light 
That  guides  them  on  a stormy  night. 

And  now,  upon  a chosen  plot 
Of  rising  ground,  yon  heathy  spot ! 

He  takes,  this  day,  his  far-off  stand. 

With  breast  unmailed,  unweaponed  hand. 

— Bold  is  his  aspect;  but  his  eye 
Is  pregnant  with  an.xiety, 

While,  like  a tutelary  Power, 

He  there  stands  fixed,  from  hour  to  hour: 

Yet  sometimes,  in  more  humble  guise. 
Stretched  out  upon  the  ground  he  lies; 

As  if  it  were  his  only  task 

Like  Herdsman  in  the  sun  to  bask. 

Or  by  his  mantle’s  help  to  find 
A shelter  from  the  nipping  wind : 

And  thus,  with  short  oblivion  blest. 

His  weary  spirits  gather  rest. 

Again  he  lifts  his  eyes;  and  lo! 

The  pageant  glancing  to  and  fro; 

And  hope  is  wakened  by  the  sight. 


He  thence  may  learn,  ere  fall  of  night, 

Which  way  the  tide  is  doomed  to  flow. 

To  London  were  the  Chieftains  bent; 

But  what  avails  the  bold  intent  1 
A Royal  Army  is  gone  forth 
To  quell  the  Rising  of  the  North; 

They  march  with  Dudley  at  their  head. 

And,  in  seven  days’  space,  will  to  York  be  led ! 

Can  such  a mighty  Host  be  raised 
Thus  suddenly,  and  brought  so  near! 

The  Earls  upon  each  other  gazed ; 

And  Neville  was  opprest  with  fear; 

For,  though  he  bore  a valiant  name. 

His  heart  was  of  a timid  frame. 

And  bold  if  both  had  been,  yet  they 
“ Against  so  many  may  not  stay.”* 

And  therefore  will  retreat  to  seize 
A strong  hold  on  the  banks  of  Tees ; 

There  wait  a favourable  hour. 

Until  Lord  Dacre  with  his  power 
From  Naworth  comes;  and  Howard’s  aid 
Be  with  them,  openly  displayed. 

While  through  the  Host,  from  man  to  man, 

A rumour  of  this  purpose  ran. 

The  Standard  giving  to  the  care 
Of  him  who  heretofore  did  bear 
That  charge,  impatient  Norton  sought 
The  Chieftains  to  unfold  his  thought. 

And  thus  abruptly  spake,  — “We  yield 
(And  can  it  be  1)  an  unfought  field ! 

— How  oflen  hath  the  strength  of  heaven 
To  few  triumphantly  been  given ! 

Still  do  our  very  children  boast 
Of  mitred  Thurston,  what  a Host 
He  conquered  If  — Saw  we  not  the  Plain, 

(And  flying  shall  behold  again) 

Where  faith  was  proved  1 — while  to  battle  moved 
The  Standard  on  the  Sacred  Wain 
On  which  the  gray-haired  Barons  stood. 

And  the  infant  Heir  of  Mowbray’s  blood. 

Beneath  the  saintly  ensigns  three, 

Stood  confident  of  victory  ! 

Shall  Percy  blush,  then,  for  his  Name? 

Must  Westmoreland  be  asked  with  shame 
Whose  were  the  numbers,  where  the  loss, 

In  that  other  day  of  Neville’s  Cross  ?J 
When,  as  the  Vision  gave  command. 

The  Prior  of  Durham  with  holy  hand 
Saint  Cuthbert’s  Relic  did  uprear 
Upon  the  point  of  a lofty  spear, 

‘From  the  old  Ballad. 

rSee  the  Historians  for  the  account  of  this  memorable  battle 
usually  denominated  the  Battle  of  the  Standard. 

jSee  Note  17. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


And  God  descended  in  his  power, 

While  the  Monks  prayed  in  Maiden’s  Bower. 
Less  would  not  at  our  need  be  due 
To  us,  who  war  against  the  Untrue ; — 

The  delegates  of  Heaven  we  rise. 

Convoked  the  impious  to  chastise; 

We,  we,  the  sanctities  of  old 
Would  re-establish  and  uphold.”  — 

— The  Chiefs  were  by  his  zeal  confounded. 
But  word  was  given  — and  the  trumpet  sounded; 
Back  through  the  melancholy  Host 

Went  Norton,  and  resumed  his  post. 

Alas!  thought  he,  and  have  I borne 
This  Banner  raised  so  joyfully. 

Tills  hope  of  all  posterity. 

Thus  to  become  at  once  the  scorn 
Of  babbling  winds  as  they  go  by, 

A spot  of  shame  to  the  sun’s  bright  eye. 

To  the  frail  clouds  a mockery  ! 

— “ Even  these  poor  eight  of  mine  would  stem ;” 
Half  to  himself,  and  half  to  them 

He  spake,  “would  stem,  or  quell  a force 
Ten  times  their  number,  man  and  horse; 

This  by  their  own  unaided  might. 

Without  their  father  in  their  sight. 

Without  the  cause  for  which  they  fight; 

A Cause,  which  on  a needful  day 
Would  breed  us  thousands  brave  as  they.” 

— So  speaking,  he  his  reverend  head 
Raised  towards  that  imagery  once  more: 

But  the  familiar  prospect  shed 
Despondency  unfelt  before: 

A shock  of  intimations  vain. 

Dismay,  and  superstitious  pain. 

Fell  on  him,  with  the  sudden  thought 
Of  her  by  whom  the  work  was  wrought:  — 

Oh  wherefore  was  her  countenance  bright 
With  love  divine  and  gentle  light] 

She  did  in  passiveness  obey. 

But  her  Faith  leaned  another  way. 

Ill  tears  she  wept,  — I saw  them  fall, 

I overheard  her  as  she  spake 
Sad  words  to  that  mute  Animal, 

The  White  Doe,  in  the  hawthorn  brake; 

She  steeped,  but  not  for  Jesu’s  sake. 

This  cross  in  tears : — by  her,  and  One 
Unworthier  far,  we  are  undone  — 

Her  Brother  was  it  who  assailed 
Her  tender  spirit  and  prevailed. 

Her  other  Parent,  too,  whose  head 
In  the  cold  grave  hath  long  been  laid. 

From  reason’s  earliest  dawn  beguiled 
The  docile,  unsuspecting  Child: 

Far  back  — far  back  my  mind  must  go 
To  reach  the  well-spring  of  this  woe ! — 

While  thus  he  brooded,  music  sweet 
Was  played  to  cheer  them  in  retreat; 

But  Norton  lingered  in  the  rear: 

2S 


Thought  followed  thought  — and  ere  the  last 
Of  that  unhappy  train  was  past. 

Before  him  Francis  did  appear. 

“Now  when  ’tis  not  your  aim  to  oppose,” 
Said  he,  “ in  open  field  your  Foes ; 

Now  that  from  this  decisive  day 
Your  multitude  must  melt  away. 

An  unarmed  Man  may  come  unblamed  : — 
To  ask  a grace,  that  was  not  claimed 
Long  as  your  hopes  were  high,  he  now 
May  hither  bring  a fearless  brow : 

When  his  discountenance  can  do 
No  injury  — may  come  to  you. 

Though  in  your  cause  no  part  I bear, 

Your  indignation  I can  share; 

Am  grieved  this  backward  march  to  see. 
How  careless  and  disorderly ! 

'I  scorn  your  Chieftains,  men  who  lead, 

And  yet  want  courage  at  their  need ; 

Then  look  at  them  with  open  eyes! 

Deserve  they  further  sacrifice] 

My  Father ! I would  help  to  find 
A place  of  shelter,  till  the  rage 
Of  cruel  men  do  like  the  wind 
Exhaust  itself  and  sink  to  rest: 

Be  Brother  now  to  Brother  joined ! 

Admit  me  in  the  equipage 
Of  your  misfortunes,  that  at  least, 

Whatever  fate  remains  behind, 

I may  bear  witness  in  my  breast 
To  your  nobility  of  mind !” 

“ Thou  Enemy,  ray  bane  and  blight ! 

Oh ! bold  to  fight  the  Coward’s  fight 
Against  all  good”  — but  why  declare, 

At  length,  the  issue  of  this  prayer? 

Or  how,  from  his  depression  raised. 

The  Father  on  his  Son  had  gazed ; 

Suffice  it  that  the  Son  gave  way. 

Nor  strove  that  passion  to  allay. 

Nor  did  he  turn  aside  to  prove 
His  Brothers’  wisdom  or  their  love  — 

But  calmly  from  the  spot  withdrew ; 

The  like  endeavours  to  renew. 

Should  e’er  a kindlier  time  ensue. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

From  cloudless  ether  looking  down. 

The  Moon,  this  tranquil  evening,  sees 
A Camp,  and  a beleaguered  Town, 

And  Castle  like  a stately  crown 
On  the  steep  rocks  of  winding  Tees;  — 
And  southward  far,  with  moors  between. 
Hill-tops,  and  floods,  and  forests  green. 


338 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  briglit  Moon  sees  that  valley  small 
Where  Rylstone’s  old  sequestered  Kail 
A venerable  ima^e  yields 
Of  quiet  to  the  neighbouring  fields; 

While  from  one  pillared  chimney  breathes 
The  smoke,  and  mounts  in  silver  wreaths. 

— The  courts  are  hushed;  — for  timely  sleep 
The  Grey-hounds  to  their  kennel  creep; 

The  Peacock  in  the  broad  ash-tree 

Aloft  is  roosted  for  the  night, 

He  who  in  proud  prosperity 
Of  colours  manifold  and  bright 
Walked  round,  affronting  the  daylight ; 

And  higher  still  above  the  bower. 

Where  he  is  perched,  from  yon  lone  Tower 
The  Hall-clock  in  the  clear  moonshine 
With  glittering  finger  points  at  nine. 

— Ah ! who  could  think  that  sadness  here 
Hath  any  sway  1 or  pain,  or  fearl 

A soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible  by  day ; 

The  garden  pool’s  dark  surface,  stirred 
By  the  night  insects  in  their  play. 

Breaks  into  dimples  small  and  bright; 

A thousand,  thousand  rings  of  light 
Tliat  shape  themselves  and  disappear 
Almost  as  soon  as  seen:  — and  lo ! 

Not  distant  far,  the  milk-white  Doe: 

The  same  fair  Creature  who  was  nigh 
Feeding  in  tranquillity, 

W^hen  Francis  uttered  to  the  Maid 
His  last  words  in  the  yew-tree  shade;  — 

The  same  fair  Creature,  who  hath  found 
Her  way  into  forbidden  ground ; 

Where  now,  within  this  spacious  plot 
For  pleasure  made,  a goodly  spot. 

With  lawns  and  beds  of  flowers,  and  shades 
Of  trellis- work  in  long  arcades. 

And  cirque  and  crescent  framed  by  wall 
Of  close-dipt  foliage  green  and  tall, 
Converging  walks,  and  fountains  gay. 

And  terraces  in  trim  array, — 

Beneath  yon  cypress  spiring  high. 

With  pine  and  cedar  spreading  wide, 

Their  darksome  boughs  on  either  side, 

In  open  moonlight  doth  she  lie ; 

Happy  as  others  of  her  kind. 

That,  far  from  human  neighbourhood. 

Range  unrestricted  as  the  wind. 

Through  park,  or  chase,  or  savage  wood. 

But  where  at  this  still  hour  is  she. 

The  consecrated  Emily? 

Even  while  I speak,  behold  the  Maid 
Emerging  from  the  cedar  shade 
To  open  moonshine,  where  the  Doe 
Beneath  the  cypress-spire  is  laid ; 

Like  a patch  of  April  snow. 


Upon  a bed  of  herbage  green, 
Lingering  in  a woody  glade, 

Or  behind  a rocky  screen ; 

Lonely  relic  ! which,  if  seen 
By  the  Shepherd,  is  passed  by 
With  an  inattentive  eye. 

— Nor  more  regard  doth  she  bestow 
Upon  the  uncomplaining  Doe ! 


I 


Yet  the  meek  Creature  was  not  free, 
Erewhile,  from  some  perplexity : 

For  thrice  hath  she  approached,  this  day 
The  thought-bewildered  Emilv ; 
Endeavouring,  in  her  gentle  way, 

Some  smile  or  look  of  love  to  gain, — 
Encouragement  to  sport  or  play; 

Attempts  which  by  the  unhappy  Maid 
Have  all  been  slighted  or  gainsaid. 

Yet  is  she  soothed  : the  viewless  breeze 
Comes  fraught  with  kindlier  sympathies: 
Ere  she  had  reached  yon  rustic  Shed 
Hung  with  late-flowering  woodbine,  spread 
Along  the  walls  and  overhead ; 

The  fragrance  of  the  breathing  flowers 
Revives  a memory  of  those  hours 
When  here,  in  this  remote  Alcove, 

(While  from  the  pendent  woodbine  came 
Like  odours,  sweet  as  if  the  same) 

A fondly-anxious  Mother  strove 
To  teach  her  salutary  fears 
And  mysteries  above  her  years. 

— Yes,  she  is  soothed: — an  image  faint  — 
And  yet  not  faint  — a presence  bright 
Returns  to  her ; — ’t  is  that  blest  Saint 
Who  with  mild  looks  and  language  mild 
Instructed  here  her  darling  Child, 

While  yet  a prattler  on  the  knee. 

To  worship  in  simplicity 

The  invisible  God,  and  take  for  guide 

The  faith  reformed  and  purified. 


’T  is  flown  — the  vision,  and  the  sense 
Of  that  beguiling  influence! 

“ But  oh ! thou  Angel  from  above. 

Thou  Spirit  of  maternal  love. 

That  stood’st  before  my  eyes,  more  deaf 
Than  Ghosts  are  fabled  to  appear 
Sent  upon  embassies  of  fear; 

As  thou  thy  presence  hast  to  me 
Vouchsafed,  in  radiant  ministry 
Descend  on  Francis:  — through  the  air 
Of  this  sad  earth  to  him  repair. 

Speak  to  him  with  a voice,  and  say, 
j ‘ That  he  must  cast  despair  away  !’  ” 

I Then  from  within  the  embowered  retreat 
i Where  she  had  found  a grateful  seat. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3.^9 


Perturbed  she  issues.  — She  will  go ; 

Herself  will  follow  to  the  war, 

And  clasp  her  father’s  knees  ; — aJi,  no ! 

She  meets  the  insuperable  bar, 

The  injunction  by  her  Brother  laid ; 

Ilis  parting  charge  — but  ill  obeyed  ! 

That  interdicted  all  debate, 

All  prayer  for  this  cause  or  for  that; 

All  efforts  that  would  turn  aside 
The  headstrong  current  of  their  fate : 

Her  duty  is  to  stand  and  wait ; 

In  resignation  to  abide 

The  shock,  and  finally  secure 

O’er  pain  and  grief  a triumph  pure. 

— She  knows,  she  feels  it,  and  is  cheered; 
At  least  her  present  pangs  are  checked. 

— But  now  an  ancient  Man  appe.ared. 
Approaching  her  with  grave  respect. 

Dowr  the  smooth  walk  which  then  she  trod 
He  paced  along  the  silent  sod. 

And  greeting  her  thus  gently  spake, 

“ An  old  Man’s  privilege  I take ; 

Dark  is  che  time  — a woeful  day ! 

Dear  daughter  of  affliction,  say 
How  can  I serve  you ! point  the  way.” 

“ Rights  have  you,  and  may  well  be  bold : 
You  with  my  Father  have  grown  old 
In  friendship;  — go  — from  him  — from  me  — 
Strive  to  avert  this  misery, 

This  would  I beg;  but  on  my  mind 
A passive  stillness  is  enjoined. 

— If  prudence  offer  help  or  aid. 

On  you  is  no  restriction  laid; 

You  not  forbidden  to  recline 
With  hope  upon  the  Will  divine.” 

“Hope,”  said  the  Sufferer’s  zealous  Friend, 
“Must  not  forsake  us  till  the  end. — 

In  Craven’s  wilds  is  many  a den. 

To  shelter  persecuted  men: 

Far  under  ground  is  many  a cave. 

Where  they  might  lie  as  in  the  grave. 

Until  this  storm  hath  ceased  to  rave; 

Or  let  them  cross  the  river  Tweed, 

And  be  at  once  from  peril  freed !” 

— “Ah  tempt  me  not!”  she  faintly  sighed; 
“1  will  not  counsel  nor  exhort, — 

With  my  condition  satisfied; 

But  you,  at  least,  may  make  report 
Of  what  befalls; — be  this  your  task  — 

This  may  be  done; — ’tis  all  I ask!” 

She  spake  — and  from  the  Lady’s  sight 
The  Sire,  unconscious  of  his  age. 


Departed  promptly  as  a Page 
Bound  on  some  errand  of  delight. 

— The  noble  Francis  — wise  as  brave. 

Thought  he,  may  have  the  skill  to  save : 

With  hopes  in  tenderness  concealed. 

Unarmed  he  followed  to  the  field. 

Him  will  I seek:  the  insurgent  Powers 
Are  now  besieging  Barnard’s  Towers,  — 

“Grant  that  the  Moon  which  shines  this  night 
May  guide  them  in  a prudent  lligiit !” 

But  quick  the  turns  of  chance  and  change. 

And  knowledge  has  a narrow  range; 

Whence  idle  fears,  and  needless  pain. 

And  wishes  blind,  and  efforts  vain.  — 

Their  flight  the  fair  Moon  may  not  see; 

For,  from  mid-heaven,  already  she 
Hath  witnessed  their  captivity. 

She  saw  the  desperate  assault 
Upon  that  hostile  castle  made;  — 

But  dark  and  dismal  is  the  Vault 
Where  Norton  and  his  sons  are  laid ! 

Disastrous  issue!  — he  had  said, 

“This  night  yon  haughty  Towers  must  yield. 

Or  we  for  ever  quit  the  field. 

— Neville  is  utterly  dismayed. 

For  promise  fails  of  Howard’s  aid ; 

And  Dacre  to  our  call  replies 
That  he  is  unprepared  to  rise. 

My  heart  is  sick;  — this  weary  pause 
Must  needs  be  fatal  to  the  cause. 

The  breach  is  open  — on  the  Wall, 

This  night,  the  Banner  shall  be  planted !” 

— ’T  was  done  — his  Sons  were  with  him  — all;—" 
They  belt  him  round  with  hearts  undaunted 
And  others  follow ; — Sire  and  Son 
Leap  down  into  the  court  — “ ’T  is  won” 

They  shout  aloud  — but  Heaven  decreed 
Another  close 
To  that  brave  deed 

Which  struck  with  terror  friends  and  foes! 

The  friend  shrinks  back  — the  foe  recoils 
From  Norton  and  his  filial  band ; 

But  they,  now  caught  within  the  toils. 

Against  a thousand  cannot  stand ; — 

The  foe  from  numbers  courage  drew. 

And  overpowered  that  gallant  few. 

“ A rescue  for  the  Standard  !”  cried 
The  Father  from  within  the  walls : 

But,  see,  the  sacred  Standard  falls!  — 

Confusion  through  the  Camp  spread  wide; 

Some  fled  — and  some  their  fears  detained* 

But  ere  the  Moon  had  sunk  to  rest 
In  her  pale  chambers  of  the  West, 

Of  that  rash  levy  nought  remained 


840 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 

High  on  a point  of  rugged  ground 
Among  the  wastes  of  Rylstone  Fell, 

Above  the  loftiest  ridge  or  mound 
Where  Foresters  or  Shepherds  dwell, 

An  Edifice  of  warlike  frame 

Stands  single  (Norton  Tower  its  name)  ;* 

It  fronts  all  quarters,  and  looks  round 
O’er  path  and  road,  and  plain  and  dell. 

Dark  moor,  and  gleam  of  pool  and  stream, 
Upon  a prospect  without  bound. 

The  summit  of  this  bold  ascent, 

Though  bleak  and  bare,  and  seldom  free 
As  Pendle-hill  or  Pennygent 
From  wind,  or  frost,  or  vapours  wet. 

Had  often  heard  the  sound  of  glee 
When  there  the,  youthful  Nortons  met, 

To  practise  games  and  archery: 

How  proud  and  happy  they ! the  crowd 
Of  Lookers-on  how  pleased  and  proud ! 

And  from  the  scorching  noon-tide  sun, 

From  showers,  or  when  the  prize  was  won, 
They  to  the  Watch-tower  did  repair. 
Commodious  Pleasure-house ! and  there 
Would  mirth  run  round,  with  generous  fare ; 
And  the  stern  old  Lord  of  Rylstone-hall, 

He  was  the  proudest  of  them  all ! 


She  turned  to  him,  who  with  his  eye 
Was  watching  her  while  on  the  height 
She  sate,  or  wandered  restlessly, 
O’erburthened  by  her  sorrow’s  weight ; 

To  him  who  this  dire  news  had  told 
And  now  beside  the  Mourner  stood ; 

(That  gray-haired  Man  of  gentle  blood. 
Who  with  her  Father  had  grown  old 
In  friendship,  rival  Hunters  they. 

And  fellow  Warriors  in  their  day) 

To  Rylstone  he  the  tidings  brought; 

Then  on  this  place  the  Maid  had  sought: 
And  told,  as  gently  as  could  be. 

The-  end  of  that  sad  Tragedy, 

Which  it  had  been  his  lot  to  see. 

To  him  the  Lady  turned  ; “ You  said 
That  Francis  lives,  he  is  not  deadl” 

“ Your  noble  Brother  hath  been  spared. 

To  take  his  life  they  had  not  dared; 

On  him  and  on  his  high  endeavour 
The  light  of  praise  shall  shine  for  ever! 
Nor  did  he  (such  Heaven’s  will)  in  vain 
His  solitary  course  maintain: 

Not  vainly  struggled  in  the  might 
Of  duty,  seeing  with  clear  sight; 

He  was  their  comfort  to  the  last, 

Their  joy  till  every  pang  was  past. 


But  now,  his  Child,  with  anguish  pale. 
Upon  the  height  walks  to  and  fro; 

’T  is  well  that  she  hath  heard  the  tale. 
Received  the  bitterness  of  woe: 

For  she  had  hoped,  had  hoped  and  feared. 
Such  rights  did  feeble  nature  claim ; 

And  oft  her  steps  had  hither  steered. 
Though  not  unconscious  of  self-blame; 

For  she  her  brother’s  charge  revered. 

His  farewell  words;  and  by  the  same. 
Yea,  by  her  brother’s  very  name. 

Had,  in  her  solitude,  been  cheered. 


* It  is  so  called  to  this  day,  and  is  thus  described  by  Dr.  Whit-  ] 
aker:  — “Rylstone  Fell  yet  exhibits  a monument  of  the  old 
warfare  between  the  Nortons  and  Cliffords.  On  a point  of 
very  high  ground,  commanding  an  immense  prospect,  and  pro- 
tected by  two  deep  ravines,  are  the  remains  of  a square  tower, 
expressly  said  by  Dodsworth  to  have  been  built  by  Richard 
Norton.  The  walls  are  of  strong  grout-work,  alx)ut  four  feet 
thick.  It  seems  to  have  been  three  stories  high.  Breaches  have 
been  industriously  made  in  all  the  sides,  almost  to  the  ground, 
to  render  it  untenable. 

“But  Norton  Tower  was  probably  a sort  of  pleasure-house 
in  summer,  as  there  are,  adjoining  to  it,  several  large  mounds, 
two  of  them  are  pretty  entire.)  of  which  no  other  account 
can  be  given  than  that  they  were  butts  for  large  companies  of 
archers. 

“ The  place  is  savagely  wild,  and  admirably  adapted  to  the 
uses  of  a watch-tower.”  I 


“I  witnessed  when  to  York  they  came  — 
What,  Lady,  if  their  feet  were  tied ; 

They  might  deserve  a good  Man’s  blame ; 
But,  marks  of  infamy  and  shame. 

These  were  their  triumph,  these  their  pride 
Nor  wanted  ’mid  the  pressing  crowd 
Deep  feeling,  that  found  utterance  loud, 

‘ Lo,  Francis  comes,’  there  were  who  cried, 
‘ A Prisoner  once,  but  now  set  free  ! 

’T  is  well,  for  he  the  worst  defied 
For  sake  of  natural  Piety; 

He  rose  not  in  this  quarrel,  he 
His  Father  and  his  Brothers  wooed. 

Both  for  their  own  and  Country’s  good, 

To  rest  in  peace  — he  did  divide 
He  parted  from  them ; but  at  their  side 
Now  walks  in  unanimity  — 

Then  peace  to  cruelty  and  scorn. 

While  to  the  prison  they  are  borne. 

Peace,  peace  to  all  indignity !’ 

“And  so  in  Prison  were  they  laid 
Oh  hear  me,  hear  me,  gentle  Maid, 

For  I am  come  with  power  to  bless. 

By  scattering  gleams,  through  your  distress. 
Of  a redeeming  liappiness. 

Me  did  a reverent  pity  move 
And  privilege  of  ancient  love; 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


341 


And,  in  your  service,  I made  bold  — 

And  entrance  gained  to  that  strong-hold. 

“Your  Father  gave  me  cordial  greeting; 
But  to  his  purposes,  that  burned 
Within  him,  instantly  returned  — 
lie  was  commanding  and  entreating. 

And  said,  ‘We  need  not  slop,  my  Son! 
But  1 will  end  what  is  begun ; 

’T  is  matter  which  I do  not  fear 
To  entrust  to  any  living  ear.’ 

And  so  to  Francis  he  renewed 
His  words,  more  calmly  thus  pursued. 

“ ‘ Might  this  our  enterprise  have  sped, 
Change  wide  and  deep  the  Land  had  seen, 
A renovation  from  the  dead, 

A spring-tide  of  immortal  green ; 

The  darksome  Altars  would  have  blazed 
Like  stars  when  clouds  are  rolled  away  ; 
Salvation  to  all  eyes  that  gazed. 

Once  more  the  Rood  had  been  upraised 
To  spread  its  arms,  and  stand  for  aye. 
Then,  then,  had  I survived  to  see 
New  life  in  Bolton  Priory; 

The  voice  restored,  the  eye  of  Truth 
Re-opened  that  inspired  my  youth ; 

To  see  her  in  her  pomp  arrayed; 

This  Banner  (for  such  vow  I made) 

Should  on  the  consecrated  breast 
Of  that  same  Temple  have  found  rest: 

[ would  myself  have  hung  it  high. 

Glad  offering  of  glad  victory  ! 

‘A  shadow  of  such  thought  remains 
To  cheer  this  sad  and  pensive  Time; 

A solemn  fancy  yet  sustains 
One  feeble  Being  — bids  me  climb 
Even  to  the  last — one  effort  more 
To  attest  my  Faith,  if  not  restore. 

“ ‘ Hear  then,”  said  he,  ‘ while  I impart. 
My  Sou,  the  last  wish  of  my  heart. 

— The  Banner  strive  thou  to  regain; 

And,  if  the  endeavour  be  not  vain. 

Bear  it  — to  whom  if  not  to  thee 
Shall  I this  lonely  thought  consign  ? — 
Bear  it  to  Bolton  Priory, 

And  lay  it  on  Saint  Mary’s  shrine, — 

To  wither  in  the  sun  and  breeze 
’Mid  those  decaying  Sanctities. 

There  let  at  least  the  gift  be  laid. 

The  testimony  there  displayed; 

Bold  proof  that  with  no  selfish  aim. 

But  for  lost  Faith  and  Christ’s  dear  name, 

I helmeted  a brow  though  white. 

And  took  a place  in  all  men’s  sight; 

Yea  offered  up  this  beauteous  Brood 
Phis  fair  unrivalled  Brotherhood, 


I And  turned  away  from  thee,  my  Son ! 

And  left— ^ but  be  the  re.^^t  unsaid, 

I The  name  untouched,  the  tear  unshed,  — 

1 My  wish  is  known,  and  I have  done: 

I Now  promise,  grant  this  one  request, 
j This  dying  prayer,  and  be  thou  blest  I” 

I “ Then  Francis  answered  fervently, 
j ‘ If  God  so  will,  the  same  shall  be.’ 

j “ Immediately,  this  solemn  word 
I’hus  scarcely  given,  a noise  was  heard. 
And  Officers  appeared  in  state 
To  lead  the  Prisoners  to  their  fate. 

They  rose,  oh!  wherefore  should  I fear 
To  tell,  or.  Lady,  you  to  hearl 
They  rose  — embraces  none  were  given  — 
They  stood  like  trees  when  eartli  and  heaven 
Are  calm ; they  knew  each  other’s  worth. 
And  reverently  the  Band  went  forth : 

They  met,  w’hen  they  had  reached  the  door. 
The  Banner,  which  a Soldier  bore. 

One  marshalled  thus  with  base  intent 
That  he  in  scorn  might  go  before. 

And,  holding  up  this  monument. 

Conduct  them  to  their  punishment ; 

So  cruel  Sussex,  unrestrained 
By  human  feeling,  had  ordained, 
j The  unhappy  Banner  Francis  saw. 

And,  with  a look  of  calm  command 

Inspiring  universal  awe 

lie  took  it  from  the  Soldier’s  hand; 

And  all  the  people  that  were  round 
Confirmed  the  deed  in  peace  profound. 

— High  transport  did  the  Father  shed 
Upon  his  Son  — and  they  were  led. 

Led  on,  and  yielded  up  their  breath. 
Together  died,  a happy  death  ! 

But  Francis,  soon  as  he  had  braved 
This  insult,  and  the  Banner  saved. 

That  moment,  from  among  the  tide 
Of  the  spectators  occupied 
In  admiration  or  dismay. 

Bore  unobserved  his  Charge  away.” 

These  things,  which  thus  had  in  the  sight 
And  hearing  passed  of  him  who  stood 
With  Emily,  on  the  Watch-tower  height. 

In  Rylstone’s  woeful  neighbourhood. 

He  told  ; and  oftentimes  with  voice 
Of  power  to  comfort  or  rejoice  ; 

For  deepest  sorrows  that  aspire. 

Go  high,  no  transport  ever  higher. 

“ Yet,  yet  in  this  affliction,”  said 
The  old  Man  to  the  silent  Maid, 

“Yet,  Lady!  heaven  is  good — the  night 
Shows  yet  a Star  which  is  most  bright ; 
Your  Brother  lives  — he  lives  — is  come 
Perhaps  already  to  his  home  ; 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


C42 

Then  let  us  leave  this  dreary  place. 
She  yielded,  and  with  gentle  pace, 
Though  without  one  uplifted  look. 

To  Rylstone-hall  her  way  she  took.  — 


CANTO  SIXTH. 

Why  comes  not  Francis  1 — Joyful  cheer 
In  that  parental  gratulation. 

And  glow  of  righteous  indignation. 

Went  with  him  from  the  doleful  City : 

He  fled  — yet  in  his  fliglit  could  hear 
The  death-sound  of  the  Minster-bell ; 

That  sullen  stroke  pronounced  farewell 
To  Marmaduke,  cut  off  from  pity  ! 

To  Ambrose  that!  and  then  a knell 
For  him,  the  sweet  half-opened  Flower ! 

For  all  — all  dying  in  one  hour  ! 

— Why  comes  not  Francis!  Thoughts  of  love 
Should  bear  him  to  his  Sister  dear 
With  motion  fleet  as  winged  Dove  ; 

Yea,  like  a heavenly  Messenger, 

An  Angel-guest,  should  he  appear. 

Why  comes  he  not ! — for  westward  fast 
Along  the  plain  of  York  he  past ; 

The  Banner-staff  was  in  his  hand. 

The  Imagery  concealed  from  sight. 

And  cross  the  expanse,  in  open  flight. 
Reckless  of  what  impels  or  leads. 

Unchecked  he  hurries  on;  — nor  heeds 
The  sorrow  through  the  Villages, 

Spread  by  triumphant  cruelties 
Of  vengeful  military  force, 

And  punishment  without  remorse. 

He  marked  not,  heard  not  as  he  fled ; 

All  but  the  suffering  heart  was  dead, 

For  him  abandoned  to  blank  awe. 

To  vacancy,  and  horror  strong: 

And  the  first  object  which  ho  saw, 

W^ith  conscious  sight,  as  he  swept  along, — 
It  was  the  banner  in  his  hand ! 

He  felt,  and  made  a sudden  stand. 

He  looked  about  like  one  betrajmd : 

W'hat  hath  he  done  1 what  promise  made  ! 
Oh  weak,  weak  moment ! to  what  end 
Can  such  a vain  oblation  tend. 

And  he  the  Bearer! — Can  he  go 
Carrying  this  instrument  of  woe. 

And  find,  find  any  where,  a right 
To  excuse  him  in  his  Country’s  sight? 

No,  will  not  all  Men  deem  the  change 
A downward  cour.«e,  perverse  and  strange! 
Here  is  it,  — but  how,  when!  must  she, 

The  unoffending  Emily, 

Again  this  piteous  object  see! 


Such  conflict  long  did  he  maintain 
Within  himself,  and  found  no  rest; 

Calm  liberty  he  could  not  gain  ; 

And  yet  the  service  was  unblest. 

His  own  life  into  danger  brought 
By  this  sad  burden  — even  that  thought, 

Exciting  self-suspicion  strong. 

Swayed  the  brave  man  to  his  wTong. 

And  how,  unless  it  were  the  sense 
Of  all-disposing  Providence, 

Its  will  intelligibly  shown. 

Finds  he  the  banner  in  his  hand, 

Without  a thought  to  such  intent, 

Or  conscious  effort  of  his  own  ; 

And  no  obstruction  to  prevent. 

His  Father’s  wish,  and  last  command* 

And,  thus  beset,  he  heaved  a sigh  ; 
Remembering  his  own  prophecy 
Of  utter  desolation,  made 
To  Emily  in  the  yew-tree  shade  : 

He  sighed,  submitting  to  the  pow’er, 

The  might  of  that  prophetic  hour. 

“ No  choice  is  left,  the  deed  is  mine  — 

Dead  are  they,  dead  ! — And  I will  go. 

And,  for  their  sakes,  come  weal  or  woe. 

Will  lay  the  Relic  on  the  shrine.” 

So  forward  with  a steady  will 
He  went,  and  traversed  plain  and  hill ; 

And  up  the  vale  of  Wharf  his  way 
Pursued  ; — and,  on  the  second  day, 

He  reached  a summit  whence  his  eyes 
Could  see  the  Tower  of  Bolton  rise. 

There  Francis  for  a moment’s  space 
Made  halt  — but  hark!  a noise  behind 
Of  horsemen  at  an  eager  pace  ! 

He  heard,  and  with  misgiving  mind. 

’T  is  Sir  George  Bowes  who  leads  the  Band : 

They  come,  by  cruel  Sussex  sent; 

Who,  when  the  Nortons  from  the  hand 
Of  Death  had  drunk  their  punishment. 
Bethought  him,  angry  and  ashamed, 

How  Francis  had  the  Banner  claimed. 

And  with  that  charge  had  disappeared ; 

By  all  the  standers-by  revered. 

His  whole  bold  carriage  (wdiich  had  quelled 
Thus  far  the  Opposer,  and  repelled 
All  censure,  enterprise  so  bright 
That  even  bad  men  had  vainly  striven 
Against  that  overcoming  light) 

Was  then  reviewed,  and  prompt  word  given, 
That  to  what  place  soever  fled 
He  should  be  seized,  alive  or  dead. 

The  troop  of  horse  have  gained  the  ncight 
Where  Francis  stood  in  open  sight. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


?>4fj 


Tliey  hem  liim  round  — “Behold  the  proof, 
Behold  tlie  Ensign  in  his  hand  ! 

He  did  not  arm,  he  walked  aloof! 

For  why? — to  save  his  Father’s  Land;  — 
Worst  Traitor  of  tliem  all  is  he, 

A Traitor  dark  and  cowardly !” — 


Two  days,  as  many  nights,  he  slept 
Alone,  unnoticed,  and  unwept; 

For  at  that  time  distress  and  fear 
Possessed  the  Country  far  and  near; 

The  third  day.  One,  who  chanced  to  pass. 
Beheld  him  stretched  upon  the  grass. 

A gentle  Forester  was  he, 

And  of  the  Norton  Tenantry; 

And  he  had  heard  that  by  a Train 
Of  Horsemen  Francis  had  been  slain. 
Much  was  he  troubled  — for  the  Man 
Hath  recognized  his  pallid  face; 

And  to  the  nearest  Huts  he  ran. 

And  called  the  People  to  the  place. 

— How  desolate  is  Rylstone-hall ! 

Such  was  the  instant  thought  of  all ; 

And  if  the  lonely  Lady  there 
Should  be,  this  sight  she  cannot  bear! 
Such  thought  the  Forester  expressed ; 

And  all  were  swayed,  and  deemed  it  best 


That,  if  the  Priest  should  yield  assent 
And  join  himself  to  their  intent, 

Then,  they,  for  Christian  pity’s  sake, 

In  holy  ground  a grave  would  make ; 

That  straightway  buried  he  should  be 
In  the  Church-yard  of  the  Priory. 

Apart,  some  little  space,  was  made 
The  grave  where  Francis  must  be  laid. 

In  no  confusion  or  neglect 

This  did  they, — but  in  pure  respect 

That  he  was  born  of  gentle  Blood ; 

And  that  there  was  no  neighbourhood 
Of  kindred  for  him  in  that  ground : 

So  to  the  Churchyard  they  are  bound. 
Bearing  the  Body  on  a bier 
In  decency  and  humble  cheer 
And  psalms  are  sung  with  holy  sound. 

But  Emily  hath  raised  her  head. 

And  is  again  disquieted ; 

She  must  behold! — so  many  gone, 

Where  is  the  solitary  One  ? 

And  forth  from  Rylstone-hall  stepped  she,  — 
To  seek  her  Brother  forth  she  went. 

And  tremblingly  her  course  she  bent 
Tow’rd  Bolton’s  ruined  Priory. 

She  comes,  and  in  the  Vale  hath  heard 
The  Funeral  dirge; — she  sees  the  knot 
Of  people,  sees  them  in  one  spot  — 

And  darting  like  a wounded  Bird 

She  reached  the  grave,  and  with  her  breast 

Upon  the  ground  received  the  rest, — 

The  consummation,  the  whole  ruth 
And  sorrow  of  this  final  truth ! 


CANTO  SEVENTH. 

Thoc  Spirit,  whose  angelic  hand 
Was  to  the  Harp  a strong  command, 
Called  the  submissive  strings  to  wake 
In  glory  for  this  Maiden’s  sake. 

Say,  Spirit!  whither  hath  she  fled 
To  hide  her  poor  afflicted  head  ? 

What  mighty  forest  in  its  gloom 
Enfolds  her ! — is  a rifted  tomb 
Within  the  Wilderness  her  seat  1 
Some  island  which  tlie  wild  waves  beat 
Is  that  tlie  Sufferer’s  last  retreat? 

Or  some  aspiring  rock,  that  shrouds 
Its  perilous  front  in  mists  and  clouds? 
High-climbing  rock  — low  sunless  dale  — 
Sea  — desert  — what  do  these  avail? 

Oh  take  her  anguish  and  her  fears 
Into  a deep  recess  of  years! 


“I  am  no  Traitor,”  Francis  said, 

“Though  this  unhappy  freight  I bear; 

It  weakens  me,  my  heart  hath  bled 
Till  it  is  weak  — but  you,  beware. 

Nor  do  a suffering  Spirit  wrong. 

Whose  self-reproaches  are  too  strong !” 

At  this  he  from  the  beaten  road 
Retreated  tow’rds  a brake  of  thorn. 

Which  like  a place  of  ’vantage  showed ; 

And  there  stood  bravely  though  forlorn. 

In  self-defence  with  warlike  brow 
He  stood,  — nor  weaponless  was  now; 

He  from  a Soldier’s  hand  had  snatched 
A spear,  — and  with  his  eyes  he  watched 
Their  motions,  turning  round  and  round:  — 

His  weaker  hand  the  Banner  held; 

And  straight,  by  savage  zeal  impelled. 

Forth  rushed  a Pikeman,  as  if  he. 

Not  without  harsh  indignity, 

Would  seize  the  same:  — instinctively  — 

To  smite  the  Offender  — with  his  lance 
Did  Francis  from  the  brake  advance; 

But,  from  behind,  a treacherous  wound 
Unfeeling  brought  him  to  the  ground, 

A mortal  stroke:  — oh  grief  to  tell! 

Thus,  thus,  the  noble  Francis  fell: 

There  did  he  lie  of  breath  forsaken ; 

The  Banner  from  his  grasp  was  taken. 

And  borne  exultingly  away; 

And  the  Body  was  left  on  the  ground  where  it  lay. 


344 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


’T  is  done; — despoil  and  desolation 
O’er  Rylstone’s  fair  domain  have  blown  *; 

The  walks  and  pools  neglect  hath  sown 
With  weeds;  the  bowers  are  overthrown. 

Or  liave  given  way  to  slow  mutation, 

While,  in  their  ancient  habitation 
The  Norton  name  hath  been  unknown. 

The  lordly  Mansion  of  its  pride 
Is  stripped ; tlie  ravage  hath  spread  wide 
Through  park  and  held,  a perishing 
That  mocks  the  gladness  of  the  Spring! 

And  with  this  silent  gloom  agreeing 
There  is  a joyless  human  Being, 

Of  aspect  such  as  if  the  waste 
Were  under  her  dominion  placed: 

Upon  a primrose  bank,  her  throne 
Of  quietness,  she  sits  alone; 

There  seated,  may  tliis  Maid  be  seen. 

Among  the  ruins  of  a wood, 

Erewhile  a covert  briglit  and  green, 

And  where  fall  many  a brave  Tree  stood. 
That  used  to  spread  its  boughs,  and  ring 
With  the  sweet  Bird’s  carolling. 

Behold  her,  like  a Virgin  Queen, 

Neglecting  in  imperial  state 
These  outward  images  of  fate. 

And  carrying  inward  a serene 
-\nd  perfect  sway,  through  many  a thought 
Of  chance  and  change,  that  hath  been  brought 
To  the  subjection  of  a holy. 

Though  stern  and  rigorous,  melancholy  ! 

The  like  authority,  with  grace 
Of  awfulness,  is  in  her  face,  — 

There  bath  she  fixed  it;  yet  it  seems 
To  o’ershadow  by  no  native  right 
That  face,  which  cannot  lose  the  gleams. 

Lose  utterly  the  tender  gleams 
Of  gentleness  and  meek  delight. 

And  loving-kindness  ever  bright : 


* After  the  attainder  of  Richard  Norton,  his  estates  were  for- 
feited to  the  crown,  where  they  remained  till  the  2d  or  3d  of 
James;  they  were  then  granted  to  Francis,  Earl  of  Cumber- 
land.” From  an  accurate  survey  made  at  that  time,  several 
particulars  have  been  extracteil  by  Dr.  \V.  It  appears  that  the 
mansion-house  was  then  in  decay.  Immediately  adjoining  is  a 
close,  called  the  Vivery,  so  catleil,  undoubtedly,  from  the 
French  Vivier,  or  modem  Latin  Vivarium  ; for  there  are  near 
the  house  large  remains  of  a pleasure-ground,  such  as  were 
introduced  in  the  earlier  part  of  Elizabeth’s  time,  with  topiary 
works,  fish-ponds,  an  island,  <Sre.  The  whole  township  was 
ranged  by  an  hundred  aird  tliirty  red  deer,  the  property  of  the 
Lord,  which,  together  with  the  wood,  had,  after  the  attainder 
of  Mr.  Norton,  been  committed  to  Sir  Stephen  Tempest.  The 
wood,  it  seems,  had  been  abandoned  to  depredations,  before 
which  time  it  appears  that  the  neighbourhood  must  have  exhi- 
bited a forest -like  and  sylvan  scene.  In  this  survey,  among  the 
old  tenants,  is  mentioned  one  Richard  Kitchen,  butler  to  Mr. 
Norton,  who  rose  in  rebellion  w ith  his  master,  and  was  executed 
at  Uipon. 


Such  is  her  sovereign  mien : — her  dress 
(A  vest  with  woollen  cincture  tied, 

A hood  of  mountain-wool  undyed) 

Is  homely,  — fashioned  to  express 
A wandering  Pilgrim’s  humbleness. 

And  she  hath  wandered,  long  and  far. 
Beneath  the  light  of  sun  and  star; 

Hath  roamed  in  trouble  and  in  grief) 
Driven  forward  like  a withered  leaf, 

Yea  like  a Ship  at  random  blown 
To  distant  places  and  unknown. 

But  now  she  dares  to  seek  a haven 
Among  her  native  wilds  of  Craven  ; 

Hath  seen  again  her  Father’s  Roof, 

And  put  her  fortitude  to  proof; 

The  mighty  sorrow  bath  been  borne. 

And  she  is  thoroughly  forlorn: 

Her  soul  doth  in  itself  stand  fast. 
Sustained  by  memory  of  the  past 
j And  strength  of  Reason ; held  above 
! The  infirmities  of  mortal  love ; 
j Undaunted,  lofty,  calm,  and  stable, 
j And  awfully  impenetrable. 

I And  so  — beneath  a mouldered  tree, 
j A self-surviving  leafless  Oak, 

I By  unregarded  age  from  stroke 
I Of  ravage  saved  — sate  Emily, 
i There  did  she  rest,  with  head  reclined. 
Herself  most  like  a stately  Flower, 

(Such  have  I seen)  whom  chance  of  birth 
Hath  separated  from  its  kii>d, 

To  live  and  die  in  a shady  bower. 

Single  on  the  gladsome  earth. 

Wlien,  with  a noise  like  distant  thunder, 
A troop  of  Deer  came  sweeping  by ; 

And,  suddenly,  behold  a wonder ! 

For,  of  that  Kind  of  rushing  Deer, 
j A single  One  in  mid  career 
' Hath  stopped,  and  fixed  his  large  full  eyo 
I Upon  the  Lady  Emily, 

! A Doe  most  beautiful,  clear-white, 

A radiant  Creature,  silver-bright  t 

Thus  checked,  a little  while  it  stayed; 

A little  thoughtful  pause  it  made; 

And  then  advanced  with  stealtli-like  pace. 
Drew  softly  near  her  — and  more  near 
Stopped  once  again  ; — but,  as  no  trace 
Was  found  of  any  thing  to  fear, 

Even  to  her  feet  the  Creature  cam--. 

And  laid  its  liead  upon  her  knee 
And  looked  into  tlie  Lady’s  face. 

A look  of  pure  benignity. 

And  fond  unclouded  memory ; 

P is,  thought  Emily,  the  same, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


345 


The  very  Doe  of  other  years ! 

The  pleading  look  the  lady  viewed, 

And,  by  her  gushing  thoughts  subdued, 

She  melted  into  tears  — 

A flood  of  tears,  that  flowed  apace, 

Upon  the  happy  Creature’s  face. 

Oh,  moment  ever  blest!  O Pair! 

Beloved  of  Heaven,  Heaven’s  choicest  care, 

This  was  for  you  a precious  greeting. 

For  both  a bounteous,  fruitful  meeting. 

Joined  are  they,  and  the  sylvan  Doe 
Can  she  departi  can  she  forego. 

The  Lady,  once  her  playful  Peer, 

And  now  her  sainted  Mistress  dear? 

And  will  not  Emily  receive 
This  lovely  Chronicler  of  things 
Long  past,  delights  and  sorrowings? 

Lone  Sufferer ! will  not  she  believe 
The  promise  in  that  speaking  face. 

And  take  this  gift  of  Heaven  with  grace? 

That  day,  the  first  of  a re-union 
Which  was  to  teem  with  high  communion. 

That  day  of  balmy  April  weather, 

They  tarried  in  the  wood  together. 

And  when,  ere  fall  of  evening  dew. 

She  from  this  sylvan  haunt  withdrew, 

The  White  Doe  tracked  with  faithful  pace 
The  Lady  to  her  Dwelling-place ; 

That  nook  where,  on  paternal  ground, 

A habitation  she  had  found. 

The  Master  of  whose  humble  board 
Once  owned  her  Father  for  his  Lord ; 

A Hut  by  tufted  trees  defended. 

Where  Rylstone  Brook  with  Wharf  is  blended. 

When  Emily  by  morning  light 
Went  forth,  the  Doe  was  there  in  sight. 

She  shrunk: — with  one  frail  shock  of  pain. 

Received  and  followed  by  a prayer, 

Did  she  behola’ — saw  once  again; 

Shun  will  she  not,  she  feels,  will  bear;  — 

But,  wheresoever  she  looked  round. 

All  now  was  trouble-haunted  ground. 

So  doth  the  Sufferer  deem  it  good 
Even  once  again  this  neighbourhood 
To  leave.  — Unwooed,  yet  unforbidden. 

The  White  Doe  followed  up  the  Vale, 

Up  to  another  Cottage  — hidden 
In  the  deep  fork  of  Amerdale ; * 

And  there  may  Emily  restore 
Herself,  in  spots  unseen  before. 

* “ At  the  extremity  of  the  parish  of  Burnsal,  the  valley 
of  Wharf  forks  off  into  two  great  branches,  one  of  which 
retains  the  name  of  Wharfdale,  to  the  source  of  the  river; 
the  other  is  usually  called  Littondale,  but  more  anciently 
and  properly,  Amerdale.  Dern-brook,  which  runs  along  an 
obscure  valley  from  the  N.  W.,  is  derived  from  a Teutonic 
word,  signifying  concealment.” — Dr.  Whitaker. 

2T 


Why  tell  of  rnos.sy  rock,  or  tree, 

By  lurking  Dernbrook’s  pathless  side, 

Ilautits  of  a strenglliening  amity 
That  calmed  her,  clieered,  and  fortified? 

For  she  hath  ventured  now  to  read 
Of  time,  and  place,  and  thought,  and  deed, 

Endless  history  that  lies 
In  her  silent  Follower’s  eyes ! 

Who  with  a power  like  human  Reason 
Discerns  the  favourable  season. 

Skilled  to  approach  or  to  retire,  — 

From  looks  conceiving  her  desire. 

From  look,  deportment,  voice,  or  mien. 

That  vary  to  the  heart  within. 

If  she  too  passionately  wreathed 
Her  arms,  or  over-deeply  breathed. 

Walked  quick  or  slowly,  every  mood 
In  its  degree  was  understood  ; 

Then  well  may  their  accord  be  true, 

And  kindly  intercourse  ensue. 

— Oh ! surely  ’t  was  a gentle  rousing 
When  she  by  sudden  glimpse  espied 

The  White  Doe  on  the  mountain  browsing, 

Or  in  the  meadow  wandered  wide ! 

How  pleased,  when  down  the  Straggler  sank 
Beside  her,  on  some  sunny  bank  ! 

How  soothed,  when  in  thick  bower  enclosed. 

They  like  a nested  Pair  reposed ! 

Fair  Vision ! when  it  crossed  the  Maid 
Within  some  rocky  cavern  laid. 

The  dark  cave’s  portal  gliding  b}% 

White  as  whitest  cloud  on  high. 

Floating  through  an  azure  sky. 

— What  now  is  left  for  pain  or  fear? 

That  Presence,  dearer  and  more  dear. 

Did  now  a very  gladness  yield 

At  morning  to  the  dewy  field. 

While  they,  side  by  side,  were  straying 
And  the  Shepherd’s  pipe  was  playing; 

And  with  a deeper  peace  endued 
The  hour  of  moonlight  solitude. 

With  her  Companion,  in  such  frame 
Of  mind,  to  Rylstone  back  she  came ; 

And,  wandering  through  the  wasted  groves, 
Received  the  memory  of  old  Loves, 

Undisturbed  and  undistrest. 

Into  a soul  which  now  was  blest 
With  a soft  spring-day  of  holy. 

Mild,  delicious,  melancholy ; 

Not  sunless  gloom  or  unenlightened. 

But  by  tender  fancies  brightened. 

Whe#the  Bells  of  Rylstone  played 
Their  Sabbath  music  — “ ®ct>  uS  apbc  !* 

*On  one  of  the  bells  of  Rylstone  church,  which  seems  coeval 
with  the  building  of  the  tower,  is  this  cypher,  3.  9i.  for  John 
Norton,  and  the  motto,  “ ©ol’  ftijte.’' 


34G 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  was  the  sound  they  seemed  to  speak ; 
Inscriptive  legend  which  I ween 
May  on  those  holy  Bells  be  seen, 

That  legend  and  her  Grandsire’s  name; 

And  oftentimes  the  Lady  meek 
Had  in  her  Childhood  read  the  same. 

Words  which  she  slighted  at  that  day; 

But  now,  when  such  sad  change  was  wrought 
And  of  that  lonely  name  she  thought. 

The  Bells  of  Rylstone  seemed  to  say. 

While  she  sate  listening  in  the  shade. 

With  vocal  music,  “ @cb  u»  apbo ;” 

And  all  the  Hills  w'ere  glad  to  bear 
Their  part  in  this  effectual  prayer. 

Nor  lacked  She  Reason’s  firmest  power ; 

But  with  the  White  Doe  at  her  side 
Up  doth  she  climb  to  Norton  Tower, 

And  thence  looks  round  her  far  and  wide ; 

Her  fate  there  measures,  — all  is  stilled, — 

The  Feeble  hath  subdued  her  heart; 

Behold  the  prophecy  fulfilled. 

Fulfilled,  and  she  sustains  her  part! 

But  here  her  Brother’s  words  have  failed ; 

Here  hath  a milder  doom  prevailed; 

That  she,  of  him  and  all  bereft. 

Hath  yet  this  faithful  Partner  left; 

This  single  Creature  that  disproves 
His  words,  remains  for  her,  and  loves. 

[f  tears  are  shed,  they  do  not  fall 
For  loss  of  him  — for  one,  or  all ; 

Yet,  sometimes,  sometimes  doth  she  weep. 

Moved  gently  in  her  soul’s  soft  sleep; 

A few  tears  down  her  cheek  descend 
For  this  her  last  and  living  Friend. 

Bless,  tender  Hearts,  their  mutual  lot. 

And  bless  for  both  this  savage  spot ! 

Which  Emily  doth  sacred  hold 
For  reasons  dear  and  manifold  — 

Here  hath  she,  here  before  her  sight. 

Close  to  the  summit  of  this  height. 

The  grassy  rock-encircled  Pound* 

In  which  the  Creature  first  was  found. 

* Which  is  thus  described  by  Dr.  Whitaker : — “On  the  plain 
pummit  of  the  hill  are  the  foundations  of  a strong  wall 
stretching  from  the  S.  W.  to  the  N.E.  corner  of  the  tower,  ^ 
and  to  the  edge  of  a very  deep  glen,  From  this  glen,  a ditch,  I 
several  hundred  yards  long,  runs  south  to  another  deep  and 
rugged  ravine.  On  the  N.  and  W.  where  the  banks  are  very 
steep,  no  wall  or  mound  is  discoverable,  paling  being  the  only 
fence  that  could  stand  on  such  ground. 

“ From  the  Minstrelsy  of  the  Scottish  Border,  it  appears 
that  such  pounds  for  deer,  sheep,  &c.  were  far  from  bein^  un- 
common in  the  south  of  Scotland.  The  principle  of  them  was 
something  like  that  of  a wire  mouse-trap.  On  the  declivity  of 
a steep  hill,  the  bottom  and  sides  of  which  were  fenced  so  ns  to 
be  impassable,  a wall  was  constructed  nearly  level  with  the 
surface  on  the  outside,  yet  so  high  within,  that  without  wings 
it  was  impossible  to  escape  in  the  opjiosite  direction.  Care  was 


So  beautiful  the  spotless  Thrall 
(A  lovely  youngling  white  as  foam) 

That  it  was  brought  to  Rylstone-hall ; 

Her  youngest  Brother  led  it  home. 

The  youngest,  then  a lusty  Boy, 

Brought  home  the  prize  — and  with  what  joy! 

But  most  to  Bolton’s  sacred  Pile, 

On  favouring  nights,  she  loved  to  go: 

There  ranged  through  cloister,  court,  and  aisle, 
Attended  by  the  soft-paced  Doe; 

Nor  feared  she  in  the  still  moonshine 
To  look  upon  Saint  Mary’s  shrine; 

Nor  on  the  lonely  turf  that  showed 
Where  Francis  slept  in  his  last  abode. 

For  that  she  came;  there  oft  and  long 
She  sate  in  meditation  strong : 

And,  when  she  from  the  abyss  returned 
Of  thought,  she  neither  shrunk  nor  mourned; 
Was  happy  that  she  lived  to  greet 
Her  mute  Companion  as  it  lay 
In  love  and  pity  at  her  feet; 

How  happy  in  its  turn  to  meet 
That  recognition!  the  mild  glance 
Beamed  from  that  gracious  countenance; 
Communication,  like  the  ray 
Of  a new  morning,  to  the  nature  » 

And  prospects  of  the  inferior  Creature! 

A mortal  Song  we  frame,  by  dower 
Encouraged  of  celestial  power  ; 

Power  which  the  viewless  Spirit  shed 
By  whom  we  were  first  visited ; 

Whose  voice  we  heard,  whose  hand  and  wings 
Swept  like  a breeze  the  conscious  strings, 
When,  left  in  solitude,  erewhile 
We  stood  before  this  ruined  Pile 
And,  quitting  unsubstantial  dreams. 

Sang  in  this  presence  kindred  themes; 

Distress  and  desolation  spread 

Through  human  hearts,  and  pleasure  dead, 

Dead  — but  to  live  again  on  Earth, 

A second  and  yet  nobler  birth; 

Dire  overthrow,  and  yet  how  high 
The  reascent  in  sanctity! 

From  fair  to  fairer  day  by  day 
A more  divine  and  loftier  way ! 

Even  such  this  blessed  Pilgrim  trod. 

By  sorrow  lifted  tow’rds  her  God ; 

Uplifted  to  the  piiNJst  sky 
Of  undisturbed  mortality. 

Her  owm  thoughts  loved  she;  and  could  bend 
A dear  look  to  her  lowly  Friend, — 


probably  taken  that  these  enclosures  should  contain  bettet 
I feed  than  the  neighbouring  parks  or  forest.s  ; and  whoever 
is  acquainted  with  the  habits  of  these  sequacious  animals, 
will  easily  conceive,  that  if  the  leader  was  once  tempted  to 
descend  into  the  snare,  an  herd  would  follow,” 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


347 


There  stopped;  — her  thirst  was  satisfied 
With  what  this  innocent  spring  supplied  — 
Her  sanction  inwardly  she  bore, 

And  stood  apart  from  human  cares: 

But  to  the  world  returned  no  more, 
Although  with  no  unwilling  mind 
Help  did  she  give  at  need,  and  joined 
The  Wharfdale  Peasants  in  tlieir  prayers. 
At  length,  thus  faintly,  faintly  tied 
T’o  earth,  she  was  set  free,  and  died. 

Thy  sou],  exalted  Emily, 

Maid  of  the  blasted  family. 

Rose  to  the  God  from  whom  it  came  ! 

— In  Rylstone  Church  her  mortal  frame 
Was  buried  by  her  Mother’s  side. 

Most  glorious  sunset!  and  a ray 
Survives  — the  twilight  of  this  day  — 

In  that  fair  Creature  whom  the  fields 
Support,  and  whom  the  forest  shields; 

W’ho,  having  filled  a holy  place, 

Partakes,  in  her  degree.  Heaven’s  grace; 
And  bears  a memory  and  a mind 
Raised  far  above  the  law  of  kind  ; 

Haunting  the  spots  with  lonely  cheer 
Which  her  dear  Mistress  once  held  dear: 
Loves  most  what  Emily  loved  most  — 

The  enclosure  of  this  Church-yard  ground ; 


Here  wanders  like  a gliding  Ghost, 

And  every  Sabbatli  here  is  found ; 

Comes  with  the  People  when  the  Bells 
Are  heard  among  the  moorland  dells. 

Finds  entrance  through  yon  arch,  where  way 
Lies  open  on  the  Sabbatii-day ; 

Here  walks  amid  the  mournful  waste 
Of  prostrate  altars,  slirines  defaced. 

And  floors  encumbered  witli  rich  show 
Of  fret-work  imagery  laid  low  ; 

Paces  sofl.ly,  or  makes  halt. 

By  fractured  cell,  or  tomb,  or  vault. 

By  plate  of  monumental  brass 

Dim  gleaming  among  weeds  and  grass. 

And  sculptured  Forms  of  Warriors  brave; 

But  chiefly  by  that  single  grave. 

That  one  sequestered  hillock  green, 

The  pensive  Visitant  is  seen. 

There  doth  the  gentle  Creature  lie 
With  those  adversities  unmoved ; 

Calm  Spectacle,  by  earth  and  sky 
In  their  benignity  approved  ! 

And  aye,  methinks,  this  hoary  Pile, 

Subdued  by  outrage  and  decay. 

Looks  down  upon  her  with  a smile, 

A gracious  srpile,  that  seems  to  say, 

“ Thou,  thou  art  not  a Child  of  Time, 

But  Daughter  of  tlie  Eternal  Prime  !”* 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES, 

IN  A SERIES  OF  SONNETS. 


“ A verse  may  catch  a wandering  Soul,  that  flics 
Profounder  Tracts,  and  by  a blest  surprise 
Convert  delight  into  a Sacrifice.” 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

Dcring  the  month  of  December,  1820,  I accompa- 
nied a much-loved  and  honoured  Friend  in  a walk 
through  diflTerent  parts  of  his  Estate,  with  a view  to  fix 
upon  the  Site  of  a New  Church  which  he  intended  to 
erect.  It  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  mornings  of  a 
mild  season,  — our  feelings  were  in  harmony  with  the 
cherishing  influences  of  the  scene;  and,  such  being 
our  purpose,  we  were  naturally  led  to  look  back  upon 
past  events  with  wonder  and  gratitude,  and  on  the 
future  with  hope.  Not  long  afterwards,  some  of  the 
.Sonnets  which  will  be  found  towards  the  close  of  this 


Series,  were  produced  as  a private  memorial  of  that 
morning’s  occupation. 

The  Catholic  Question,  which  was  agitated  in  Par- 
liament about  that  time,  kept  my  thoughts  in  the  same 
course;  and  it  struck  me  that  certain  points  in  the 
Ecclesiastical  History  of  our  Country  might  advan- 
tageously be  presented  to  view  in  Verse.  Accordingly, 

* I cannot  conclude  without  recommending  to  the  notice  of  al 
lovers  of  beautiful  scenery  — Bolton  Abbey  and  its  neighbour 
hood.  This  enchanting  spot  belongs  to  the  Duke  of  Devon- 
shire ; and  the  superintendence  of  it  has  for  some  years  been 
entrusted  to  the  Rev.  William  Carr,  who  has  most  skilfully 
0|)ened  out  its  features;  and,  in  whatever  he  has  added,  has 
done  justice  to  the  place,  by  worlting  with  an  invisible  hand  of 
art  in  the  very  spirit  of  nature. 


348 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


I took  up  the  subject,  and  what  I now  offer  to  the 
Reader  was  the  result.* 

When  this  work  was  far  advanced,  I was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  that  my  Friend,  Mr.  Southey,  was 
engaged,  with  similar  views,  in  writing  a concise 
History  of  the  Church  in  England.  If  our  Produc- 
tions, thus  unintentionally  coinciding,  shall  be  found 
to  illustrate  each  other,  it  will  prove  a high  gratifica- 
tion to  me,  which  I am  sure  my  Friend  will  participate, 
W.  Wordsworth. 

Rvdal  Mount,  January  24,  1822. 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


PART  I. 

FROM  THE  INTRODUCTION  OF  CHRISTIANITY  INTO 
BRITAIN,  TO  THE  CONSUMMATION  OF  THE  PA- 
P.VL  DOMINION. 


I. 

INTRODUCTION. 

I,  WHO  accompanied  with  faithful  pace 
Cerulean  Duddon  from  his  cloud-fed  spring, 

And  loved  with  Spirit  ruled  by  his  to  sing 
Of  mountain  quiet  and  boon  nature’s  grace ; 

I.  who  essayed  the  nobler  Stream  to  trace 
Of  Liberty,  and  smote  the  plausive  string 
Till  the  checked  Torrent,  proudly  triumphing. 

Won  for  herself  a lasting  resting-place; 

Now  seek  upon  the  heights  of  Time  the  source 
Of  a Holv  River,  on  whose  banks  are  found 
Sweet  pastoral  flowers,  and  laurels  that  have  crowned 
Full  oft  the  unworthy  brow  of  lawless  force ; 

Where,  for  delight  of  him  who  tracks  its  course. 
Immortal  amaranth  and  palms  abound. 


II. 

CONJECTURES. 

If  there  be  prophets  on  whose  spirits  rest 
Past  things,  revealed  like  future,  they  can  tell 
What  Powers,  presiding  o’er  the  sacred  Well 
Of  Christian  Faith,  this  savage  Island  blessed 
With  its  first  bounty.  Wandering  through  the  West, 


* For  the  convenience  of  pas.sing  from  one  point  of  the  subject 
to  another  without  shocks  of  abruptness,  tliis  work  has  taken 
tlie  shape  of  a Scries  of  Sonnets;  but  tlie  Reader,  it  is  hoped, 
will  find  that  the  pictures  are  often  so  closely  connected  as  to 
have  jointly  the  effect  of  passages  of  a poem  in  a form  of  slanza 
10  v.'hicli  there  is  no  objection  but  one  that  bears  upon  the  Poet 
only  — its  difficulty 


Did  holy  Paulf  a while  in  Britain  dwell, 

And  call  the  Fountain  forth  by  miracle. 

And  with  dread  signs  the  nascent  Stream  invest? 
Or  He,  whose  bonds  dropped  off,  whose  prison  doors 
Flew  open,  by  an  Angel’s  voice  unbarred? 

Or  some  of  humbler  name,  to  these  wild  shores 
Storm-driven,  who  having  seen  the  cup  of  woe 
Pass  from  their  Master,  sojourned  here  to  guard 
The  precious  Current  they  had  taught  to  flow  ? 


TREPIDATION  OF  THE  DRUIDS. 

Screams  round  the  Arch-druid’s  brow  the  Seamewl  — 
white 

As  Menai’s  foam ; and  tow’rd  the  mystic  ring 
Where  Augurs  stand,  the  future  questioning. 

Slowly  the  Cormorant  aims  her  heavy  flight. 
Portending  ruin  to  each  baleful  rite. 

That,  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  hath  crept  o’er 
Diluvian  truths,  pnd  patriarchal  lore. 

Haughty  the  Bard  ; — can  these  meek  doctrines  blight 
His  transports?  wither  his  heroic  strains?  ' 

But  all  shall  be  fulfilled;  — the  Julian  spear 
A way  first  opened  ; and,  with  Roman  chains. 

The  tidings  come  of  Jesus  crucified  ; 

They  come  — they  spread  — the  weak,  the  suffering, 
hear ; 

Receive  the  faith,  and  in  the  hope  abide. 


IV. 

DRUTDICAL  EXCOMMUNICATION. 

Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road. 

Thou  wretched  Outcast,  from  the  gift  of  fire 
And  food  cut  off  by  sacerdotal  ire. 

From  every  sympathy  that  Man  bestowed  ! 

Yet  shall  it  claim  our  reverence,  that  to  God, 

Ancient  of  Days ! that  to  the  eternal  Sire 
These  jealous  Ministers  of  Law  aspire. 

As  to  the  one  sole  fount  whence  Wisdom  flowed. 
Justice,  and  Order.  Tremblingly  escaped. 

As  if  with  prescience  of  the  coming  storm. 

That  intimation  when  the  stars  were  shaped ; 

And  still,  ’mid  yon  thick  woods,  the  primal  truth 
Glimmers  through  many  a superstitious  form 
That  fills  the  Soul  with  unavailing  ruth. 

t Stillingfleet  adduces  many  arguments  in  support  of  this 
opinion,  but  they  are  unconvincing.  The  latter  part  of  tliis 
Sonnet  refers  to  a favourite  notion  of  Catholic  M’riters,  that 
Joseph  of  Arimathea  and  his  companions  brought  Christianity 
into  Britain,  and  built  a rude  Church  at  Glastonbury;  alluded 
to  hereafler,  in  a passage  upon  the  dissolution  of  Monasteries. 

J Tliis  water-fowl  was,  among  the  Druids,  an  emblem  of  those 
trailitions  eonneited  with  the  deluge  that  made  an  important 
part  of  their  mysteries.  The  Cormorant  was  a bird  of  bad  omea 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


349 


V. 

UNCERTAINTY. 

Darkness  surrounds  us;  seeking,  we  are  lost 
On  Snowdon’s  wilds,  amid  Brigantian  coves. 

Or  wnere  the  solitary  Shepherd  roves 
Along  the  Plain  of  Sarum,  by  the  Ghost 
Of  Time  and  Shadows  of  Tradition,  crost ; 

And  where  the  boatman  of  the  Western  Isles 
Slackens  his  course  — to  mark  those  holy  piles 
Which  yet  survive  on  bleak  Iona’s  coast. 

Nor  these,  nor  monuments  of  eldest  fame. 

Nor  Taliesin’s  unforgotten  lays 

Nor  characters  of  Greek  or  Roman  fame. 

To  an  unquestionable  Source  have  led  ; 

Enough  — if  eyes  that  sought  the  fountain-head. 
In  vain,  upon  the  growing  Rill  may  gaze. 


VI. 

PERSECUTION. 

Lament  ! for  Dioclesian’s  fiery  sword 
Works  busy  as  the  lightning:  but  instinct 
With  malice  ne’er  to  deadliest  weapon  linked. 

Which  God’s  ethereal  store-houses  afford  : 

Against  the  Followers  of  the  incarnate  Lord 
It  rages ; — some  are  smitten  in  the  field  — 

Some  pierced  beneath  the  ineffectual  shield 
Of  sacred  home;  — with  pomp  are  others  gored 
And  dreadful  respite.  Thus  was  Alban  tried, 
England’s  first  Martyr,  whom  no  threats  could  shake : 
Self-offered  Victim,  for  his  friend  he  died. 

And  for  the  faith  — nor  shall  his  name  forsake 
That  Hill*  whose  flowery  platform  seems  to  rise 
By  Nature  decked  for  holiest  sacrifice. 

VII. 

RECOVERY. 

As,  when  a storm  hath  ceased,  the  birds  regain 
Their  cheerfulness,  and  busily  retrim 
Their  nests,  or  chant  a gratulating  hymn 
To  the  blue  ether  and  bespangled  plain; 

Even  so,  in  many  a re-constructed  fane. 

Have  the  Survivors  of  this  storm  renewed 
Tlieir  holy  rites  with  vocal  gratitude : 

And  solemn  ceremonials  they  ordain 

*This  hill  at  St.  Alban’s  must  have  been  an  object  of  great 
interest  to  the  imagination  of  the  venerable  Bede,  who  thus  de- 
scribes it,  with  a delicate  feeling,  delightful  to  meet  with  in  that 
rude  age,  traces  of  which  are  frequent  in  his  works : — “ Variis 
herbarum  fioribus  depictus  imo  usquequaque  vestitus,  in  quo 
nihil  repente  arduum,  nihil  pra;ceps,  nihil  abruptum,  quern 
lateribus  longe  lateque  deductum  in  modum  atquoris  natura 
complanat,  dignum  videlicet  eum  pro  insita  sibi  specie  venus- 
totis  iain  olim  reddens,  qui  bead  martyris  cruore  dicaretur.” 


To  celebrate  their  great  deliverance  ; 

Most  feelingly  instructed  ’mid  their  fear. 

That  persecution,  blind  with  rage  extreme. 

May  not  the  less,  through  Heaven’s  mild  cotintenancc 
Even  in  her  own  despite,  both  feed  and  cheer; 

For  all  things  arc  less  dreadful  than  they  seem. 


VIII. 

TEMPTATIONS  FROM  ROMAN  REFINEMENTS. 
Watch,  and  be  firm  ! foi  soul-subduing  vice. 
Heart-killing  luxury,  on  your  steps  await. 

Fair  houses,  baths,  and  banquets  delicate. 

And  temples  flashing,  bright  as  polar  ice. 

Their  radiance  through  the  wood.s,  may  yet  suffice 
To  sap  your  hardy  virtue,  and  abate 
Your  love  of  Him  upon  whose  forehead  sate 
The  crown  of  thorns;  whose  life-blood  flow'ed,  the 
price 

Of  your  redemption.  Shun  the  insidious  arts 
That  Rome  provides,  less  dreading  from  her  frown 
Than  from  her  wily  praise,  her  peaceful  gown. 
Language,  and  letters  ; — these,  though  fondly  viewed 
As  humanizing  graces,  are  but  parts 
And  instruments  of  deadliest  servitude ! 

IX. 

DISSENSIONS. 

That  heresies  should  strike  (if  truth  be  scanned 
Presumptuously)  their  roots  both  wide  and  deep. 

Is  natural  as  dreams  to  feverish  sleep. 

Lo  ! Discord  at  the  Altar  dares  to  stand 
Uplifting  tow’rd  high  Heaven  her  fiery  brand, 

A cherished  Priestess  of  the  new-baptized  ! 

But  chastisement  shall  follow  peace  despised. 

The  Pictish  cloud  darkens  the  enervate  land 
By  Rome  abandoned  ; vain  are  suppliant  cries. 

And  prayers  that  would  undo  her  forced  fareweh 
For  she  returns  not.  — Awed  by  her  own  knell. 

She  cast  the  Britons  upon  strange  Allies, 

Soon  to  become  more  dreaded  enemies 
Than  heartless  misery  called  them  to  repel. 

X. 

STRUGGLE  OF  THE  BRITONS  AGAINST  THE  BAR- 
BARIANS. 

Rise!  — they  have  risen:  of  brave  Aneurin  ask 
How  they  have  scourged  old  foes,  perfidious  frienas . 
The  spirit  of  Caractacus  defends 
The  Patriots,  animates  their  glorious  task ; — 
Amazement  runs  before  the  towering  casque 
Of  Arthur,  bearing  through  the  stormy  field 
The  Virgin  sculptured  on  his  Christian  shield  . — 
Stretched  in  the  sunny  light  of  victory,  bask 
30 


350 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Host  that  followed  Urien  as  he  strode 

O’er  heaps  of  slain ; — from  Cambrian  wood  and  moss 

Druids  descend,  auxiliars  of  the  Cross  ; 

Bards,  nursed  on  blue  Plinlimmon’s  still  abode 
Rush  on  the  fight,  to  harps  preferring  swords. 

And  everlasting  deeds  to  burning  words  ! 


XI. 

SAXON  CONQUEST. 

Nor  wants  the  cause  the  panic-striking  aid 
Of  hallelujahs* *  tost  from  hill  to  hill  — 

For  instant  victory.  But  Heaven’s  high  will 
Permits  a second  and  a dai-ker  shade 
Of  Pagan  night.  Afflicted  and  dismayed, 

The  Relics  of  the  sword  flee  to  the  mountains : 

O wretched  Land ! whose  tears  have  flowed  like  foun- 
tains : 

Whose  arts  and  honours  in  the  dust  are  laid, 

By  men  yet  scarcely  conscious  of  a care 
For  other  monuments  than  those  of  Earth  ;f 
Who,  as  the  fields  and  woods  have  given  them  birth. 
Will  build  their  savage  fortunes  only  there  ; 

Content,  if  foss,  and  barrow,  and  the  girth 
Of  long-drawn  rampart,  witness  what  they  were. 


XII. 

blONASTERY  OF  OLD  BANGOR,  t 

The  oppression  of  the  tumult  — wrath  and  scorn  — 
The  tribulation  — and  the  gleaming  blades  — 

Such  is  the  impetuous  spirit  that  pervades 


The  song  of  TaliesinJ ; — Ours  shall  mourn 
The  unarmed  Host  who  by  their  prayers  would  turn 
The  sword  from  Bangor’s  walls,  and  guard  the  store 
Of  Aboriginal  and  Roman  lore. 

And  Christian  monuments,  that.now  must  burn 
To  senseless  ashes.  Mark  ! how  all  things  sweive 
From  their  known  course,  or  vanish  like  a drear' ; 
Another  language  spreads  from  coast  to  coast ; 

Only  perchance  some  melancholy  Stream 
And  some  indignant  Hills  old  names  preserve, 
When  laws,  and  creeds,  and  people  all  are  lest 


XIII. 

CASUAL  INCITEMENT. 

A BRIGHT-HAIRED  Company  of  youthful  Slaves, 
Beautiful  Strangers,  stand  within  the  Pale 
Of  a sad  market,  ranged  for  public  sale, 

Where  Tiber’s  stream  the  immortal  City  laves  : 
Angli  by  name  ; and  not  an  Angel  waves 
His  wing  who  seemeth  lovelier  in  Heaven’s  eye 
Than  they  appear  to  holy  Gregory  ; 

Who,  having  learnt  that  name,  salvation  craves 
For  Them,  and  for  their  Land.  The  earnest  Sire, 
His  questions  urging,  feels  in  slender  ties 
Of  chiming  sound  commanding  sympathies  ; 
De-irians  — he  would  save  them  from  God’s  Ire  ; 
Subjects  of  Saxon  AIlla — they  shall  sing 
Glad  IlALLElujahs  to  the  eternal  King! 


XIV. 


* Alluding  to  the  victory  gained  under  Germanus.  — See 
Bede. 

t The  last  six  lines  of  this  Sonnet  are  ehiefly  from  the  prose 
of  Daniel ; and  here  I will  state  (though  to  the  Readers  whom 
this  Poem  will  chiefly  interest  it  is  unnecessary)  that  my  obliga- 
tions to  other  Prose  Writers  are  frequent,  — obligations  which, 
even  if  I had  not  a pleasure  in  courting,  it  would  have  been 
presumptuous  to  shun,  in  treating  an  historical  subject.  I must, 
however,  particularise  Fuller,  to  whom  I am  indebted  in  the 
Sonnet  upon  Wicliffe  and  in  other  instances.  And  upon  the 
acquittal  of  the  Seven  Bishops  I have  done  little  more  than 
versify  a lively  description  of  that  event  in  tlie  Memoirs  of  the 
first  Lord  Lonsdale. 


* Ethelforlh  reached  the  convent  of  Bangor,  he  perceived 
the  Monks,  twelve  hundred  in  number,  offering  prayers  for  the 
success  of  their  countrj’men : ‘ if  they  are  praying  against  us,’ 
he  exclaimed,  ‘ they  are  fighting  against  us and  he  ordered 
them  to  be  first  attacked : they  were  destroyed  ; and,  appalled 
by  their  fate,  the  courage  of  Brocrnail  wavered,  and  he  fled 
from  the  field  in  dismay.  Thus  abandoned  by  their  leader, 
nis  army  soon  gave  way,  and  Ethelforth  obtained  a decisive 
conquest.  Ancient  Bangor  itself  soon  fell  into  his  hands,  and 
was  demolished ; the  noble  monastery  was  levelled  to  the 
ground  : its  library,  which  is  mentioned  as  a large  one,  the 
eollection  of  ages,  tne  repository  of  the  most  precious  monu- 
ments of  the  ancient  Britons,  was  consumed  ; half-ruined  walls. 


1 


GLAD  TIDINGS 

For  ever  hallowed  be  this  morning  fair. 

Blest  be  the  unconscious  shore  on  which  ye  tread. 

And  blest  the  silver  Cross,  which  ye,  instead 
Of  martial  banner,  in  procession  bear ; 

The  Cross  preceding  Him  who  floats  in  air. 

The  pictured  Saviour!  — By  Augustin  fed. 

They  come  — and  onward  travel  without  dread, 
Chanting  in  barbarous  ears  a tuneful  prayer. 

Sung  for  themselves,  and  those  whom  they  would  free  ! 
Rich  conquest  waits  them : — the  tempestuous  sea 
Of  Ignorance,  that  ran  so  rough  and  high. 

And  heeded  not  the  voice  of  clashing  swords 
These  good  men  humble  by  a few  bare  words. 

And  calm  with  fear  of  God’s  divinity. 

gates,  and  rubbish,  were  all  that  remained  of  the  magnificent 
edifice.” — Pee  Turner's  valuable  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 

The  account  Bede  gives  of  this  remarkable  event,  suggests 
a most  striking  warning  against  National  and  Religious  pre- 
judices. 

5 Taliesin  was  present  at  the  battle  wliich  preceded  this 
desolation. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3M 


XV. 

PAULINUS.* 

But,  to  remote  Northumbria’s  royal  Hall, 

Where  thouglitful  Edwin,  tutored  in  the  school 
Of  Sorrow,  still  maintains  a heathen  rule. 

Who  comes  with  functions  apostolical  1 
Mark  him,  of  shoulders  curved,  and  stature  tall. 
Black  hair,  and  vivid  eye,  and  meagre  cheek. 

His  prominent  ffeature  like  an  eagle’s  beak  ; 

A Man  whose  aspect  doth  at  once  appal 
And  strike  with  reverence.  The  Monarch  leans 
Tow’rd  the  pure  truths  this  Delegate  propounds. 
Repeatedly  his  own  deep  mind  he  sounds 
With  careful  hesitation,  — then  convenes 
A synod  of  his  Counsellors: — give  ear. 

And  what  a pensive  Sage  doth  utter,  hear  : 


XVI. 

PERSUASION. 

“ Man’s  life  is  like  a Sparrowf,  mighty  King  ! 

“ That,  stealing  in  while  by  the  fire  you  sit 
“ Housed  with  rejoicing  Friends,  is  seen  to  flit 
“ Safe  from  the  storm,  in  comfort  tarrying. 

“ Here  did  it  enter  — there,  on  hasty  wing,  • 

“ Flies  out,  and  passes  on  from  cold  to  cold ; 

“ But  whence  it  came  we  know  not,  nor  behold 
“ Whither  it  goes.  Even  such  that  transient  Thing, 
“ The  human  Soul ; not  utterly  unknown 
“ While  in  the  Body  lodged,  her  warm  abode ; 

“ But  from  what  world  She  came,  what  woe  or  weal 
“ On  her  departure  waits,  no  tongue  hath  shown ; 

“ This  mystery  if  the  Stranger  can  reveal, 

“ His  be  a welcome  cordially  bestowed  !” 


XVII. 

CONVERSION. 

Prompt  transformation  works  the  novel  Lore ; 
The  Council  closed,  the  Priest  in  full  career 
Rides  forth,  an  armed  man,  and  hurls  a spear 
To  desecrate  the  Fane  which  heretofore 
He  served  in  folly.  — Woden  falls  — and  Thor 
Is  overturned  ; the  mace,  in  battle  heaved 
(So  might  they  dream)  till  victory  was  achieved. 
Drops,  and  the  God  himself  is  seen  no  more. 
Temple  and  Altar  sink,  to  hide  their  shame 
Amid  oblivious  weeds.  “ O come  to  me, 


* Tne  person  of  Panlinus  is  thus  described  by  Bede,  from  the 
memory  of  an  eye-witness; — “Longs  statunc,  paululum  in- 
ciirvus,  nigro  capillo,  facie  maeilenta,  naso  adunco,  pertenui, 
venerabilis  simul  et  terribiUs  aspectn.” 
tSce  Note  18. 


“ Ye  heavy  laden !"  such  the  inviting  voice 
Heard  near  fresh  streamsf,  — and  thousands,  who  lo 
joice 

In  the  new  Rite  — the  pledge  of  sanctity. 

Shall,  by  regenerate  life,  the  promise  claim. 


XVIII. 

APOLOGY. 

Nor  scorn  the  aid  which  Fancy  cfl  doth  lend 
The  Soul’s  eternal  interests  to  promote : 

Death,  darkness,  danger,  are  our  natural  lot ; 
And  evil  Spirits  may  our  walk  attend 
For  aught  the  wisest  know  or  comprehend  ; 
Then  be  good  Spirits  free  to  breathe  a note 
Of  elevation ; let  their  odours  float 
Around  these  Converts ; and  their  glories  blend. 
Outshining  nightly  tapers,  or  the  blaze 
Of  the  noon-day.  Nor  doubt  that  golden  cords 
Of  good  works,  mingling  with  the  visions,  raise 
The  soul  to  purer  worlds : and  who  the  line 
Shall  draw,  the  limits  of  the  power  define. 

That  even  imuerfect  faith  to  Man  affords  1 


XIX. 

PRIMITIVE  SAXON  CLERGY.? 

How  beautiful  your  presence,  how  benign. 

Servants  of  God ! w'ho  not  a thought  will  share 
With  the  vain  world  ; who,  outwardly  as  bare 
As  winter  trees,  yield  no  fallacious  sign 
That  the  firm  soul  is  clothed  with  fruit  divine  ! 

Such  Priest,  when  service  worthy  of  his  care 
Has  called  him  forth  to  breathe  the  common  air. 
Might  seem  a saintly  Image  from  its  shrine 
Descended  ; — happy  are  the  eyes  that  meet 
The  Apparition  ; evil  thoughts  are  stayed 
At  his  approach,  and  low-bowed  necks  entreat 
A benediction  from  his  voice  or  hand ; 

Whence  grace,  through  which  the  heart  can  under 
stand ; 

And  vows,  that  bind  the  will,  in  silence  made. 


tTlie  early  propagators  of  Christianity  were  accustomed  to 
preach  near  rivers,  for  the  convenience  of  baptism. 

? Having  spoken  of  the  zeal,  disinterestedness,  and  temper- 
ance of  the  clergy  of  those  times,  Bede  thus  proceeds:  — “ I'nde 
et  in  magna  erat  veneratione  tempore  illo  religionis  habitus,  i»a 
ut  ubicunqtie  clericus  aliquis,  aut  monachus  adveniret,  gauden 
ter  ab  omnibus  tanquam  Dei  famulus  exciperetur.  Etiam  si  in 
itinere  pergens  inveniretur,  accurrebant,  et  flexa  cervice,  vel 
manu  signari,  vel  ore  illius  se  benedici,  gaudebant-  Verbiti 
quoque  horum  exhortatoriis  diligenter  auditum  pnEbobant.” 
Lib.  iii.  cap.  36 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


3ci: 


XX. 

OTHER  INFLUENCES. 

Ah,  when  the  Frame,  round  which  in  love  we  clung, 
Is  chilled  by  death,  does  mutual  service  fail? 

Is  tender  pity  then  of  no  avail  ? 

Are  intercessions  of  the  fervent  tongue 
A waste  of  hope?  — From  this  sad  source  have  sprung 
Rites  that  console  the  spirit,  under  grief 
Which  ill  can  brook  more  rational  relief: 

Hence,  prayers  are  shaped  amiss,  and  dirges  sung 
For  souls  whose  doom  is  fixed  ! The  way  is  smooth 
For  Power  that  travels  with  the  human  heart: 
Confession  ministers,  the  pang  to  soothe 
In  him  who  at  the  ghost  of  guilt  doth  start. 

Ye  holy  Men,  so  earnest  in  your  care. 

Of  your  own  mighty  instruments  beware  ! 


XXL 

SECLUSION. 

Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished  — at  his  side 
A Beed-roll,  in  his  hand  a clasped  Book, 

Or  staff  more  harmless  than  a Shepherd’s  cro.ik. 
The  war-worn  Chieftain  quits  the  world  — to  hide 
His  thin  autumnal  locks  where  monks  abide 
In  cloistered  privacy.  But  not  to  dwell 
In  soft  repose  he  comes.  Within  his  cell. 

Round  the  decaying  trunk  of  human  pride, 

At  morn,  and  eve,  and  midnight’s  silent  hour. 

Ho  penitential  cogitations  cling: 

Like  ivy,  round  some  ancient  elm,  they  twine 
In  grisly  folds  and  strictures  serpentine; 

Yet,  while  they  strangle  without  mercy,  bring 
For  recompense  their  own  perennial  bower. 


XXII. 

CONTINUED. 

Metiiinks  that  to  some  vacant  Hermitage 
My  feet  would  rather  turn  — to  some  dry  nook 
Scooped  out  of  living  rock,  and  near  a brook 
Hurled  down  a mountain-cove  from  stage  to  stage. 
Yet  tempering,  for  my  sight,  its  bustling  rage 
In  the  soft  heaven  of  a translucent  pool ; 

Thence  creeping  under  forest  arches  cool. 

Fit  haunt  of  shapes  whose  glorious  equipage 
Would  elevate  my  dreams.  A beechen  bowl, 

A maple  dish,  my  furniture  should  be ; 

Crisp,  yellow  leaves  my  bed ; the  hooting  Owl 
My  night-watch:  nor  should  e’er  the  crested  Fowl 
From  thorp  or  vill  his  matins  sound  for  me. 

Tired  of  the  world  and  all  its  industry. 


XXIII. 

REPROOF. 

But  what  if  One,  through  grove  or  flowery  mead. 
Indulging  thus  at  will  the  creeping  feet 
Of  a voluptuous  indolence,  should  meet 
Thy  hovering  shade,  O venerable  Bede ! 

The  saint,  the  scholar,  from  a circle  freed 
Of  toil  stupendous,  in  a hallowed  seat 
Of  learning,  where  thou  heard’st  the  billows  beat 
On  a wild  coast,  rough  monitors  to  feed 
Perpetual  industry.  Sublime  Recluse  ! 

The  recreant  soul,  that  dares  to  shun  the  debt 
Imposed  on  human  kind,  must  first  forget 
Tliy  diligence,  thy  unrelaxing  use 
Of  a long  life;  and,  in  the  hour  of  death. 

The  last  dear  service  of  thy  passing  breath  1* 


XXIV. 

SAXON  MONASTERIES,  AND  LIGHTS  AND  SHADES 
OF  THE  RELIGION. 

By  such  examples  moved  to  unbought  pain.s. 

The  people  work  like  congregated  bees*; 

Eager  to  build  the  quiet  Fortresses 
Where  Piety,  as  they  believe,  obtains 
From  Heaven  a general  blessing;  timely  rains 
Or  needful  sunshine  ; prosperous  enterprise. 

Justice  and  peace : — bold  faith  ! yet  also  rise 
The  sacred  Structures  for  less  doubtful  gains. 

The  Sensual  think  with  reverence  of  the  palms 
Which  the  chaste  Votaries  seek,  beyond  the  grave ; 

If  penance  be  redeemablef,  thence  alms 
Flow  to  the  Poor,  and  freedom  to  the  Slave  ; 

And  if  full  oft  the  sanctuary  save 
Lives  black  with  guilt,  ferocity  it  calms. 


XXV. 

MISSIONS  AND  TRAVELS. 

Not  sedentary  all : there  are  who  roam 
To  scatter  seeds  of  Life  on  barbarous  shores  ; 

Or  quit  with  zealous  step  their  knee-worn  floors 
To  seek  the  general  Mart  of  Christendom  ; 

Whence  they,  like  richly-laden  Merchants,  come 
To  their  beloved  Cells:  — or  shall  we  say 
That,  like  the  Red-cross  Knight,  they  urge  their  way 
To  lead  in  memorable  triumph  home 
Truth  — their  immortal  Una?  Babylon, 

Learned  and  wise,  hath  perished  utterly, 

*IIe  expired  dictating  the  last  words  of  a translation  of  St. 
John’s  Gospel. 

t See,  in  Turner’s  History,  x'ol.  iii.  p.  526.,  the  account  of  the 
erection  of  Ramsey  Monastery. 

t Penances  were  removable  by  the  performance  of  acts  of 
charity  and  benevolence. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


35a 


Nor  leaves  her  speech  one  word  to  aid  the  sigh 
That  would  lament  her ; — Mempliis,  Tyre,  are  gone 
With  all  their  Arts,  — but  classic  Lore  glides  on. 

By  these  Religious  saved  for  all  posterity. 


XXVI. 

ALFRED. 

Behold  a Pupil  of  the  Monkish  gown. 

The  pious  Alfred,  King  to  Justice  dear! 

Lord  of  tl.e  harp  and  liberating  spear ; 

Mirror  of  Princes!  Indigent  Renown 
Might  range  the  starry  ether  for  a crown 
Equal  to  his  deserts,  who,  like  the  year. 

Pours  forth  his  bounty,  like  the  day  doth  cheer. 

And  awes  like  night  with  mercy-tempered  frown. 
Ease  from  this  noble  Miser  of  his  time 
No  moment  steals  ; pain  narrows  not  his  cares.* 
Though  small  his  kingdom  as  a spark  or  gem. 

Of  Alfred  boasts  remote  Jerusalem, 

And  Christian  India,  through  her  wide-spread  clime. 
In  sacred  converse  gifts  with  Alfred  shares. 

XXVII. 

ms  DESCENDANTS. 

Can  aught  survive  to  linger  in  the  veins 
Of  kindred  bodies  — an  essential  power 
That  may  not  vanish  in  one  fatal  hour. 

And  wholly  cast  away  terrestrial  chains  7 
The  race  of  Alfred  covet  glorious  pains 
When  dangers  threaten,  dangers  ever  new ! 

Black  tempests  bursting,  blacker  still  in  view  ' 

But  manly  sovereignty  its  hold  retains ; 

The  root  sincere,  the  branches  bold  to  strive 
With  the  fierce  tempest,  while,  within  the  round 
Of  their  protection,  gentle  virtues  thrive ; 

As  ofl,  ’mid  some  green  plot  of  open  ground. 

Wide  as  the  oak  extends  its  dewy  gloom. 

The  fostered  hyacinths  spread  their  purple  bloom. 


XXVIII. 

INFLUENCE  ABUSED. 

Urged  by  Ambition,  who  with  subtlest  skill 
Changes  her  means,  the  Enthusiast  as  a dupe 
Shall  soar,  and  as  a hypocrite  can  stoop. 

And  turn  the  instruments  of  good  to  ill. 

Moulding  the  credulous  People  to  his  will. 

Such  Du.nstan  ; — from  its  Benedictine  coop 
Issues  the  master  Mind,  at  whose  fell  swoop 
The  chaste  affections  tremble  to  fulfil 
Their  purposes.  Behold,  pre-signified. 

The  Might  of  spiritual  sway  ! his  thoughts,  his  dreams, 

* Through  the  whole  of  his  life,  Alfred  was  subject  to 
grievous  malad’CE. 


Do  in  the  supernatural  world  abide : 

So  vaunt  a throng  of  Followers,  filled  with  pride 
In  shows  of  virtue  pushed  to  its  extremes, 

And  sorceries  of  talent  misapplied. 


XXIX. 

DANISH  CONQUESTS. 

V/oE  to  the  Crown  that  doth  the  Cowl  obey  !f 
Dissension  checks  the  arms  that  would  restrain 
The  incessant  Rovers  of  the  Northern  Main  ; 

And  widely  spreads  once  more  a Pagan  sway  : 

But  Gospel-truth  is  potent  to  allay 
Fierceness  and  rage ; and  soon  the  cruel  Dane 
Feels,  through  the  influence  of  her  gentle  reign. 
His  native  superstitions  melt  away. 

Thus,  often,  when  thick  gloom  the  east  o’ershrouds. 
The  full-orbed  Moon,  slow-climbing,  doth  appear 
Silently  to  consume  the  heavy  clouds  ; 

How  no  one  can  resolve  ; but  every  eye 
Around  her  sees,  while  air  is  hushed,  a clear 
And  widening  circuit  of  ethereal  sky. 


XXX. 

CANUTE. 

A PLEASANT  music  floats  along  the  Mere, 

From  Monks  in  Ely  chanting  service  high, 

Whileas  Canute  the  King  is  rowing  by : 

“My  Oarsmen,”  quoth  the  mighty  King,  “draw  near 
“ That  w'e  the  sweet  song  of  the  Monks  may  hear!” 
He  listens  (all  past  conquests  and  all  schemes 
Of  future  vanishing  like  empty  dreams) 
Heart-touched,  and  haply  not  without  a tear. 

The  Royal  Minstrel,  ere  the  choir  is  still, 

While  his  free  Barge  skims  the  smooth  flood  along. 
Gives  to  that  rapture  an  accordant  Rhyme. I 
O suffering  Earth ! be  thankful ; sternest  clime 
And  rudest  age  are  subject  to  the  thrill 
Of  heaven-descended  Piety  and  Song. 


XXXI. 

THE  NORMAN  CONQUEST. 

The  woman-hearted  Confessor  prepares 
The  evanescence  of  the  Saxon  line. 

Hark  ! ’tis  the  tolling  Curfew  ! the  stars  shine, 

But  of  the  lights  that  cherish  household  cares 
And  festive  gladness,  burns  not  one  that  dares 

t The  violent  measures  carried  on  under  the  influence  ci 
Dunstan,  for  strengthening  the  Benedictine  Order,  were  a lead- 
ing cause  of  the  second  series  of  Danish  Invasions.  — .See 
Turner. 

t Which  is  still  extant 


354 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  twinkle  after  that  dull  stroke  of  thine, 

Emblem  and  instniment,  from  Thames  to  Tyne, 

Of  force  that  daunts,  and  cunning  that  ensnares ! 

Yet  as  the  terrors  of  the  lordly  bell. 

That  quench,  from  hut  to  palace,  lamps  and  fires. 
Touch  not  the  tapers  of  the  sacred  quires. 

Even  so  a thraldom  studious  to  expel 
Old  laws  and  ancient  customs  to  derange. 

Brings  to  Religion  no  injurious  change. 

XXXII. 

THE  COUNCIL  OF  CLERMONT. 

“ And  shall,”  the  Pontiff  asks,  “ profaneness  flow 
“From  Nazareth  — source  of  Christian  Piety, 

“ From  Bethlehem,  from  the  Mounts  of  Agony 
“ And  glorified  Ascension  1 Warriors,  go, 

“ With  prayers  and  blessings  we  your  path  will  sow ; 
“ Like  Moses  hold  our  hands  erect,  till  ye 
“ Have  chased  far  off  by  righteous  victory 
“ These  sons  of  Anialec,  or  laid  them  low  !” 

“God  wtLLETH  IT,”  the  whole  assembly  cry ; 

Shout  which  the  enraptured  multitude  astounds ! 

The  Council-roof  and  Clermont’s  towers  reply ; 

“God  willeth  it,”  from  hill  to  hill  rebounds. 

And,  in  awe-stricken  Countries  far  and  nigh. 

Through  “ Nature’s  hollow  arch”  the  voice  resounds.* 

XXXIII. 

CRUSADES. 

The  turbaned  Race  are  poured  in  thickening  swarms 
Along  the  West;  though  driven  from  Aquitaine, 

The  Crescent  glitters  on  the  towers  of  Spain; 

And  soft  Italia  feels  renewed  alarms; 

The  scimitar,  that  yields  not  to  the  charms 
Of  ease,  the  narrow  Bosphorus  will  disdain; 

Nor  long  (that  crossed)  would  Grecian  hills  detain 
Their  tents,  and  check  the  current  of  their  arms. 

Then  blame  not  those  who,  by  the  mightiest  lever 
Known  to  the  moral  world.  Imagination, 

Upheave  (so  seems  it)  from  her  natural  station 
All  Christendom  : — they  sweep  along  (was  never 
So  huge  a host!)  — to  tear  from  the  Unbeliever 
The  precious  Tomb,  their  haven  of  salvation. 

XXXIV. 

RICHARD  I 

Redoubted  King,  of  courage  leonine, 

I mark  thee,  Richard  ! urgent  to  equip 
Thy  warlike  person  with  the  staff  and  scrip; 

I watch  thee  sailing  o’er  the  midland  brine ; 

In  conquered  Cyprus  see  tby  Bride  decline 

*The  decision  of  this  council  was  believed  to  be  instantly 
lmov\  n in  remote  parts  of  Europe. 


Her  blushing  cheek,  love-vows  upon  her  lip. 

And  see  love-emblems  streatning  from  thy  ship. 

As  thence  she  holds  her  way  to  Palestine. 

My  Song,  (a  fearless  Homager)  would  attend 
Thy  thundering  battle-axe  as  it  cleaves  the  press 
Of  war,  but  duty  summons  her  away 
To  tell  — how,  finding  in  the  rash  distress 
Of  those  enthusiast  powers  a constant  Friend, 
Through  giddier  heights  hath  clomb  the  Papal  sway. 


XXXV. 

AN  INTERDICT. 

Realms  quake  by  turns : proud  Arbitress  of  grace. 
The  Church,  by  mandate  shadowing  forth  the  powei 
She  arrogates  o’er  heaven’s  eternal  door, 

Closes  the  gates  of  every  sacred  place. 

Straight  from  the  sun  and  tainted  air’s  embrace 
All  sacred  things  are  covered ; cheerful  morn 
Grows  sad  as  night  — no  seemly  garb  is  w'orn. 

Nor  is  a face  allowed  to  meet  a face 

With  natural  smile  of  greeting.  Bells  are  dumb 

Ditches  are  graves  — funereal  rites  denied; 

And  in  the  Church-yard  he  must  take  his  Bride 
Who  dares  be  wedded ! Fancies  thickly  come 
Into  the  pensive  heart  ill  fortified. 

And  comfortless  despairs  the  soul  benumb. 


XXXVI. 

PAPAL  ABUSES. 

As  wuth  the  Stream  our  voyage  we  pursue. 
The  gross  materials  of  this  world  present 
A marvellous  study  of  wild  accident ; 

Uncouth  proximities  of  old  and  new; 

And  bold  transfigurations,  more  untrue, 

(As  might  be  deemed)  to  disciplined  intent 
Than  aught  the  sky’s  fantastic  element. 

When  most  fantastic,  offers  to  the  view. 

Saw  we  not  Henry  scourged  at  Becket’s  shrine  1 
Lo ! John  self-stripped  of  his  insignia : — crown. 
Sceptre  and  mantle,  sword  and  ring,  laid  down 
At  a proud  Legate’s  feet ! The  spears  that  line 
Baronial  Halls,  the  opprobrious  insult  feel ; 
And  angry  Ocean  roars  a vain  appeal. 


XXXVII. 

SCENE  IN  VE.NTCE. 

Black  Demons  hovering  o’er  his  mitred  head. 

To  Caesar’s  Successor  the  Pontiff  spake ; 

“ Ere  I absolve  thee,  stoop ! that  on  thy  neck 
“ Levelled  with  Earth  this  foot  of  mine  may  tread." 
Then,  he,  who  to  the  Altar  had  been  led, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


He,  whose  strong  arm  the  Orient  could  not  check, 
He,  who  had  held  the  Soldan  at  his  beck, 

Stooped,  of  all  glory  disinherited. 

And  even  the  common  dignity  of  man  ! 
Amazement  strikes  the  crowd  ; — while  many  turn 
Their  eyes  away  in  sorrow,  others  burn 
With  scorn,  invoking  a vindictive  ban 
From  outraged  Nature;  but  the  sense  of  most 
In  abject  sympathy  with  power  is  lost. 

xxxvni. 

PAPAL  DOMINION. 

Unless  to  Peter’s  chair  the  viewless  wind 
Must  come  and  ask  permission  when  to  blow, 
What  further  empire  would  it  have  1 for  now 
A ghostly  Domination,  unconfined 
As  that  by  dreaming  Bards  to  Love  assigned. 

Sits  there  in  sober  truth  — to  raise  the  low. 
Perplex  the  wise,  the  strong  to  overthrow  — 
Through  earth  and  heaven  to  bind  and  to  unbind ! 
Resist  — the  thunder  quails  thee  ! — crouch  — rebuff 
Shall  be  thy  recompense ! from  land  to  land 
The  ancient  thrones  of  Christendom  are  stuff 
For  occupation  of  a magic  wand. 

And ’t  is  the  Pope  that  wields  it ; — whether  rough 
Or  smooth  his  front,  our  world  is  in  his  hand  ! 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 


PART  II. 

TO  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  TROUBLES  IN  THE 
REIGN  OF  CHARLES  I. 

I. 

CISTERTIAN  MONASTERY. 

' Here  Man  more  purely  lives,  less  oft  doth  fall,* 
More  •promptly  rises,  walks  loith  nicer  heed, 

" More  safely  rests,  dies  happier,  is  freed 
' Earlier  from  cleansing  fires,  and  gains  withal 
“A  brighter  crownf  — On  yon  Cistertian  wall 
That  confident  assurance  may  be  read  ; 

And,  to  like  shelter,  from  the  world  have  fled 
Increasing  multitudes.  The  potent  call 
Doubtless  shall  cheat  full  oft  the  heart’s  desires ; 

Vet,  while  the  rugged  Age  on  pliant  knee 
Vows  to  rapt  Fancy  humble  fealty, 

A gentler  life  spreads  round  the  holy  spires  ; 

Where’er  the}^  rise,  the  sylvan  waste  retires. 

And  aery  harvests  crown  the  fertile  lea. 

* “ Bonum  esf  nos  hie  esse,  qnia  homo  vivit  puriiis,  caditrariiis, 
surgif  velocius,  incedit  cautiiis,  qniescit  seeiiriiis,  moritur  felicius, 
purgatur  citius,  pr^mialur  copiosiiis.”  Bernard.  “This  sen- 
tence,” says  Dr.  Widtaker,  “ is  tisually  inscribed  on  some  con- 
spicuous part  of  the  Cistertian  houses.” 


II. 

RELAXATIONS  OF  THE  FEUDAL  SYSTEM. 

' Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground. 

His  whole  life  long  tills  it,  with  heartless  toil 
Of  villain-service,  passing  with  the  soil 
I To  each  new  Master,  like  a steer  or  hound, 

: Or  like  a rooted  tree,  or  stone  earth-bound  ; 

But,  mark  how  gladly,  through  their  own  domains, 
The  Monks  relax  or  break  these  iron  chains; 

While  ]\Iercy,  uttering,  through  their  voice,  a sound 
Echoed  in  Heaven,  cries  out,  “ye  Chiefs,  abate 
These  legalized  oppressions!  Man  whose  name 
And  Nature  God  di.sdained  not;  Man,  whose  soul 
Christ  died  for,  cannot  forfeit  his  high  claim 
To  live  and  move  exempt  from  all  control 
Which  fellow-feeling  doth  not  mitigate  !’’ 


III. 

MONKS  AND  SCHOOLMEN. 
Record  we  too,  with  just  and  faithful  pen. 
That  many  hooded  Cenobites  there  are. 

Who  in  their  private  Cells  have  yet  a care 
Of  public  quiet;  unambitious  Men, 
Counsellors  for  the  world,  of  piercing  ken; 
Whose  fervent  exhortations  from  afar 
Move  Princes  to  their  duty,  peace  or  war; 
And  oft-times  in  the  most  forbidding  den 
Of  solitude,  with  love  of  science  strong. 

How  patiently  the  yoke  of  thought  they  bear ! 
How  subtly  glide  its  finest  threads  along! 
Spirits  that  crowd  the  intellectual  sphere 
With  mazy  boundaries,  as  the  Astronomer 
With  orb  and  cycle  girds  the  starry  throng. 


IV. 

OTHER  BENEFITS. 

And,  not  in  vain  embodied  to  the  sight. 

Religion  finds  even  in  the  stern  retreat 
Of  feudal  Sway  her  own  appropriate  seat; 

From  the  Collegiate  pomps  on  Windsor’s  height, 
Down  to  the  humble  altar,  which  the  Knight 
And  his  Retainers  of  the  embattled  hall 
Seek  in  domestic  oratory  small. 

For  prayer  in  stillness,  or  the  chanted  rite ; 

Then  chiefly  dear,  when  foes  are  planted  round. 
Who  teach  the  intrepid  guardians  of  the  plare. 
Hourly  exposed  to  death,  with  famine  worn. 

And  suffering  under  many  a perilous  wound. 

How  sad  would  be  their  durance,  if  forlorn 
Of  offices  dispensing  heavenly  grace ! 


356 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


V. 

(CONTINUED. 

And  wliat  melodious  sounds  at  times  prevail ! 
And,  ever  and  anon,  how  brig-ht  a gleam 
Pours  on  the  surface  of  the  turbid  Stream ! 
What  heartfelt  fragrance  mingles  with  the  gale 
That  swells  the  bosom  of  our  passing  sail ! 

For  where,  but  on  this  River’s  margin,  blow 
Those  flowers  of  Chivalry,  to  bind  the  brow 
Of  hardiliood  with  wreaths  that  shall  not  fail  ? 
Fair  Court  of  Edward ! wonder  of  the  world ! 

I see  a matchless  blazonry  unfurled 
Of  wisdom,  magnanimity,  and  love ; 

And  meekness  tempering  honourable  pride ; 

The  Lamb  is  couching  by  the  Lion’s  side, 

And  near  the  flame-eyed  Eagle  sits  the  Dove. 


VI. 

CRUSADERS. 

Nor  can  Imagination  quit  the  shores 
Of  these  bright  scenes  without  a farewell  glance 
Given  to  those  dream-like  Issues  — that  Romance 
Of  many-coloured  life  which  Fortune  pours 
Round  the  Crusaders,  till  on  distant  shores 
Their  labours  end ; or  they  return  to  lie. 

The  vow  performed,  in  cross-legged  effigy. 

Devoutly  stretched  upon  their  chancel  floors. 

Am  I deceived  1 Or  is  their  requiem  chanted 
By  voices  never  mute  when  Heaven  unties 
Her  inmost,  softest,  tenderest  harmonies ; 

Requiem  which  Earth  takes  up  with  voice  undaunted. 
When  she  would  tell  how  Good,  and  Brave,  and  Wise, 
For  their  high  guerdon  not  in  vain  have  panted ! 


VII. 

TRANSUBSTANTIATION 

Enough!  for  see,  w’ith  dim  association 
The  tapers  burn ; the  odorous  incense  feeds 
A greedy  flame;  the  pompous  mass  proceeds; 
The  Priest  bestows  the  appointed  consecration; 
And,  while  the  Host  is  raised,  its  elevation 
An  awe  and  supernatural  horror  breeds. 

And  all  the  People  bow  their  heads,  like  reeds 
To  a soft  breeze,  in  lowly  adoration. 

This  Valdo  brooked  not.  On  the  banks  of  Rhone 
He  taught,  till  persecution  chased  him  thence 
To  adore  the  Invisible,  and  him  alone. 

Nor  were  his  Followers  loth  to  seek  defence, 
’Mid  woods  and  wilds,  on  Nature’s  craggy  throne, 
From  rites  that  trample  upon  soul  and  sense. 


VIII. 

THE  VAUDOIS. 

But  whence  came  they  who  for  the  Saviour  Lord 
Have  long  borne  witness  as  the  Scriptures  teach  ? 
Ages  ere  Valdo  raised  his  voice  to  preach 
In  Gallic  ears  the  unadulterate  Word, 

Their  fugitive  Progenitors  explored 
Subalpine  vales,  in  quest  of  safe  retreats 
Where  that  pure  Church  survives,  though  summer 
heats 

Open  a passage  to  the  Romish  sword. 

Far  as  it  dares  to  follow.  Herbs  self-sown. 

And  fruitage  gathered  from  the  chestnut  wood. 
Nourish  the  Sufferers  tlien ; and  mists,  that  brood 
O’er  chasms  with  new-fallen  obstacles  bestrewn. 
Protect  them;  and  the  eternal  snow  that  daunts 
Aliens,  is  God’s  good  winter  for  their  haunts. 


IX. 

CONTINUED. 

Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  mountain-springs 
Shouting  to  Freedom,  “ Plant  thy  Banners  here !” 
To  harassed  Piety,  “ Dismiss  thy  fear. 

And  in  our  caverns  smooth  thy  ruffled  wings!” 
Nor  be  unthanked  their  tardiest  lingerings 
’Mid  reedy  fens  wide-spread  and  marches  drear. 
Their  own  creation,  till  their  long  career 
End  in  the  sea  engulphed.  Such  welcomings 
As  came  from  mighty  Po  when  Venice  rose. 
Greeted  those  simple  Heirs  of  truth  divine 
Who  near  his  fountains  sought  obscure  repose. 
Yet  were  prepared  as  glorious  lights  to  shine. 
Should  that  be  needed  for  their  sacred  Charge ; 
Blest  Prisoners  They,  whose  spirits  are  at  large! 


X. 

WALDENSES. 

These  who  gave  earliest  notice,  as  the  Lark 
Springs  from  the  ground  the  morn  to  gratulate; 

Who  rather  rose  the  day  to  antedate. 

By  striking  out  a solitary  spark. 

When  all  the  world  with  midniglit  gloom  w’as  dark 
These  Harbingers  of  good,  whom  bitter  hate 
In  vain  endeavoured  to  exterminate. 

Fell  Obloquy  pursues  with  hideous  bark  ;* 

* The  list  of  foul  names  bestowed  upon  those  poor  creatures 
is  long  and  curious;  — and,  as  is,  alas!  too  natural,  most  of  the 
opprobrious  appellations  are  drawn  from  circumstances  into 
which  they  were  forced  by  their  persecutors,  who  even  consult, 
dated  their  miseries  into  one  reproachful  term,  calling  them  Pa- 
tarenians  or  Paturins,  from  pall,  to  suffer. 

Dwellers  with  wolves,  she  names  them,  for  the  Pine 
,\nd  green  Oak  are  their  covert ; as  the  gloom 
Of  night  oft  foils  their  Enemy’s  design. 

She  calls  them  Riders  on  the  ffying  broom ; 

Sorcerers,  whose  frameand  aspect  have  become 
One  and  the  same  through  practices  malign 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3.57 


But  they  desist  not;  — and  tlie  sacred  fire, 
Rekindled  thus,  from  dens  and  savage  woods 
Moves,  handed  on  with  never-ceasing  care, 
Through  courts,  through  camps,  o’er  limitary  floods; 
Nor  lacks  this  sea-girt  Isle  a timely  share 
Of  tlie  new  Flame,  not  suffered  to  expire. 


XI. 

ARCHBISHOP  CHICHELY  TO  HENRY  V. 

“ What  Beast  in  wilderness  or  cultured  field 
“ The  lively  beauty  of  the  Leopard  shows  1 
“ What  Flower  in  meadow-ground  or  garden  grows 
“ That  to  the  towering  Lily  doth  not  yield  I 
“ Let  both  meet  only  on  thy  royal  shield  ! 

“Go  forth,  great  King!  claim  what  thy  birth  bestows; 
“ Conquer  the  Gallic  Lily  which  thy  foes 
“ Dare  to  usurp;  — thou  hast  a sword  to  wiold, 

“And  Heaven  will  crown  the  right.”  — The  mitred 
Sire 

Thus  spake  — and  lo!  a Fleet,  for  Gaul  addrest. 
Ploughs  her  bold  course  across  the  wondering  seas ; 
For,  sooth  to  saj',  ambition,  in  the  breast 
Of  youthful  Heroes,  is  no  sullen  fire. 

But  one  that  leaps  to  meet  the  fanning  breeze. 


XII. 

WARS  OF  YORK  AND  LANCASTER. 

Thus  is  the  storm  abated  by  the  craft 
Of  a shrewd  Counsellor,  eager  to  protect 
The  Church,  whose  power  hath  recently  been  checked. 
Whose  monstrous  riches  threatened.  So  the  shaft 
Of  victory  mounts  high,  and  blood  is  quaffed 
In  fields  that  rival  Cressy  and  Poictiers  — 

Pride  to  be  washed  away  by  bitter  tears ! 

For  deep  as  hell  itselfj  the  avenging  draught 
Of  civil  slaughter.  Yet,  while  Temporal  power 
Is  by  these  shocks  exhausted.  Spiritual  truth 
Maintains  the  else  endangered  gift  of  life  ; 

Proceeds  from  infancy  to  lusty  youth ; 

And,  under  cover  of  this  woeful  strife. 

Gathers  unblighted  strength  from  hour  to  hour. 


XIII. 

W I C L I F F E. 

Once  more  the  Church  is  seized  with  sudden  fear. 

And  at  her  call  is  Wicliffe  disinhumed  : 

Yea,  his  dry  bones  to  ashes  are  consumed 
And  flung  into  the  brook  that  travels  near ; 

Forthwith,  that  ancient  Voice  which  Streams  can  hoar. 
Thus  speaks  (that  Voice  which  walks  upon  the  wind. 
Though  seldom  heard  by  busy  human  kind,) 


“ As  thou  these  ashes,  little  Brook  ! wilt  bear 
“ Into  the  Avon,  Avon  to  the  tide 
“ Of  Severn,  Severn  to  the  narrow  seas, 

“ Into  main  Ocean  they,  this  Deed  accurst 
“ An  emblem  yields  to  friends  and  enemies 
“How  the  bold  Teacher’s  Doctrine,  sanctified 
“ By  Truth,  shall  spread  thoughout  the  world  dis- 
persed.* 


XIV. 

CORRUPTIONS  OF  THE  HIGHER  CLERGY. 

“ Woe  to  you.  Prelates  ! rioting  in  ease 
“And  cumbrous  wealth  — the  shame  of  your  estate; 
“ You,  on  whose  progress  dazzling  trains  await 
“ Of  pompous  horses ; whom  vain  titles  please  ; 

“ Who  will  be  served  by  others  on  their  knees, 

“ Yet  will  yourselves  to  God  no  service  pay  ; 

“ Pastors  who  neither  take  nor  point  the  way 
“ To  Heaven;  for  either  lost  in  vanities 
“ Ye  have  no  skill  to  teach,  or  if  ye  know 

“And  speak  the  word ” Alas!  of  fearful  things 

’Tis  the  most  fearful  when  the  People’s  eye 
Abuse  hath  cleared  from  vain  imaginings; 

And  taught  the  general  voice  to  prophesy 
Of  Justice  armed,  and  Pride  to  be  laid  low. 


XV. 

ABUSE  OF  MONASTIC  POWER. 

And  what  is  Penance  with  her  knotted  thong. 
Mortification  with  the  shirt  of  hair. 

Wan  cheek,  and  knees  indurated  with  prayer. 

Vigils,  and  fastings  rigorous  as  long. 

If  cloistered  Avarice  scruple  not  to  wrong 
The  pious,  humble,  useful  Secular, 

And  rob  the  people  of  his  daily  care. 

Scorning  that  world  whose  blindness  makes  her  strong  ? 
Inversion  strange!  that  unto  One  who  lives 
For  self,  and  struggles  with  himself  alone. 

The  amplest  share  of  heavenly  favour  gives; 

That  to  a Monk  allots,  in  the  esteem 
Of  God  and  Man,  place  higher  than  to  him 
Who  on  the  good  of  others  builds  his  own  ! 


XVI. 

MONASTIC  VOLUPTUOUSNESS. 

Yet  more,  — round  many  a Convent’s  blazing  hre 
Unhallowed  threads  of  revelry  are  spun; 

There  Venus  sits  disguised  like  a Nun,  — 

While  Bacchus,  clothed  in  semblance  of  a Friar, 
Pours  out  his  choicest  beverage  high  and  higher 

* See  Note  19. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Like  ships  before  wliose  keels,  full  long  embayed 
In  polar  ice,  propitious  winds  have  made 
Unlooked-for  outlet  to  an  open  sea, 

Their  liquid  world,  for  bold  discovery. 

In  all  her  quarters  temptingly  displayed  ! 

Hope  guides  the  young ; but  when  the  old  must  p:iss 
The  threshold,  whither  shall  they  turn  to  find 
The  hospitality  — the  alms  (alas ! 

Alms  may  be  needed)  which  that  house  bestowed  ? 
Can  they,  in  faith  and  worship,  train  the  mind 
To  keep  this  new  and  questionable  road  1 

XX. 

SAINTS. 


358 


Sparkling,  until  it  cannot  choose  but  run 
Over  the  bowl,  whose  silver  lip  hath  won 
An  instant  kiss  of  masterful  desire  — 

To  stay  the  precious  waste.  Through  every  brain 
The  domination  of  the  sprightly  juice 
Spreads  high  conceits  to  madding  Fancy  dear. 

Till  the  arched  roof,  with  resolute  abuse 
Of  its  grave  echoes,  swells  a choral  strain. 

Whose  votive  burthen  is — “Our  kingdom’s  here  !” 


XVII. 

DISSOLUTION  OF  THE  MONASTERIES. 
Threats  come  which  no  submission  may  assuage ; 
No  sacrifice  avert,  no  power  dispute ; 

The  tapers  shall  be  quenched,  the  belfries  mute. 
And,  ’mid  their  choirs  unroofed  by  selfish  rage, 

The  warbling  wren  shall  find  a leafy  cage ; 

The  gadding  bramble  hang  her  purple  fruit ; 

And  the  green  lizard  and  the  gilded  new  t 
Lead  unmolested  lives,  and  die  of  age.* 

The  owl  of  evening  and  the  woodland  fo.N 

For  their  abode  the  shrines  of  Waltham  choose : 

Proud  Glastonbury  can  no  more  refuse 

To  stoop  her  head  before  these  desperate  shocks  — 

She  whose  high  pomp  displaced,  as  story  tells, 

Arimathean  Joseph’s  wattled  cells. 


XVIII. 

THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 

The  lovely  Nun  (submissive,  but  more  meek 
Through  saintly  habit  than  from  effort  due 
To  unrelenting  mandates  that  pursue 
With  equal  wrath  the  s.eps  of  strong  and  weak) 
Goes  forth  — unveiling  timidly  her  cheek 
Suffused  with  blushes  of  celestial  hue, 

While  through  the  Convent  gate  to  open  view 
Softly  she  glides,  another  home  to  seek. 

Not  Iris,  issuing  from  her  cloudy  shrine, 

An  Apparition  more  divinely  bright ! 

Not  more  attractive  to  the  dazzled  sight 
Those  watery  glories,  on  the  stormy  brine 
Poured  forth,  while  summer  suns  at  distance  shine. 
And  the  green  vaies  lie  hushed  in  sober  light  t 


XIX. 

CONTINUED. 

Yet  some.  Noviciates  of  the  cloistral  shade. 

Or  chained  by  vows,  with  undissembled  glee 
The  warrant  hail  — exulting  to  be  free  ; 

* These  two  lines  are  adopted  from  a IMS.,  written  about  the 
year  1770,  which  accidentally  fell  into  my  possession.  The 
"lose  of  the  preceding  Sonnet  on  monastic  voluptuonsncss  is 
taken  from  the  same  source,  as  is  the  verse,  “ Where  Venus 
•its,”  &C. 


[ Ye,  too,  must  fly  before  a chasing  hand, 

Angels  and  Saints,  in  every  hamlet  mourned  ! 

Ah ! if  the  old  idolatry  be  spurned. 

Let  not  your  radiant  Shapes  desert  the  Land : 

Her  adoration  was  not  your  demand. 

The  fond  heart  proffered  it  — the  servile  heart ; 

And  therefore  are  ye  summoned  to  depart, 

Michael,  and  thou,  St.  George,  whose  flaming  brand 
The  Dragon  quelled  ; and  valiant  Margaret 
Whose  rival  sword  a like  Opponent  slew  : 

And  rapt  Cecilia,  seraph-haunted  Queen 
Of  harmony  ; and  weeping  Magdalene, 

Who  in  the  penitential  desert  met 
Gales  sweet  as  those  that  over  Eden  blew  ! 


XXL 

THE  VIRGIN. 

Mother  ! whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost 
With  the  least  shade  of  thought  to  sin  allied ; 
Woman  ! above  all  women  glorified. 

Our  tainted  nature’s  solitary  boast ; 

Purer  than  foam  on  central  Ocean  tost 
Brighter  than  eastern  skies  at  daybreak  strewn 
With  fancied  roses,  than  the  unblemished  moon 
Before  her  wane  begins  on  heaven’s  blue  coast; 
Thy  Image  falls  to  earth.  Yet  some,  I ween. 
Not  iinforgiven  the  suppliant  knee  might  bend. 
As  to  a visible  Power,  in  which  did  blend 
All  that  was  mixed  and  reconciled  in  Thee 
Of  mother’s  love  with  maiden  purity. 

Of  high  with  low,  celestial  with  terrene ! 


XXII. 

APOLOGY. 

Not  utterly  unworthy  to  endure 
Was  the  supremacy  of  crafty  Rome  ; 

Age  after  age  to  the  arch  of  Christendom 
Aerial  keystone  haughtily  secure; 
Supremaev  from  Heaven  transmitted  pure, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


r,n!) 


As  many  hold ; ami,  tlierefore,  to  the  tomb 

Pass,  some  through  fire  — and  by  the  scaffold  some  — 

Like  saintly  Fisher,  and  unbending  More. 

“ Liglitly  for  both  the  bosom’s  lord  did  sit 
“ Upon  his  throne  unsoftened,  undismayed 
By  aught  that  mingled  with  the  tragic  scene 
Of  pity  or  fear;  and  More’s  gay  genius  played 
With  the  inoffensive  sword  of  native  wit, 

Than  the  bare  axe  more  luminous  and  keen. 


xxm. 

IMAGINATUT  REGRETS. 

Deep  is  the  lamentation  ! Not  alone 
From  Sages  justly  honoured  by  mankind, 

But  from  the  ghostly  Tenants  of  the  vvind. 

Demons  and  Spirits,  many  a dolorous  groaii 
Issues  for  that  dominion  overthrown; 

Proud  Tiber  grieves,  and  far-off  Ganges,  blind 
As  his  own  worshippers:  — and  Nile,  reclined 
Upon  his  monstrous  urn,  the  farewell  moan 
Renews.  — Through  every  forest,  cave,  and  den. 
Where  frauds  were  hatched  of  old,  hath  sorrow  past — 
Hangs  o’er  the  Arabian  Prophet’s  native  Waste, 
Where  once  his  airy  helpers  schemed  and  planned, 
'Mid  phantom  lakes  bemocking  thirsty  men. 

And  stalking  pillars  built  of  fiery  sand. 


XXIV. 

REFLECTIONS. 

Grant,  that  by  this  unsparing  Hurricane 
Green  leaves  with  yellow  mixed  are  torn  away. 
And  goodly  fruitage  with  the  mother  spray, 

’Twere  madness  — wished  we,  therefore  to  detain, 
With  hands  stretched  forth  in  mollified  disdain. 

The  “ trumpery”  that  ascends  in  bare  display,  — 
Bulls,  pardons,  relics,  cowls  black,  white,  and  gray, 
Upwhirled — and  flying  o’er  the  ethereal  plain 
Fast  bound  for  Limbo  Lake.  — And  yet  not  choice 
But  habit  rules  the  unreflecting  herd. 

And  airy  bonds  are  hardest  to  disown  ; 

Hence,  with  the  spiritual  sovereignty  transferred 
Unto  itself,  the  Crown  assumes  a voice 
Of  reckless  mastery,  hitherto  unknown. 


XXV. 

TRANSLATION  OF  THE  BIBLE. 

But,  to  outweigh  all  harm,  the  sacred  Book, 

In  dusty  sequestration  wrapt  too  long. 

Assumes  the  accents  of  our  native  tongue ; 

And  he  who  guides  the  plough,  or  wields  the  crook. 
With  understanding  spirit  now  may  Jook 


Upon  her  records,  listen  to  her  song. 

And  sift  lier  laws  — much  wondering  that  tlie  wrong. 
Which  faith  has  suffered,  Heaven  could  calmly  brook. 
Transcendent  Boon!  noblest  that  earthly  King 
Ever  bestowed  to  equalize  and  bless 
Under  the  weight  of  mortal  wretchedness ! 

But  passions  spread  like  plagues,  and  thousands  wild 
With  bigotry  shall  tread  the  Offering 
Beneath  their  feet  — detested  and  defiled. 


XXVI. 

THE  POINT  AT  ISSUE. 

For  what  contend  the  wise  1 for  nothing  less 
Than  that  the  Soul,  freed  from  the  bonds  of  Sense, 
And  to  her  God  restored  by  evidence 
Of  things  not  seen  — drawn  forth  from  their  recess. 
Root  there,  and  not  in  forms,  her  holiness ; 

For  Faith  which  to  the  Patriarchs  did  dispense 

Sure  guidance,  ere  a ceremonial  fence 

Was  needful  round  men  thirsting  to  transgress; 

For  Faith,  more  perfect  still,  with  which  the  Lord 
Of  all,  himself  a Spirit,  in  the  youth 
Of  Christian  aspiration,  deigned  to  fill 
The  temples  of  their  hearts  — who,  with  his  word 
Informed,  were  resolute  to  do  his  will. 

And  worship  him  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 


XXVII. 

EDWARD  VI. 

“ Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  Youth”  — so  felt 
Time-honoured  Chaucer,  when  he  framed  the  lay 
By  which  the  Prioress  beguiled  the  way. 

And  many  a Pilgrim’s  rugged  heart  did  melt. 
Hadst  thou,  loved  Bard  ! whose  spirit  often  dwelt 
In  the  clear  land  of  vision,  but  fore.seen 
King,  Child,  and  Seraph,  blended  in  the  mien 
Of  pious  Edward  kneeling  as  he  knelt 
In  meek  and  simple  Infancy,  what  joy 
For  universal  Christendom  had  thrilled 
Thy  heart!  what  hopes  inspired  thy  genius,  skilled 
(O  great  Precursor,  genuine  morning  Star) 

The  lucid  shafts  of  reason  to  employ. 

Piercing  the  Papal  darkness  from  afar  ! 


XXVIII. 

EDWARD  SIGNING  THE  WARRANT  FOR  'IHE  EXE- 
CUTION OF  JOAN  OF  KENT. 

The  tears  of  man  in  various  measure  gush 
From  various  sources ; gently  overflow 
From  blissful  transport  some  — from  clefts  of  woe 
Some  with  ungovernable  impulse  rush ; 

And  some,  coeval  with  the  earliest  blush 


360 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  infant  passion,  scarcely  dare  to  show 
Their  pearly  lustre  — coming  but  to  go; 

And  some  break  forth  when  others’  sorrows  crush 
The  sympathising  heart.  Nor  these,  nor  yet 
TJie  noblest  drops  to  admiration  known. 

To  gratitude,  to  injuries  forgiven. 

Claim  Heaven’s  regard  like  waters  that  have  wet 
The  innocent  eyes  of  youthful  Monarclis  driven 
To  pen  the  mandates,  nature  doth  disown. 


XXIX. 

REVIVAL  OF  POPERY. 

'f'nE  saintly  Youth  has  ceased  to  rule,  discrowned 

By  unrelenting  Death.  O People  keen 

For  change,  to  whom  the  new  looks  always  green ! 

Rejoicing  did  they  cast  upon  the  ground 

Their  Gods  of  wood  and  stone ; and,  at  the  sound 

Of  counter-proclamation,  now  are  seen, 

(Proud  triumph  is  it  for  a sullen  Queen  !) 

Lifting  them  up,  the  worship  to  confound 
Of  the  Most  High.  Again  do  they  invoke 
The  Creature,  to  the  Creature  glory  give ; 

Again  with  frankincense  the  altars  smoke 

Like  those  the  Heathen  served  ; and  mass  is  sung ; 

And  prayer,  man’s  rational  prerogative. 

Runs  through  blind  channels  of  an  unknown  tongue. 

XXX. 

LATIMER  AND  RIDLEY. 

How  fast  the  Marian  death-list  is  unrolled! 

See  Latimer  and  Ridley  in  the  might 
Of  Faith  stand  coupled  for  a common  flight ! 

One  (like  those  Prophets  whom  God  sent  of  old) 
Transfigured*,  from  this  kindling  hath  foretold 
A torch  of  inextinguishable  light; 

The  Other  gains  a confidence  as  bold  ; 

And  thus  they  foil  their  enemy’s  despite. 

The  penal  instruments,  the  shows  of  crime, 

Are  glorified  while  this  once-mitred  pair 
Of  saintly  Friends  “the  Murtherer’s  chain  partake, 
Corded,  and  burning  at  the  social  stake:” 

Earth  never  witnessed  object  more  sublime 
In  constancy,  in  fellowship  more  fair ! 


XXXI. 

C R A N M E R . 

OuTSTnETCHiNG  flame-ward  his  upbraided  hand 
(O  God  of  mercy,  may  no  earthly  t^eat 
Of  judgment  such  presumptuous  doom  repeat !) 
Amid  the  shuddering  throng  doth  Cranuier  stand  ; 
Firm  as  the  stake  to  which  with  iron  band 


His  frame  is  tied  ; firm  from  the  naked  feet 
To  the  bare  head,  the  victory  complete; 

The  shrouded  Body,  to  the  Soul’s  command. 
Answering  with  more  than  Indian  fortitude. 

Through  all  her  nerves  with  finer  sense  endued. 

Till  breath  departs  in  blissful  aspiration : 

Then,  ’mid  the  ghastly  ruins  of  the  fire. 

Behold  the  unalterable  heart  entire. 

Emblem  of  faith  untouched,  miraculous  attestation  ly 

XXXII. 

GENERAL  VIEW  OF  THE  TROUBIJIS  OF  THE 
REFORMATION. 

Aid,  glorious  Martyrs,  from  your  fields  of  light. 

Our  mortal  ken  ! Inspire  a perfect  trust 

(While  we  look  round)  that  Heaven’s  decrees  are  just: 

Which  few  can  hold  committed  to  a fight 

That  shows,  ev’n  on  its  better  side,  the  might 

Of  proud  Self-will,  Rapacity,  and  Lust, 

’Mid  clouds  enveloped  of  polemic  dust. 

Which  showers  of  blood  seem  rather  to  incite 
Than  to  allay.  — Anathemas  are  hurled 
From  both  sides ; veteran  thunders  (the  brute  test 
Of  Truth)  are  met  by  fulminations  new  — 

Tartarian  flags  are  caught  at,  and  unfurled  — 

Friends  strike  at  Friends — the  flying  shall  pursue  — 
And  Victory  sickens,  ignorant  where  to  rest ! 

XXXIII. 

ENGLISH  REFORMERS  IN  EXILE. 
Scattering,  like  Birds  escaped  the  Fowler’s  net, 
Some  seek  with  timely  flight  a foreign  strand 
IMost  happy,  re-assembled  in  a land 
By  dauntless  Luther  freed,  could  they  forget 
Their  Country’s  w'oes.  But  scarcely  have  they  met. 
Partners  in  faith,  and  Brothers  in  distress. 

Free  to  pour  forth  their  common  thankfulness. 

Ere  hope  declines;  their  union  is  beset 
With  speculative  notions  rashly  sown. 

Whence  thickly-sprouting  growth  of  poisonous  weeds; 
Their  forms  are  broken  staves  ; their  passions  steeds 
That  master  them.  How  enviably  blest 
Is  he  who  can,  by  help  of  grace,  enthrone 
The  peace  of  God  within  his  single  breast  1 


XXXIV. 

ELIZABETH. 

Hail,  Virgin  Queen  I o’er  many  an  envions  bar 
Triumphant — snatched  from  many  a treacherous  wile! 
All  hail,  Sage  Lady,  whom  a grateful  Isle 
Hath  blest,  respiring  from  that  dismal  war 
Stilled  by  thy  voice ! But  quickly  from  afar 


See  Note  20. 


t For  the  belief  in  tliis  fact,  see  tlie  contemporary  Historians. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


361 


Defiance  breathes  with  more  malignant  aim ; 

And  alien  storms  with  home-bred  ferments  claim 
Portentous  fellowship.  Her  silver  car, 

By  sleepless  prudence  ruled,  glides  slowly  on  ; 
Unhurt  by  violence,  from  menaced  taint 
Emerging  pure,  and  seemingly  more  bright ; 

For,  wheresoe’er  she  moves,  the  clouds  anon 
Disperse  ; or,  under  a divine  constraint. 

Reflect  some  portion  of  her  glorious  light. 


XXXV. 

EMINENT  REFORMERS. 

Methinks  that  I could  trip  o’er  heaviest  soil. 

Light  as  a buoyant  Bark  from  wave  to  wave. 

Were  mine  the  trusty  Staff  that  Jewel  gave 
To  youthful  Hooker,  in  familiar  style 
The  gift  e.xalting,  and  with  playful  smile:* 

For  thus  equipped,  and  bearing  on  his  head 
The  Donor’s  farewell  blessing,  can  he  dread 
Tempest,  or  length  of  way,  or  weight  of  toil  1 
Jlore  sweet  than  odours  caught  by  him  who  sails 
Near  spicy  shores  of  Araby  the  blest, 

A thousand  times  more  e.xquisitely  sweet. 

The  freight  of  holy  feeling  which  we  meet. 

In  thoughtful  moments,  wafted  by  the  gales 
From  fields  where  good  men  walk,  or  bowers  wherein 
they  rest. 

XXXVI. 

THE  SAME. 

Holy  and  heavenly  Spirits  as  they  are. 

Spotless  in  life,  and  eloquent  as  wise. 

With  what  entire  affection  do  they  prize 
Their  new-born  Church  ! labouring  with  earnest 
To  baffle  all  that  may  her  strength  impair ; 

That  Church  — the  unperverted  Gospel’s  seat; 

In  their  afflictions  a divine  retreat; 

Source  of  their  liveliest  hope,  and  tenderest  prayer ! 
The  Truth  exploring  with  an  equal  mind. 

In  doctrine  and  communion  they  have  sought 
Firmly  between  the  two  extremes  to  steer ; 

But  theirs  the  wise  man’s  ordinary  lot. 

To  trace  right  courses  for  the  stubborn  blind. 

And  prophesy  to  ears  that  will  not  hear. 

XXXVII. 

DISTRACTIONS. 

Me.n,  who  have  ceased  to  reverence,  soon  defy 
Their  Forefathers;  lo!  Sects  are  formed  — and  split 
With  morbid  restlessness,  — the  ecstatic  fit 


* See  Nole  21. 
2V 


Spreads  wide;  though  special  mysteries  multiply. 
The  Saints  must  govern,  is  their  common  cry ; 
And  so  they  labour,  deeming  Holy  Writ 
Disgraced  by  aught  that  seems  content  to  sit 
Beneath  the  roof  of  settled  Modesty. 

The  Romanist  exults;  fresh  hope  he  draws 
From  the  confusion  — craftily  incites 
The  overweening — personates  the  madf  — 

To  heap  disgust  upon  the  worthier  Cause : 

Totters  the  Throne;  the  new'-born  Church  is  sad 
For  every  wave  against  her  peace  unites. 


xxxvni. 

GUNPOWDER  PLOT. 

Fear  hath  a hundred  eyes  that  all  agree 

To  plague  her  beating  heart;  and  there  is  one 

(Nor  idlest  that!)  which  holds  communion 

With  things  that  were  not,  yet  were  meant  to  b( 

Aghast  within  its  gloomy  cavity 

That  eye  (which  sees  as  if  fulfilled  and  done 

Crimes  that  might  stop  the  motion  of  the  sun) 

Beholds  the  horrible  catastrophe 

Of  an  assembled  Senate  unredeemed 

From  subterraneous  Treason’s  darkling  power 

Merciless  act  of  sorrow  infinite  ! 

Worse  than  the  product  of  that  dismal  night. 
When  gushing,  copious  as  a thunder-shower. 
The  blood  of  Hugenots  through  Paris  streamed 


XXXIX. 

THE  JUNG-FRAU  AND  THE  FALL  OF  THE  RHINE 
NE.tR  SCHAFFIIAUSEN. 

(AN  ILLUSTRATION.) 

The  Virgin  Mountain!,  wearing  like  a Queen 
A brilliant  crown  of  everlasting  Snow, 

Sheds  ruin  from  her  sides ; and  men  below 
Wonder  that  aught  of  aspect  so  serene 
Can  link  with  desolation.  Smooth  and  green. 

And  seeming,  at  a little  distance,  slow. 

The  waters  of  the  Rhine ; but  on  they  go 
Fretting  and  whitening,  keener  and  more  keen. 

Till  madness  seizes  on  the  whole  wnde  Flood, 

Turned  to  a fearful  Thing  whose  nostrils  breathe 
Blasts  of  tempestuous  smoke — wherewith  he  tries 
To  hide  himself,  but  only  magnifies; 

And  doth  in  more  conspicuous  torment  W'rithe, 
Deafening  the  region  in  his  ireful  mood. 

t A common  device  in  religious  and  political  conflicts.  — See 
Strj/pe  in  support  of  this  instance. 
t The  Jung-frau. 


362 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XL. 

TROUBLES  OF  CHARLES  THE  FIRST 
Even  such  the  contrast  that,  where’er  we  move, 

To  the  mind’s  eye  Religion  doth  present ; 

Now  with  her  own  deep  quietness  content; 

Then,  like  the  mountain,  thundering  from  above 
Against  the  ancient  Pine-trees  of  the  grove 
And  the  Land’s  humblest  comforts.  Now  her  mood 
Recalls  the  transformation  of  the  flood. 

Whose  rage  the  gentle  skies  in  vain  reprove, 

Earth  cannot  check,  O terrible  excess 
Of  headstrong  will ! Can  this  be  Piety  1 
No  — some  fierce  Maniac  hath  usurped  her  name ; 
And  scourges  England  struggling  to  be  free : 

Her  peace  destroyed  ! her  hopes  a wilderness ! 

Her  blessings  cursed  — her  glory  turned  to  shame  ! 


XLI. 

LAUD.* 

Prejudged  by  foes  determined  not  to  spare. 

An  old  weak  Man  for  vengeance  thrown  aside. 
Laud  “ in  the  painful  art  of  dying”  tried 
(Like  a poor  Bird  entangled  in  a Snare 
Whose  heart  still  flutters,  though  his  wings  forbear 
To  stir  in  useless  struggle)  hath  relied 
On  hope  that  conscious  Innocence  supplied. 

And  in  his  prison  breathes  celestial  air. 

Why  tarries  then  thy  Chariot!  Wherefore  stay, 

O Death  ! the  ensanguined  yet  triumphant  wheels. 
Which  thou  prepar’st,  full  often  to  convey 
(What  time  a State  with  madding  faction  reels) 
The  Saint  or  Patriot  to  the  world  that  heals 
All  wounds,  all  perturbations  doth  allay ! 


XLII. 

AFFLICTIONS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Harp  ! could’st  thou  venture,  on  thy  boldest  string. 
The  faintest  note  to  echo  which  the  blast 
Caught  from  the  hand  of  Moses  as  it  past 
O’er  Sinai’s  top,  or  from  the  Shepherd  King, 

Early  awake,  by  Siloa’s  brook,  to  sing 
Of  dread  Jehovah ; then,  should  wood  and  waste 
Hear  also  of  that  name,  and  mercy  cast 
Off  to  the  mountains,  like  a covering 
Of  which  the  Lord  was  weary.  Weep,  oh  ! weep. 
Weep  with  the  good,  beholding  King  and  Priest 
Despised  by  that  stern  God  to  whom  they  raise 
Their  suppliant  hands;  but  holy  is  the  feast 
He  keepeth  ; like  the  firmament  his  ways. 

His  statues  like  the  chambers  of  the  deep. 

♦ See  Note  22. 


ECCLESIASTICAL  SKETCHES. 
PART  III. 

FEOM  THE  RESTORATION  TO  THE  PRESENT  TIMES 

I. 

I SAW  the  figure  of  a lovely  Maid 
Seated  alone  beneath  a darksome  Tree, 

Whose  fondly  overhanging  canopy 
Set  off  her  brightness  with  a pleasing  shade. 
Substance  she  seemed  (and  that  my  heart  betrayed. 
For  she  was  one  I loved  exceedingly ;) 

But  while  I gazed  in  tender  reverie 

(Or  was  it  sleep  that  with  my  Fancy  played!) 

The  bright  corporeal  presence,  form,  and  face. 
Remaining  still  distinct,  grew  thin  and  rare. 

Like  sunny  mist ; at  length  the  golden  hair. 

Shape,  limbs,  and  heavenly  features,  keeping  pace 
Each  with  the  other,  in  a lingering  race 
Of  dissolution,  melted  into  air. 


II. 

PATRIOTIC  SYMPATHIES. 

Last  night,  without  a voice,  this  Vision  spake 
Fear  to  my  Spirit  — passion  that  might  seem 
Wholly  dissevered  from  our  present  theme ; 

Yet,  my  beloved  Country,  I partake 
Of  kindred  agitations  for  thy  sake  ; 

Thou,  too,  dost  visit  oft  my  midnight  dream  ; 

Thy  glory  meets  me  with  the  earliest  beam 
Of  light,  which  tells  that  morning  is  awake. 

If  aught  impair  thy  beauty  or  destroy. 

Or  but  forbode  destruction,  I deplore 
With  filial  love  the  sad  vicissitude  ; 

If  thou  hast  fallen,  and  righteous  Heaven  restore 
The  prostrate,  then  my  spring-time  is  renewed. 
And  sorrow  bartered  for  exceeding  joy. 


HI. 

CHARLES  THE  SECOND. 

Who  comes  with  rapture  greeted,  and  caress’d 
With  frantic  love  — his  kingdom  to  regain ! 
Him  Virtue’s  Nurse,  Adversity,  in  vain 
Received,  and  fostered  in  her  iron  breast : 

For  all  she  taught  of  hardiest  and  of  best. 

Or  would  have  taught,  by  discipline  of  pain 
And  long  privation,  now  dissolves  amain, 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3G3 


Or  is  remembered  only  to  give  zest 
To  wantonness.  — Away,  Circean  revels ! 

Already  stands  our  Country  on  the  brink 
Of  bigot  rage,  that  all  distinction  levels 
Of  truth  and  falsehood,  swallowing  the  good  name. 
And,  with  that  drauglit,  tlie  life-blood  : misery,  shame. 
By  Poets  loathed  ; from  which  Historians  shrink  ! 


IV. 

LATITUDINAKIANIS.M. 

Yet  Truth  is  keenly  .sought  for,  and  the  wind 
Charged  with  rich  words  poured  out  in  thought’s  de- 
fence ; 

Whether  tlie  Church  inspire  that  eloquence. 

Or  a Platonic  Piety  confined 

To  the  sole  temple  of  tlie  inward  mind  ; 

And  One  there  is  who  builds  immortal  lays. 

Though  doomed  to  tread  in  solitary  ways. 

Darkness  before,  and  danger's  voice  behind  ! 

Yet  not  alone,  nor  helpless  to  repel 

Sad  thoughts  ; for  from  above  tlie  starry  sphere 

Come  secrets,  whispered  nightly  to  his  ear; 

And  the  pure  spirit  of  celestial  light 

Shines  through  his  soul — “that  he  may  see  and  tell 

Of  things  invisible  to  mortal  sight.” 

V. 

CLERICAL  INTEGRITY. 

Nor  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject 
Those  Unconforming  ; whom  one  rigorous  day 
Drives  from  their  Cures,  a voluntary  prey 
To  poverty,  and  grief,  and  disrespect. 

And  some  to  want  — as  if  by  tempest  wrecked 
On  a wild  coast ; how  destitute  ! did  They 
Feel  not  that  Conscience  never  can  betray. 

That  peace  of  mind  is  Virtue’s  sure  effect. 

Their  Altars  they  forego,  their  homes  they  quit. 

Fields  which  they  love,  and  paths  they  daily  trod. 

And  cast  the  future  upon  Providence  ; 

As  men  the  dictate  of  whose  inward  sense 
Outweighs  the  world  ; whom  self-deceiving  wit 
I.ures  not  from  what  they  deem  the  cause  of  God. 


VI. 

PERSECLTION  OF  THE  SCOTTISH  COVENANTERS. 

When  Alpine  Vales  threw  forth  a suppliant  cry. 

The  majesty  of  England  interposed 
And  the  sword  stopped  ; the  bleeding  wounds  W'ere 
closed ; 

And  Faith  preserved  her  ancient  purity. 

How  little  boots  that  precedent  of  good. 

Scorned  or  forgotten.  Thou  canst  testify. 

For  England’s  shame,  O Sister  Realm  ! from  wood, 


Mountain,  and  moor,  and  crowded  street,  where  lie 
The  headless  martyrs  of  the  Covenant, 

Slain  by  Compatriot-proteslants  that  draw 
From  councils  senseless  as  intolerant 
Their  warrant.  Bodies  fall  by  wild  sword-law; 
But  who  w'ould  force  the  Soul,  tilts  willi  a stratv 
Against  a Champion  cased  in  adamant. 


VH. 

ACQUITTAL  OF  THE  BISHOPS. 

A VOICE,  from  long-expecting  thousands  sent. 
Shatters  the  air,  and  troubles  tower  and  spire  — 

For  Justice  hath  absolved  the  Innocent, 

And  Tyranny  is  balked  of  her  desire; 

Up.  down,  the  busy  Thames  — rapid  as  fire 
Coursing  a train  of  gunpowder  — it  went. 

And  transport  finds  in  every  street  a vent. 

Till  the  wliole  City  rings  like  one  vast  quire. 

The  Fathers  urge  the  People  to  be  still, 

W’ith  outstretched  hands  and  earnest  speech — in  vain 
Yea,  many,  haply  wont  to  entertain 
Small  reverence  for  the  Mitre’s  offices. 

And  to  Religion’s  self  no  friendly  will, 

A Prelate’s  blessing  ask  on  bended  knees. 


VIII. 

WILLI  A. M THE  THIRD. 

Calm  as  an  under  cuirent  — strong  to  draw 
Millions  of  waves  into  itself,  and  run, 

'From  sea  to  sea,  impervious  to  the  sun 
And  ploughing  storm  — the  spirit  of  Nassau 
(By  constant  impulse  of  religious  awe 
Svvayed,  and  thereby  enabled  to  contend 
Witli  the  wide  world’s  commotions)  from  its  end 
Swerves  not  — diverted  by  a casual  law. 

Had  mortal  action  e’er  a nobler  scope  7 
The  Hero  comes  to  liberate,  not  defy; 

And,  while  he  marches  on  with  righteous  hope, 
Conqueror  beloved  ! expected  anxiously  ! 

The  vacillating  Bondman  of  the  Pope 
Shrinks  from  the  verdict  of  his  steadfast  eye. 


IX. 

OBLIGATIONS  OF  CIVIL  TO  REUGIOUS  LIBERTY 

Ungrateful  Country,  if  thou  e’er  forget 
The  sons  who  for  thy  civil  rights  have  bled ! 

How,  like  a Roman,  Sidney  bowed  his  head, 

And  Russel’s  milder  blood  the  scaffold  wet; 

But  these  had  fallen  for  profitless  regret. 

Had  not  thy  holy  Church  her  Champions  bred, 

And  claims  from  other  worlds  inspirited 


364 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Star  of  Liberty  to  rise.  Nor  yet 
(Grave  this  within  thy  heart!)  if  spiritual  things 
Be  lost,  through  apathy,  or  scorn,  or  fear, 

Shalt  thou  thy  humbler  franchises  support. 

However  hardly  won  or  justly  dear: 

What  came  from  heaven  to  heaven  by  nature  clings, 
And  if  dissevered  thence,  its  course  is  short. 


X. 

WALTON’S  BOOK  OF  LIVES. 

There  are  no  colours  in  the  fairest  sky 
So  fair  as  these.  The  feather,  whence  the  pen 
Was  shaped  that  traced  the  lives  of  these  good  men. 
Dropped  from  an  angel’s  wing.  With  moistened  eye 
We  read  of  faith  and  purest  charity 
In  Statesman,  Priest,  and  humble  Citizen: 

O could  we  copy  their  mild  virtues,  then 
What  joy  to  live,  what  blessedness  to  die  ! 

Methinks  their  very  names  shine  still  and  bright; 
Apart  — like  glow-worms  on  a summer  night ; 

Or  lonely  tapers  when  from  far  they  fling 
A guiding  ray  ; or  seen  like  stars  on  high. 

Satellites  burning  in  a lucid  ring 
Around  meek  Walton’s  heavenly  memory. 


That  slackens,  and  spreads  wide  a watery  gleam, 

We,  nothing  loth  a lingering  course  to  measure, 

May  gather  up  our  thoughts,  and  mark  at  leisure 
How  widely  spread  the  interests  of  our  theme. 

XIII 

ASPECTS  OF  CHRISTIANITY  IN  AMERICA.* 

I. — THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they 

Who  with  sad  hearts,  of  friends  and  country  took 

A last  farewell,  their  loved  abodes  forsook. 

And  hallowed  ground  in  which  their  fathers  lay ; 

Then  to  the  new-found  World  explored  their  way, 
That  so  a Church,  unforced,  uncalled  to  brook 
Ritual  restraints,  within  some  sheltering  nook 
Her  Lord  might  worship  and  his  word  obey 
In  freedom.  Men  they  were  who  could  not  bend; 
Blest  Pilgrims,  surely,  as  they  took  for  guide 
A will  by  sovereign  Conscience  sanctified ; 

Blest  while  their  Spirits  from  the  woods  ascend 
Along  a Galaxy  that  knows  no  end. 

But  in  His  glory  who  for  Sinners  died. 


XI. 

SACHEVEREL. 

A SUDDEN  conflict  rises  from  the  swell 
Of  a proud  slavery  met  by  tenets  strained 
In  Liberty’s  behalf  Fears,  true  or  feigned. 

Spread  through  all  ranks;  and  lo ! the  Sentinel  « 

W’ho  loudest  rang  his  pulpit  ’larum  bell. 

Stands  at  the  Bar,  absolved  by  female  eyes 
Mingling  their  glances  with  grave  flatteries 
Lavished  on  Him  — that  England  may  rebel 
Against  her  ancient  virtue.  High  and  Low, 
Watch-words  of  Party,  on  all  tongues  are  rife ; 

As  if  a Church,  though  sprung  from  heaven,  must  owe 
To  opposites  and  fierce  extremes  her  life, — 

Not  to  the  golden  mean,  and  quiet  flow 
Of  truths  that  soften  hatred,  temper  strife. 


XTI. 

Down  a swift  Stream,  thus  far,  a bold  design 
Have  we  pursued,  with  livelier  stir  of  heart 
Than  his  who  sees,  borne  forward  by  the  Rhine, 
The  living  landscapes  greet  him,  and  depart; 
Secs  spires  fast  sinking  — up  again  to  start! 
And  strives  the  towers  to  number,  that  recline 
O’er  the  dark  steeps,  or  on  the  horizon  line 
Striding  with  shattered  crests  his  eye  athwart. 
So  have  we  hurried  on  with  troubled  pleasure: 
Henceforth,  as  on  the  bosom  of  a stream 


XIV. 

II.  CONTINUED. 

From  rite  and  ordinance  abused  they  fled 
To  wilds  where  both  were  utterly  unknown; 

But  not  to  them  had  Providence  foreshown 
What  benefits  are  missed,  what  evils  bred. 

In  worship  neither  raised  nor  limited 

Save  by  self-will.  Lo ! from  that  distant  shore, 

For  rite  and  ordinance.  Piety  is  led 

Back  to  the  Land  those  Pilgrims  left  of  yore, 

Led  by  her  own  free  choice.  So  Truth  and  Love 
By  Conscience  governed  do  their  steps  retrace. — 
Fathers ! your  Virtues,  such  the  power  of  grace, 
Their  spirit,  in  your  Children,  thus  approve. 
Transcendent  over  time,  unbound  by  place, 
Concord  and  Charity  in  circles  move. 


* American  episcopacy,  in  union  with  the  church  in 
England,  strictly  belongs  to  the  general  subject ; and  I 
here  make  my  acknowledgments  to  my  American  friends. 
Bishop  Doane,  and  Mr.  Henry  Reed  of  Philadelphia,  for 
having  suggested  to  me  the  propriety  of  adverting  to  if, 
and  pointed  out  the  virtues  and  intellectual  qualities  of 
Bishop  White,  which  so  eminently  fitted  him  for  the  great 
work  he  undertook.  Bishop  White  was  consecrated  at 
Lambeth,  Feb.  4,  1787,  by  Archbishop  Moore  ; and  before 
his  long  life  was  closed,  twenty-six  bishops  had  been  con- 
secrated in  America,  by  himself.  For  his  character  and 
opinions,  see  his  own  numerous  Works,  and  a “Scimon 
in  commemoration  of  him,  by  George  Washington  Doane, 
Bishop  of  New  Jersey.” 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3G.5 


XV. 

XVlll. 

1 

III.  CONCLUDED. —AMERICAN  EPISCOPACY.  \ 

PASTORAL  CHARACTER. 

Patriots  informed  with  Apo.«tolic  light 

Were  they,  who,  when  their  Country  had  been  freed, 

Bowing  with  reverence  to  the  ancient  creed, 

Fixed  on  the  frame  of  England’s  Church  their  sight, 

And  strove  in  filial  love  to  reunite 

Wliat  force  had  severed.  Thence  they  fetched  the  seed 

Of  Christian  unity,  and  won  a meed 

Of  praise  from  Heaven.  To  thee,  0 saintly  White, 

Patriarch  of  a wide-spreading  family. 

Remotest  lands  and  unborn  times  shall  turn 
Whether  they  would  restore  or  build  — to  thee. 

As  one  who  rightly  taught  how  zeal  should  burn. 

As  one  who  drew  from  out  Faitli’s  holiest  urn 
The  purest  stream  of  patient  Energy. 

A OE.MAL  hearth,  a ho.spitablc  board. 

And  a refined  rusticity,  belong 

To  the  neat  mansion,  where  his  flock  among. 

The  learned  Pastor  dwells,  their  watchful  Lord. 
Though  meek  and  patient  as  a sheathed  sword  ; 
Though  pride’s  least  lurking  thought  appear  a wrong 
To  human  kind  ; though  peace  be  on  his  tongue. 
Gentleness  in  his  heart  — can  earth  afford 
Such  genuine  state,  pre-eminence  so  free. 

As  when,  arrayed  in  Christ’s  authority. 

He  from  the  pulpit  lifts  his  awful  hand  ; 

Conjures,  implores,  and  labours  all  he  can 
For  re-subjecting  to  divine  command 
The  stubborn  spirit  of  rebellious  man? 

XVI. 

XIX. 

THE  LITURGY. 

Bishops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep 
(As  yours  above  all  offices  is  high) 

Deep  in  your  hearts  the  sense  of  duty  lie; 

Charged  as  ye  are  by  Christ  to  feed  and  keep 
From  wolves  your  portion  of  his  chosen  sheep: 
Labouring  as  ever  in  your  Master’s  sight. 

Making  your  hardest  task  your  best  delight. 

What  perfect  glory  ye  in  Heaven  shall  reap!  — 

But,  in  the  solemn  Office  which  ye  sought 
And  undertook  premonished,  if  unsound 
Pour  practice  prove,  faithless  though  but  in  thought. 
Bishops  and  Priests,  think  what  a gulf  profound 
Awaits  you  then,  if  they  were  rightly  taught 
Who  framed  the  Ordinance  by  your  lives  disowned  ! 

Yes,  if  the  intensities  of  hope  ana  fear 
Attract  us  still,  and  passionate  exercise 
Of  lofty  thoughts,  the  way  before  us  lies 
Distinct  with  signs,  through  which  in  set  career. 
As  through  a zodiac,  moves  the  ritual  year 
Of  England’s  Church;  stupendous  mysteries! 
Which  whoso  travels  in  her  bosom  eyes. 

As  he  approaches  them  with  solemn  cheer. 

Upon  that  circle  traced  from  sacred  story 
We  only  dare  to  cast  a transient  glance, 
Trusting  in  hope  that  others  may  advance 
With  mind  intent  upon  the  King  of  Glory, 

From  his  mild  advent  till  his  countenance 
Shall  dissipate  the  seas  and  mountains  hoary. 

XVII. 

XX. 

BAPTISM. 

PLACES  OF  WORSHIP. 

Dear  be  the  Church,  that,  watching  o’er  the  needs 
Of  Infancy,  provides  a timely  shower 

As  star  that  shines  dependent  upon  star 
Is  to  the  sky  while  we  look  up  in  love ; 

As  to  the  deep  fair  ships  which  though  they  move 
Seem  fixed,  to  eyes  that  watch  them  from  afar ; 

As  to  the  sandy  desert  fountains  are. 

With  palm-groves  shaded  at  wide  intervals. 

Whose  fruit  around  the  sun-burnt  Native  falls 
Of  roving  tired  or  desultory  war  — 

Such  to  this  British  Isle  her  cliristian  Fanes, 

Each  linked  to  each  for  kindred  services; 

Her  Spires,  her  Steeple-towers  with  glittering  vanes 
Far-kenned,  her  Chapels  lurking  among  trees. 
Where  a few  villagers  on  bended  knees 
Find  solace  which  a busy  world  disdains. 

' Whose  virtue  changes  to  a Christian  Flower 
i A Growth  from  sinful  Nature’s  bed  of  weeds!  — 

1 Fitliest  beneath  the  sacred  roof  proceeds 
; The  ministration ; while  parental  Love 
Looks  on,  and  Grace  descendeth  from  above 
As  the  high  service  pledges  now,  now  pleads. 

There,  should  vain  thoughts  outspread  their  wings 
and  fly 

To  meet  the  coming  hours  of  festal  mirth, 

The  tombs  — which  hear  and  answer  that  brief  cry. 
The  Infant’s  notice  of  his  second  birth  — 

Recal  the  wandering  Soul  to  sympathy 
j With  what  man  hopes  from  Heaven,  yet  fears  from 
1 Earth. 

31 


366 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXI. 

SPONSORS. 

Father  ! to  God  himself  we  cannot  give 
A holier  name ! then  lightly  do  not  bear 
Both  names  conjoined,  but  of  thy  spiritual  care 
Be  duly  mindful : still  more  sensitive 
Do  thou,  in  truth  a second  Mother,  strive 
Against  disheartening  custom,  that  by  thee 
Watched,  and  with  love  and  pious  industry 
Tended  at  need,  the  adopted  Plant  may  thrive 
For  everlasting  bloom.  Benign  and  pure 
This  ordinance,  whether  loss  it  would  supply, 
Prevent  omission,  help  deficiency, 

Or  seek  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure. 

Shame  if  the  consecrated  vow  be  found 
An  idle  form,  the  word  an  empty  sound  ! 

XXII. 

CATECHISING. 

From  Little  down  to  Least,  in  due  degree, 
Around  the  Pastor,  each  in  new-wrought  vest, 
Each  with  a vernal  posy  at  his  breast, 

We  stood,  a trembling,  earnest  company ! 

With  low  soft  murmur,  like  a distant  bee. 

Some  spake,  by  thought-perplexing  fears  betrayed 
And  some  a bold  unerring  answer  made: 

How  fluttered  then  thy  anxious  heart  for  me. 
Beloved  Mother ! Thou  whose  happy  hand 
Had  bound  the  flowers  I wore,  with  faithful  tie: 
Sweet  flowers!  at  whose  inaudible  command 
Her  countenance,  phantom-like,  doth  re-appear: 

O lost  too  early  for  the  frequent  tear. 

And  ill  requited  by  this  heartfelt  sigh  ! 

XXIII. 

CONFIRMATION. 

The  Young-ones  gathered  in  from  hill  and  dale, 
W^ith  holiday  delight  on  every  brow: 

’T  is  passed  away  ; far  other  thoughts  prevail ; 

For  they  are  taking  the  baptismal  vow 

Upon  their  conscious  selves;  their  own  lips  speak 

The  solemn  promise.  Strongest  sinews  fail, 

And  many  a blooming,  many  a lovely,  cheek 
Under  the  holy  fear  of  God  turns  pale  ; 

While  on  each  head  his  lawn-robed  Servant  lays 
An  apostolic  hand,  and  with  prayer  seals 
The  covenant.  The  Omnipotent  will  raise 
Their  feeble  souls;  and  bear  with  his  regrets. 
Who,  looking  round  the  fair  assemblage,  feels 
That  ere  the  sun  goes  down  their  childhood  sets. 


XXIV. 

CONFIRMATION  — CONTINUED. 

I SAW  a Mother’s  eye  intensely  bfent 
Upon  a Maiden  trembling  as  she  knelt; 

In  and  for  whom  the  pious  Mo6>er  felt 
Things  that  we  judge  of  by  a light  too  faint: 

Tell,  if  ye  may,  some  star-crowned  Muse,  or  Saint ! 
Tell  what  rushed  in,  from  what  she  was  relieved  — 
Then,  when  her  child  the  hallowing  touch  received. 
And  such  vibration  through  the  Mother  went 
That  tears  burst  forth  amain.  Did  gleams  appear  1 
Opened  a vision  of  that  blissful  place 
Where  dwells  a Sister-child  1 And  was  power  given 
Part  of  her  lost  one’s  glory  back  to  trace 
Even  to  this  rite  1 For  thus  She  knelt,  and,  ere 
The  summer-leaf  had  faded,  passed  to  Heaven. 

XXV. 

SACRAMENT. 

By  chain  yet  stronger  must  the  Soul  be  tied : 

One  duty  more,  last  stage  of  this  ascent, 

Brings  to  thy  food,  mysterious  Sacrament! 

The  oflspririg,  haply  at  the  parent's  side; 

But  not  till  they,  with  all  that  do  abide 
In  Heaven,  have  lifted  up  their  hearts  to  laud 
And  magnify  the  glorious  name  of  God, 

Fountain  of  Grace,  whose  Son  for  sinners  died. 

Ye,  who  have  duly  weighed  the  summons,  pause 
No  longer;  ye,  whom  to  the  saving  rite 
The  Altar  calls;  come  early  under  laws 
That  can  secure  for  you  a path  of  light 
Through  gloomiest  shade;  put  on  (nor  dread  its 
weight) 

Armour  divine,  and  conquer  in  your  cause  ! 


XXVI. 

THE  MARRIAGE  CEREMONY. 

The  vested  priest  before  the  Altar  stands; 

Approach,  come  gladly,  ye  prepared,  in  sight 
Of  God  and  chosen  friends,  your  troth  to  plight 
With  the  symbolic  ring,  and  willing  hands 
Solemnly  joined.  Now  sanctify  the  bands 
O Father!  — to  the  espoused  thy  blessing  give, 

That  mutually  assisted  they  may  live 
Obedient,  as  here  tauglit,  to  thy  commands. 

So  prays  the  Cliurch,  to  consecrate  a vow 
“The  which  would  endless  matrimony  make;” 

Union  that  shadows  forth  and  doth  partake 
A mystery  potent  human  love  to  endow 
Witli  heavenly,  each  more  prized  for  the  other’s 
sake; 

i Weep  not,  meek  Bride!  uplift,  thy  timid  brow 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


367 


XXVII. 

THANKSGIVING  AFTER  CHILDBIRTH. 

Woman!  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on  high, 

And  deigned  to  wear  the  robe  of  flesh  we  wear, 

The  power  that  through  the  straits  of  infancy 
Did  pass  dependent  on  maternal  care, 

Ilis  own  humanity  with  tliee  will  share. 

Pleased  with  tlie  thanks  that  in  his  people’s  eye 
Thou  offerest  up  for  safe  delivery 
From  childbirth’s  perilous  throes.  And  should  the 
heir 

Of  thy  fond  hopes  hereafter  walk  inclined 
To  courses  fit  to  make  a mother  rue 
Tliat  ever  he  was  born,  a glance  of  mind 
Cast  upon  this  observance  may  renew 
A better  will ; and,  in  the  imagined  view 
Of  tiiee  thus  kneeling,  safety  he  may  find. 

XXVIII. 

VISITATION  OF  THE  SICK. 

The  Sabbath  bells  renew  the  inviting  peal ; 

Glad  music  ! yet  there  be  that,  worn  with  pain 
And  sickness,  listen  where  they  long  have  lain. 

In  sadness  listen.  With  maternal  zeal 
Inspired,  the  Church  sends  ministers  to  kneel 
Beside  the  afflicted ; to  sustain  with  prayer. 

And  soothe  the  heart  confession  hath  laid  bare  — 

That  pardon,  from  God’s  throne,  may  set  its  seal 
On  a true  penitent.  When  breath  departs 
From  one  disburthened  so,  so  comforted. 

His  Spirit  Angels  greet;  and  ours  be  hope 
That,  if  the  sufferer  rise  from  his  sick-bed, 

Hence  he  will  gain  a firmer  mind,  to  cope 
With  a bad  world,  and  foil  the  Tempter’s  arts. 

XXIX. 

THE  COMMINATION  SERVICE. 

Shun  not  this  rite,  neglected,  yea  abhorred. 

By  some  of  unreflecting  mind,  as  calling 
Man  to  curse  man,  (thought  monstrous  and  appalling.) 
Go  thou  and  hear  the  threatenings  of  the  Lord; 
Listening  within  his  Temple  see  his  sword 
Unsheathed  in  wrath  to  strike  the  offender’s  head, 

Thy  own,  if  sorrow  for  thy  sin  be  dead. 

Guilt  unrepented,  pardon  unimplored. 

Two  aspects  bears  Truth  needful  for  salvation; 

Who  knows  not  that?  — yet  would  this  delicate  age 
Look  only  on  the  Gospel’s  brighter  page  : 

Let  light  and  dark  duly  our  thoughts  employ  ; 

So  shall  the  fearful  words  of  Commination 
Yield  timely  fruit  of  peace  and  love  and  joy. 


XXX. 

FORMS  OF  PRAYER  AT  SEA. 

To  kneeling  worshippers  no  earthly  floor 
Gives  holier  invitation  than  the  deck 
Of  a storm-shattered  vessel  saved  from  wreck 
(When  all  that  Man  could  do  avail'd  no  more) 

By  him  who  raised  the  tempest  and  restrains; 

Happy  the  crew  who  this  have  felt,  and  pour 
Forth  for  his  mercy,  as  the  Cliurch  ordains. 

Solemn  thanksgiving.  Nor  will  ihcij  implore 
In  vain  who,  for  a riglitful  cause,  give  breatli 
To  words  the  Church  prescribes  aiding  the  lip 
For  the  heart’s  sake,  ere  sliip  with  hostile  ship 
Encounters,  armed  for  work  of  pain  and  death. 
Suppliants!  the  God  to  wliom  your  cause  ye  trust 
Will  listen,  and  ye  know  that  He  is  just. 

XXXI. 

FUNERAL  SERVICE. 

From  the  Baptismal  hour,  thro’  weal  and  woe. 

The  Church  e.xtends  her  care  to  thought  and  deed; 
Nor  quits  the  body  when  the  soul  is  freed. 

The  mortal  weight  cast  off’  to  be  laid  low. 

Blest  rite  for  him  who  hears  in  faith,  *•  I know 
That  my  Redeemer  liveth,”  — hears  each  word 
[ That  follows  — striking  on  some  kindred  chord 
Deep  in  the  thankful  heart;  — yet  tears  will  ffow. 
Man  is  as  grass  that  springeth  up  at  morn. 

Grows  green,  and  is  cut  down  and  withereth 
Ere  nightfall  — truth  that  well  may  claim  a sigh. 

Its  natural  echo ; but  hope  comes  reborn 
i At  Jesu’s  bidding.  We  rejoice,  “ O Death 
, Where  is  thy  Sting — O Grave  where  is  thy  Victory  P 

XXXII. 

RURAL  CEREMONY.* 

Closing  the  sacred  Book  which  long  has  fed 
I Our  meditations,  give  we  to  a day 
Of  annual  joy  one  tributary  lay ; 

This  day,  when  forth  by  rustic  music  led. 

The  village  children,  while  the  sky  is  red 
With  evening  lights,  advance  in  long  array 
Through  the  still  church-yard,  each  with  garland  gay. 
That  carried  sceptre-like,  o’ertops  the  head 
Of  the  proud  bearer.  To  the  wide  church-door. 
Charged  with  these  off’erings  which  their  fathers  bore 
For  decoration  in  the  papal  time, 

I The  innocent  procession  softly  moves : — 

The  spirit  of  Laud  is  pleased  in  heaven’s  pure  clime. 
And  Hooker’s  voice  the  spectacle  approves! 


* This  is  still  continued  in  many  churches  in  Westmore- 
land. It  takes  place  in  the  month  of  July,  when  the  floor 
of  the  stalls  is  strewn  with  fresh  rushes  ; and  hence  it  is 
; called  the  “•  Rush-bearing.” 


368 


WOEDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XXXIII. 

REGRETS. 

Would  that  our  scrupulous  Sires  had  dared  to  leave 
Less  scanty  measure  of  those  graceful  rites 
And  usages,  whose  due  return  invites 
A stir  of  mind  too  natural  to  deceive  ; 

Giving  to  Memory  help  when  she  would  weave 
A crown  for  Hope!  — I dread  the  boasted  lights 
That  all  too  often  are  but  fiery  bliglits, 

Killing  the  bud  o’er  which  in  vain  we  grieve. 

Go,  seek,  when  Christmas  snows  discomfort  bring. 
The  counter  Spirit  found  in  some  gay  church 
Green  with  fresh  holly,  every  pew  a perch 
In  which  the  linnet  or  the  tlirush  might  sing. 

Merry  and  loud  and  safe  from  prying  search, 

Strains  offered  only  to  the  genial  Spring. 


XXXIV. 

MUTABILITY. 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 

And  sink  from  high  to  low,  along  a scale 
Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail; 

A musical  but  melancholy  chime, 

^\dlich  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime. 
Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 
Tlie  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime, 

Tliat  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 
And  is  no  more  ; drop  like  the  tower  sublime 
Of  yesterday,  which  royally  did  wear 
His  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 
Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 

Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 

XXXV. 

OLD  ABBEYS. 

Mo.nastic  Domes!  following  my  downward  way, 
Untouched  by  due  regret  I marked  your  fall ! 
Now,  ruin,  beauty,  ancient  stillness,  all 
Dispose  to  judgments  temperate  as  we  lay 
On  our  past  selves  in  life’s  declining  day: 

For  as,  by  discipline  of  Time  made  wise. 

We  learn  to  tolerate  the  infirmities 
And  faults  of  others  — gently  as  he  may. 

So  with  our  own  the  mild  Instructor  deals. 
Teaching  us  to  forget  them  or  forgive.* 

Perversely  curious,  then,  for  hidden  ill 
Why  sliould  we  break  Time’s  charitable  seals? 
Once  ye  were  holy,  ye  are  holy  still ; 

Your  spirit  freely  let  me  drink,  and  live? 


* This  is  borrowed  from  an  affecting  passage  in  Mr. 
George  Dyer’s  history  of  Cambridge. 


XXXVL 

EMIGRANT  FRENCH  CLERGY. 
Even  while  I speak,  the  sacred  roofs  of  France 
Are  shattered  into  dust;  and  self-exiled 
From  altars  threatened,  levelled,  or  defiled, 
Wander  the  Ministers  of  God,  as  chance 
Opens  a way  for  life,  or  consonance 
Of  faith  invites.  More  welcome  to  no  land 
The  fugitives  than  to  the  Britisli  strand. 

Where  priest  and  layman  with  the' vigilance 

Of  true  compassion  greet  them.  Creed  and  test 

Vanish  before  the  unreserved  embrace 

Of  catholic  humanity:  — distrest 

They  came,  — and,  while  the  moral  tempest  roars 

Throughout  the  Country  they  have  left,  our  shore? 

Give  to  their  Faith  a fearless  resting-place. 


XXXVII. 

CONGRATULATION. 

Thus  all  things  lead  to  Charity,  secured 
By  THEM  who  blessed  the  soft  and  happy  gale 
That  landward  urged  the  great  Deliverer’s  sail, 

Till  in  the  sunny  bay  his  fleet  was  moored  ! 

Propitious  hour  ! had  we,  like  them,  endured 
Sore  stress  of  apprehension,!  with  a mind 
Sickened  by  injuries,  dreading  worse  designed. 

From  month  to  month  trembling  and  unassured. 

How  had  we  then  rejoiced  ! But  we  have  felt. 

As  a loved  substance  their  futurity  : 

Good,  which  they  dared  not  hop>e  for,  we  have  seen ; 

A State  whose  generous  will  through  earth  is  dealt ; 

A State  — which,  balancing  herself  between 
License  and  slavish  order,  dares  be  free. 

XXXVIII. 

NEW  CHURCHES. 

But  liberty,  and  triumphs  on  the  Main, 

And  laurelled  armies,  not  to  be  withstood  — 

What  serve  they  ? if,  on  transitory  good 
Intent,  and  sedulous  of  abject  gain. 

The  State  (ah,  surely  not  preserved  in  vain  !) 

Forbear  to  shape  due  channels  which  the  Flood 
Of  sacred  truth  may  enter  — till  it  brood 
O’er  the  wide  realm,  as  o’er  the  Egyptian  plain 
The  all-sustaining  Nile.  No  more  — the  time 
Is  conscious  of  her  want ; through  England’s  bounds, 

In  rival  haste,  the  wished-for  Temples  rise? 

I hear  their  sabbath  bells’  harmonious  chime 
Float  on  the  breeze  — the  heavenliest  of  all  sounds 
That  vale  or  hill  prolongs  or  multiplies! 

t See  Burnet,  who  is  unusually  animated  on  this  subject ; 
the  east  wind  so  anxiously  expected  and  prayed  for,  wa* 
called  the  “ Protestant  wind.” 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


3Gi) 


XXXIX. 

CHURCH  TO  BE  ERECTED. 

Be  tliis  the  chosen  site;  the  virgin  sod, 

Moistened  from  age  to  age  by  dewy  eve, 

Shall  disappear,  and  grateful  earth  receive 
The  corner-stone  from  hands  that  build  to  God. 

Yon  reverend  hawthorns,  hardened  to  the  rod 
Of  winter  storms,  yet  budding  clieerfully ; 

Those  forest  oaks  of  Druid  memory. 

Shall  long  survive,  to  shelter  the  Abode 
Of  genuine  Faith.  Where,  haply,  ’mid  this  band 
Of  daisies,  shepherds  sate  of  yore  and  wove 
May-garlands,  there  let  the  holy  altar  stand 
For  kneeling  adoration ; — while  — above. 

Broods,  visibly  portrayed,  the  mystic  Dove 
That  shall  protect  from  blasphemy  the  Land. 

XL. 

CONTINUED. 

Mine  ear  has  rung,  my  spirit  sunk  subdued. 

Sharing  the  strong  emotion  of  the  crowd. 

When  each  pale  brow  to  dread  hosannas  bowed 
While  clouds  of  incense  mounting  veiled  the  rood. 
That  glimmered  like  a pine-tree  dimly  viewed 
Through  Alpine  vapours.  Such  appalling  rite 
Our  church  prepares  not,  trusting  to  the  might 
Of  simple  truth  with  grace  divine  imbued  ; 

Yet  will  we  not  conceal  the  precious  Cross,* 

Like  men  ashamed : the  Sun  with  his  first  smile 
Shall  greet  that  symbol  crowning  the  low  Pile: 

And  the  fresh  air  of  incense-breathing  morn 
Shall  wooingly  embrace  it ; and  green  moss 
Creep  round  its  arms  through  centuries  unborn. 

XLI. 

NEW  CHURCH- YARD. 

The  encircling  ground,  in  native  turf  arrayed, 

Is  now  by  solemn  consecration  given 
To  social  interests,  and  to  favouring  Heaven, 

And  where  the  nigged  colts  their  gambols  played. 

And  wild  deer  bounded  through  the  forest  glade. 
Unchecked  as  when  by  merry  outlaw  driven. 

Shall  hymns  of  praise  resound  at  morn  and  even  ; 

And  soon,  full  soon,  the  lonely  Sexton’s  spade 
Shall  wound  the  tender  sod.  Encincture  small. 

But  infinite  its  grasp  of  weal  and  woe ! 

Hopes,  fears,  in  never-ending  ebb  and  flovv; — 

The  spousal  trembling,  and  the  “dust  to  dust,” 

The  prayers,  the  contrite  struggle,  and  the  trust 
That  to  the  Almighty  Father  looks  through  all. 

* The  Lutherans  have  retained  the  Cross  within  their 
churches : it  is  to  be  regretted  that  we  ha.ve  not  done  the 
same. 

2 W 


XLII. 

CATHEDRALS,  ETC. 

! Open  your  gates,  ye  everlasting  Piles ! 

Types  of  the  spiritual  Church  which  God  hath  reared, 
Not  loth  we  quit  the  newly-hallowed  sward 
And  humble  altar,  ’mid  your  sumptuous  aisles 
To  kneel,  or  thrid  your  intricate  defiles. 

Or  down  the  nave  to  pace  in  motion  slow ; 

Watching,  with  upward  eye,  the  tall  tower  grow 
And  mount,  at  every  step,  with  living  wiles 
Instinct — to  rouse  the  heart  and  lead  the  will 
j By  a bright  ladder  to  the  world  above. 

I Open  your  gates,  ye  Monuments  of  love 
I Divine ! thou  Lincoln,  on  thy  sovereign  hill ! 

! Thou,  stately  York!  and  Ye,  whose  splendours  cheer 
Isis  and  Cam,  to  patient  Science  dear 

XLIII. 

INSIDE  OF  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL,  CAMBRIDGE. 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  w'ith  vain  expense. 

With  ill-matched  aims  the  Architect  who  planned  — 
Albeit  labouring  for  a scanty  band 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only  — this  immense 
And  glorious  Work  of  fine  intelligence! 

Give  all  thou  canst;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 
Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more ; 

So  deemed  the  man  who  fashioned  for  the  sense 
These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self-poised,  and  scooped  into  ten  thousand  cells. 

Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 
Lingering  — and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die; 

Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 


XLIV. 

THE  SAME. 

What  awful  perspective  ! while  from  our  sight 
With  gradual  stealth  the  lateral  windows  hide 
Their  Portraitures,  their  stone-work  glimmers,  dyed 
In  the  soft  chequerings  of  a sleepy  light. 

Martyr,  or  King,  or  sainted  Eremite, 

Whoe’er  ye  be,  that  thus  yourselves  unseen. 

Imbue  your  prison-bars  with  solemn  sheen. 

Shine  on,  until  ye  fade  with  coming  Night! — 

But  from  the  arms  of  silence — list!  O list! 

The  music  bursteth  into  second  life; 

The  notes  luxuriate,  every  stone  is  kissed 
By  sound,  or  ghost  of  sound,  in  mazy  strife ; 
Heart-thrilling  strains,  that  cast,  before  the  eye 
Of  the  devout,  a veil  of  ecstasy  ! 


370 


WORDSWOKTirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


XLV. 

CONTINUED. 

They  dreamt  not  of  a perishable  home 

Who  thus  could  build.  Be  mine,  in  hours  of  fear 

Or  grovelling  thought,  to  seek  a refuge  here; 

Or  through  the  aisles  of  Westminster  to  roam ; 
Where  bubbles  burst,  and  folly’s  dancing  foam 
Melts,  if  it  cross  the  threshold  ; where  the  wreath 
Of  awe-struck  wisdom  droops : or  let  my  path 
Lead  tc  that  younger  Pile,  whose  sky-like  dome 
Hath  typified  by  reach  of  daring  art 
Infinity’s  embrace;  whose  guardian  crest, 

The  silent  Cross,  among  the  stars  shall  spread 
As  now,  when  She  hath  also  seen  her  breast 
Filled  with  mementos,  satiate  with  its  part 
Of  grateful  England’s  overflowing  Dead. 

XLVI. 

EJACULATION. 

Glory  to  God ! and  to  the  Power  who  came 
In  filial  duty,  clothed  with  love  divine. 

That  made  his  human  tabernacle  shine 
Like  Ocean  burning  with  purpureal  flame; 

Or  like  the  Alpine  Mount,  that  takes  its  name  * 
S’rom  roseate  hues,  far  kenned  at  morn  and  even. 


In  hours  of  peace,  or  when  the  storm  is  driven 
Along  the  nether  region’s  rugged  frame ! 

Earth  prompts  — Heaven  urges;  let  us  seek  the  light. 
Studious  of  that  pure  intercourse  begun 
When  first  our  infant  brows  their  lustre  won ; 

So,  like  the  Mountain,  may  we  grow  more  bright 
From  unimpeded  commerce  with  the  Sun, 

At  the  approach  of  all-involving  night. 

xLvn. 

CONCLUSION. 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a snake  enrolled. 

Coil  within  coil,  at  noontide!  For  the  Word 
Yields,  if  with  unpresumptuous  faith  explored. 

Power  at  whose  touch  the  sluggard  shall  unfold 
His  drowsy  rings.  Look  forth  ! — that  Stream  behold. 
That  Stream  upon  whose  bosom  we  have  passed 
Floating  at  ease  while  nations  have  effaced 
Nations,  and  Death  has  gathered  to  his  fold 
Long  lines  of  mighty  Kings — look  forth,  my  Soul ! 
(Nor  in  this  vision  be  thou  slow  to  trust) 

The  living  Waters,  less  and  less  by  guilt 
Stained  and  polluted,  brighten  as  they  roll, 

Till  they  have  reached  the  eternal  City  — built 
For  the  perfected  Spirits  of  the  just ! 


ADDITIONAL  ECCLESIASTICAL  SONNETS. 


I. 

(SEQDEL  TO  NO.  XXII.,  PART  II.) 

Coldly  we  spake.  The  Saxons,  overpowered 
By  wrong  triumphant  through  its  own  excess. 

From  fields  laid  waste,  from  house  and  home  devoured 
By  flames,  look  up  to  heaven  and  crave  redress 
From  God’s  eternal  justice.  Pitiless 
Though  men  be,  there  are  angels  that  can  feel 
For  wounds  that  death  alone  has  power  to  heal. 

For  penitent  guilt,  and  innocent  distress. 

And  has  a Champion  risen  in  arms  to  try 

His  Country’s  virtue,  fought,  and  breathes  no  more; 

Him  in  their  hearts  the  people  canonize  ; 

And  far  above  the  mine’s  most  precious  ore 

The  least  small  pittance  of  bare  mould  they  prize 

Scooped  from  the  sacred  earth  where  his  dear  relics  lie. 

* Some  say  that  Monte  Rosa  takes  its  name  from  a belt 
of  rock  at  its  summit — very  unpoetical  and  scarcely  a 
ptt-bable  suppoiition. 


II. 

(to  precede  no.  1.,  PART  II.) 

How  soon  — alas!  did  man  created  pure  — 

By  Angels  guarded,  deviate  from  the  line 
Prescribed  to  duty:  — woeful  forfeiture 
He  made  by  wilful  breach  of  law  divine. 

With  like  perverseness  did  the  Church  abjure 
Obedience  to  her  Lord,  and  haste  to  twine, 

’Mid  Heaven-born  flowers  that  shall  for  aye  endure, 
Weeds  on  whose  front  the  world  had  fixed  her  sign. 
O Man,  if  with  thy  trials  thus  it  fares. 

If  good  can  smooth  the  way  to  evil  choice. 

From  all  rash  censure  be  the  mind  kept  free : 

He  only  judges  right  who  weighs,  compare.s 
And,  in  the  sternest  sentence  which  his  voice 
Pronounces,  ne’er  abandons  Charity. 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINTION. 


371 


III. 

(to  follow  the  foregoino.) 

From  false  assumption  rose,  and  fondly  hail’d 
By  superstition,  spread  the  Papal  power ; 

Yet  do  not  deem  the  Autocracy  prevail’d 
Thus  only,  even  in  error's  darkest  hour. 

She  daunts,  forth-thundering  from  her  spiritual  tower 
Brute  rapine,  or  with  gentle  lure  she  tames. 

Justice  and  Peace  through  her  uphold  their  claims 
And  Chastity  finds  many  a sheltering  bower. 

Realm  there  is  none  that  if  control’d  or  sway’d 
By  her  commands  partakes  not,  in  degree. 

Of  good,  o’er  manners,  arts,  and  arms,  diffused  : 

Yes,  to  thy  domination,  Roman  See, 

Tho’  miserably,  oft  monstrously,  abused 
By  blind  ambition,  be  this  tribute  paid. 

IV 

(to  follow  no.  VI.,  P.IRT  II.) 

As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  warrior’s  crest 
While  from  the  Papal  Unity  there  came, 

\V  hat  feebler  means  had  failed  to  give,  one  aim 
Diffused  through  all  the  regions  of  the  West ; 

So  does  her  Unity  its  power  attest 


By  works  of  Art,  that  shed  on  tlic  outward  frame 
Of  worsliip,  glory  and  grace,  which  who  shall  blame 
Tliat  ever  looked  to  heaven  for  final  rest? 

Hail  countless  Temples  ! that  so  well  befit 
Your  ministry  ; that  as  ye  rise  and  take 
Form,  spirit,  and  character  from  holy  writ. 

Give  to  devotion,  wheresoe’er  awake. 

Pinions  of  high  and  higher  sweep,  and  make 
The  unconverted  soul  with  awe  submit. 


V. 

(to  follow  the  above.) 

Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root 
In  the  blest  soil  of  gospel  truth,  the  Tree, 

(Blighted  or  scathed  tho’  many  branches  be. 

Put  forth  to  wither,  many  a hopeful  shoot) 

Can  never  cease  to  bear  celestial  fruit. 

Witness  the  church  that  oft  times,  with  effect 
Dear  to  the  saints,  strives  earnestly  to  eject 
Her  bane,  her  vital  energies  recruit. 

Lamenting,  do  not  hopelessly  repine 
When  such  good  work  is  doomed  to  be  undone, 

The  conquests  lost  that  were  so  hardly  won  : — 

All  promises  vouchsafed  by  Heaven,  will  shine 
In  light  confirmed  while  years  tlieir  course  shall  run, 
Confirmed  alike  in  progress  and  decline. 


— -rV 


•■'■-  il^»'  ■<»^;,iV'i^'‘ 


e«<»#j^»mjiateijiiiaj.  li,.44 

F 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGIxNATION. 


373 


NOTES 


TO 

rOEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


Note  1,  p.  166. 

*'Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle." 

Henry  Lord  Clifford,  &c.  &c.,  who  is  the  subject  of 
(his  Poem,  was  the  son  of  John  Lord  Clifford,  who  was 
slain  at  Towton  Field,  which  John  Lord  Clifford,  as  is 
known  to  the  Reader  of  English  History,  was  the 
person  who  after  the  battle  of  Wakefield  slew,  in  the 
pursuit,  the  young  Earl  of  Rutland,  son  of  the  Duke 
of  York,  who  had  fallen  in  the  battle,  “ in  part  of  re- 
venge” (say  the  Authors  of  the  History  of  Cumberland 
and  Westmoreland);  “ for  the  Earl’s  Father  had  slain 
his.”  A deed  which  worthily  blemished  the  author 
(saith  Speed) : but  who,  as  he  adds,  “ dare  promise  any 
thing  temperate  of  himself  in  the  heat  of  martial  fury  1 
chiefly,  when  it  was  resolved  not  to  leave  any  branch 
of  the  York  line  standing;  for  so  one  maketh  this  Lord 
to  speak.”  This,  no  doubt,  I would  observe  by  the  by, 
was  an  action  sufficiently  in  the  vindictive  spirit  of  the 
times,  and  yet  not  altogether  so  bad  as  represented ; 
“for  the  Earl  was  no  child,  as  some  writers  would 
have  him,  but  able  to  bear  arms,  being  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen years  of  age,  as  is  evident  from  this,  (say  the 
Memoirs  of  the  Countess  of  Pembroke,  who  was  laud- 
ably anxious  to  wipe  away,  as  far  as  could  be,  this 
stigma  from  the  illustrious  name  to  which  she  was 
born,)  that  he  was  the  next  Child  to  King  Edward  the 
Fourth,  which  his  mother  had  by  Richard  Duke  of 
York,  and  that  King  was  then  eighteen  years  of  age : 
and  for  the  small  distance  betwixt  her  Children,  see 
Austin  Vincent,  in  his  Book  of  Nobility,  page  622., 
where  he  writes  of  them  all.”  It  may  further  be  ob- 
served, that  Lord  Clifford,  who  was  then  himself  only 
twenty-five  years  of  age,  had  been  a leading  Man  and 
Commander,  two  or  three  years  together,  in  the  army 
of  Lancaster,  before  this  time;  and,  therefore,  would 
be  less  likely  to  think  that  the  Earl  of  Rutland  might 
be  entitled  to  mercy  from  his  youth. — But,  indepen- 
dent of  this  act,  at  best  a cruel  and  savage  one,  the 
Family  of  Clifford  had  done  enough  to  draw  upon  them 
the  vehement  hatred  of  the  House  of  York : so  that 
after  the  Battle  of  Towton  there  was  no  hope  for  them 
but  in  flight  and  concealment.  Henry,  the  subject  of 
the  Poem,  was  deprived  of  his  estate  and  honours  during 
the  space  of  twenty-four  years;  all  which  time  he 
lived  as  a shepherd  in  Yorkshire,  or  in  Cumberland, 
where  the  estate  of  his  Father-in-law  (Sir  Lancelot 
Threlkeld)  lay.  He  was  restored  to  his  estate  and 


honours  in  the  first  year  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  It  is 
recorded  that,  “ when  called  to  parliament,  he  behaved 
nobly  and  wisely ; but  otherwise  came  seldom  to  Lon- 
don or  the  Court ; and  rather  delighted  to  live  in  tlie 
country,  where  he  repaired  several  of  his  Castle.s, 
which  had  gone  to  decay  during  the  late  troubles.” 
Thus  far  is  chiefly  collected  from  Nicholson  and  Burn  ; 
and  I can  add,  from  my  own  knowledge,  that  there  is 
a tradition  current  in  the  village  of  Threlkeld  and 
its  neighbourhood,  his  principal  retreat,  that,  in  lire 
course  of  his  shepherd-life,  he  had  acquired  great 
astronomical  knowledge.  I cannot  conclude  this  note 
without  adding  a word  upon  the  subject  of  those  nume- 
rous and  noble  feudal  Edifices,  spoken  of  in  the  Poem, 
the  ruins  of  some  of  which  are,  at  this  day,  so  great 
an  ornament  to  that  interesting  country.  The  Cliffords 
had  always  been  distinguished  for  an  honourable  pride 
in  these  Castles ; and  we  have  seen  that  after  the  wars 
of  York  and  Lancaster  they  were  rebuilt;  in  the  civil 
w'ars  of  Charles  the  First  they  were  again  laid  wasti*, 
and  again  restored  almost  to  their  former  magnificence, 
by  the  celebrated  Lady  Anne  Clifford,  Countess  of  Pem- 
broke, &c.  &c.  Not  more  than  twenty-five  years  after 
this  was  done,  when  the  estates  of  Clifford  had  passed 
into  the  Family  of  Tufton,  three  of  these  Castles, 
namely,  Brough,  Brougham,  and  Pendragon,  were  de- 
molished, and  the  timber  and  other  materials  sold  by 
Thomas  Earl  of  Thanet.  We  will  hope  that,  when 
this  order  was  issued,  the  Earl  had  not  consulted  the 
text  of  Isaiah,  58th  chap.  12th  verse,  to  which  the  in- 
scription placed  over  the  gate  of  Pendragon  Castle,  by 
the  Countess  of  Pembroke  (I  believe  his  Grandmother), 
at  the  time  she  repaired  that  structure,  refers  the 
reader : “ Anti  they  that  shall  he  of  thee  shall  build 
the  old  waste  places : thou  shalt  raise  up  the  founda- 
tions of  many  generations ; and  thou  shalt  he  called 
the  repairer  of  the  breach,  the  restorer  of  paths  to 
dwell  in."  The  Earl  of  Thanet,  the  present  possessor 
of  the  Estates,  with  a due  respect  for  the  memory  of 
his  ancestors,  and  a proper  sense  of  the  value  and 
beauty  of  these  remains  of  antiquity,  has  (I  am  told) 
given  orders  that  they  shall  be  preserved  from  all  de- 
predations. 

[This  subject  is  again  alluded  to  in  Canto  I.  of  ‘ The 
White  Doe  of  Rylstone,’  p.  331,  and  in  an  additional 
note  (N.  16)  attached  to  it.  The  story  of  “ the  Shep- 
herd Lord”  has  so  deep  an  interest  that,  at  the  hazard 


374 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


ot  repetition,  I am  induced  to  enlarge  these  notices  of  his 
career  by  the  insertion  of  a passage  from  Mr.  Hartley 
Coleridge’s  ‘ Lives  of  Distinguished  Northerns’  — a vo- 
lume which  may  be  classed  with  that  brief  list  of  works, 
which  fully  develop  the  charm  of  biographical  com- 
position. 

“ Thus  was  the  house  of  Clifford  driven 

from  its  possessions,  and  deprived  of  its  rank.  The 
children  of  the  ruthless  warrior  sought  and  found  a 
refuge  among  the  simple  dalesmen  of  Cumberland. 
Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Good  Lord  Clifford,  the 
Shepherd  Lord  1 lie  that  in  his  childhood  w'as  placed 
among  lowly  men  for  safety,  found  more  in  obscurity 
than  he  souglit, — love,  humble  wisdom,  and  a docile 
heart.  How  his  time  past  during  his  early  years,  it  is 
pleasanter  to  imagine  than  safe  to  conjecture  ; but  we 
doubt  not,  happily,  and  since  he  proved  equal  to  his 
highest  elevation,  his  nurture  must  needs  have  been 
good.  II  is  mother  Margaret,  with  whom  came  in  the 
barony  of  Vescy,  was  married  to  Sir  Lancelot  Threlkeld 
who  extended  his  protection  over  the  offspring  of  her 
former  husband.  Much  of  Henry  Clifford’s  boyhood  is 
said  to  have  been  passed  in  the  village  named  after  his 
kind  step-father,  which  lies  under  Blencathara,  on  the 

road  between  Keswick  and  Penrith The 

‘ Shepherd  Lord’  was  restored  to  all  his  estates  and 
titles  in  the  first  year  of  Henry  VII.  He  was  a lover 
of  study  and  retirement,  w’ho  had  lived  too  long  at  lib- 
erty, and  according  to  reason,  to  assimilate  readily  with 
the  court  of  the  crafty  Henry.  By  the  Lady  Anne,  he 
is  described  ‘ as  a plain  man,  who  lived  for  the  most 
part  a country  life,  and  came  seldom  either  to  court  or 
to  London,  excepting  when  called  to  Parliament,  on 
which  occasion  he  behaved  himself  like  a wise  and  good 
English  nobleman.’  His  usual  retreat,  when  in  York- 
shire, was  Barden-tower ; his  chosen  companions  the 
Canons  of  Bolton.  His  favourite  pursuit  was  astrono- 
my. He  had  been  accustomed  to  watch  the  motions  of 
the  heavenly  bodies  from  the  hill-tops,  when  lie  kept 
sheep:  for  in  those  days,  when  clocks  and  almanacs 
were  few,  every  shepherd  made  acquaintance  witli  the 
stars.  If  he  added  a little  judicial  astrology,  and  was 
a seeker  for  the  philosopher’s-stone,  he  had  the  counte- 
nance of  the  wisest  of  his  time  for  his  learned  super- 
stition. It  is  asserted  that  at  the  period  of  his  restora- 
tion he  was  almost  wholly  illiterate.  Very  probably  he 
was  so ; but  it  does  not  follow  that  he  was  iq-nnrant. 
He  might  know  many  things  well  worth  knowing, 
without  being  able  to  write  his  name.  He  might  le.arn 
a great  deal  of  Astronomy  by  patient  observation.  He 
might  know  w'here  each  native  flower  of  the  hills  was 
grown,  what  real  qualities  it  possessed,  and  wdiat  occult 
powers  the  fancy,  the  fears,  or  the  wishes  of  men  had 
a.scribed  to  it.  The  haunts,  habits,  and  instincts  of  ani- 
mals, the  notes  of  birds,  and  their  wondrous  architec- 
ture, were  to  him  instead  of  books;  but  above  all,  he 
learned  to  know  something  of  what  man  is,  in  that 


condition  to  which  the  greater  number  of  men  are  born, 
and  to  know  himself  better  than  he  could  have  done  in 
his  hereditary  sphere.  Moreover,  the  legendary  lore, 
the  floating  traditions,  the  wild  superstitions  of  that 
age,  together  with  the  family  history,  which  must  have 
been  early  instilled  into  him,  and  the  romantic  and  his- 
j torical  ballads,  which  were  orally  communicated  from 
generation  to  generation,  or  published  by  the  voice  and 
harp  of  the  errant  minstrel,  if  they  did  not  constitute 
j sound  knowledge,  at  least  preserved  the  mind  from 
j unidead  vacancy.  The  man  ‘ whose  daily  teachers  had 
I been  woods  and  rills,’*  must  needs,  when  suddenly 
I called  to  the  society  of  ‘ Knights  and  barons  bold,’  have 
j found  himself  defleient  in  many  things ; and  that  want 
W'as  exceeding  great  gain,  both  to  his  tenantry  and 
neighbours,  and  to  his  own  moral  nature.  He  lived  at 
Barden  with  what  W'as  then  a small  retinue,  though  his 
household  accounts  make  mention  of  sixty  servants  on 
that  establishment,  whose  wages  were  from  five  to 
five-and-twenty  shillings  each.  But  the  state  of  his 
revenues,  after  so  many  years  of  spoliation,  must  have 
required  rigorous  economy,  and  he  preferred  abating 
something  of  ancestral  splendour,  to  grinding  the  faces 
of  the  poor.  This  peaceful  life  he  led,  with  little  inter- 
ruption, from  the  accession  of  the  house  of  Tudor,  till 
the  Scotch  invasion,  which  was  defeated  at  Flodden- 
field.  Then  he  became  a warrior  in  his  sixtieth  year, 
and  well  supported  the  military  fame  of  his  house  on 
that  bloody  day.  He  survived  the  battle  ten  years,  and 
died  April  23,  1523,  aged  about  70.” 

II.\RTLEY  Coleridge's  ‘Lives  of  Distinguished  Northerns'  : 
Life  of  Anne  Clifford. — H.  R.] 


Note  2,  p.  189. 


“ French  Revolution.” 


I 


I 


[The  passage  in  ‘ The  Friend’,  introductory  to  this 
extract  on  the  French  Revolution  is  here  annexed, 
with  a view  to  restore  the  original  connection,  and 
thus  to  preserve  unimpaired  their  mutual  interest. 
Coleridge  records  his  own  lofty  enthusiasm  in  this 
confession  : 

“ My  feelings  and  imagination  did  not  remain  un- 
kindled in  this  general  conflagration ; and  I confess  I 
should  be  more  inclined  to  be  ashamed  than  proud  of 
myself,  if  they  had  ! I was  a sharer  in  the  general 
vortex,  though  my  little  world  described  the  path  of 
its  revolution  in  an  orbit  of  its  own.  What  I dared 
not  expect  from  constitutions  of  government  and  whole 
nations,  I hoped  from  Religion  and  a small  company 
of  chosen  individuals,  and  formed  a plan,  as  harmless 
as  it  was  extravagant,  of  trying  the  experiment  of 


I*  See  Wordsworlh's  “ Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Cas- 
tle,” a strain  of  triumph  snpixised  to  be  chanted  by  a minstrel  of 
the  day  of  rejoicing  for  the  “good  Lord's  restoration,  in  which 
1 the  poet  has  almost  excelled  himself.  Had  he  never  written 
' another  Oile,  this  alone  would  set  him  decidedly  at  the  head  of 
! the  lyric  poets  of  Kngland.”] 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


of  human  perfectibility  on  the  banks  of  the  Susque- 
hannah  ; where  our  little  society,  in  its  second  gene- 
ration, was  to  have  combined  the  innocence  of  the 
patriarchal  age  with  the  knowledge  and  genuine  re- 
finements of  European  culture;  and  where  I dreamt 
that  in  the  sober  evening  of  my  life,  I should  behold 
the  Cottages  of  Independence  in  the  undivided  Dale 
of  Industry, 

“ And  oft,  soothed  sadly  by  some  dirgefiil  wind, 

Muso  on  the  sore  ills  I had  left  behind  !” 

Strange  fancies  ! and  as  vain  as  strange  ! yet  to  the 
intense  interest  and  impassioned  zeal,  which  called 
forth  and  strained  every  faculty  of  my  intellect  for 
the  organization  and  defence  of  this  scheme,  I owe 
much  of  whatever  I at  present  possess,  my  clearest 
insight  into  the  nature  of  individual  man,  and  my 
most  comprehensive  views  of  his  social  relations,  of 
the  true  uses  of  trade  and  commerce,  and  how  far  the 
wealth  and  relative  power  of  nations  promote  or  im- 
pede their  tcelfare  and  inherent  strength.  Nor  wmre 
they  less  serviceable  in  securing  myself,  and  perhaps 
some  others,  from  the  pitfalls  of  sedition ; and  when 
we  gradually  alighted  on  the  firm  ground  of  common 
sense  from  the  gradually  exhausted  balloon  of  youthful 
enthusiasm,  though  the  air-built  castles,  which  we  had 
been  pursuing,  had  vanished  with  all  their  pageantry 
of  shifting  forms  and  glowing  colours,  we  were  yet 
free  from  the  stains  and  impurities  which  might  have 
remained  upon  us,  had  we  been  travelling  with  the 
crowd  of  less  imaginative  malcontents,  through  the 
dark  lanes  and  foul  bye-roads  of  ordinary  fanaticism. 

But  oh!  there  were  thousands  as  young  and  as  in- 
nocent as  myself,  who,  not  like  me,  sheltered  in  the 
tranquil  nook  or  inland  cove  of  a particular  fancy, 
were  driven  along  with  the  general  current ! IVIany 
there  were,  young  men  of  loftiest  minds,  yea  the 
prime  stuff  out  of  which  manly  wisdom  and  practica- 
ble greatness  is  to  be  formed,  who  had  appropriated 
their  hopes  and  the  ardour  of  their  souls  to  mankind  at 
large,  to  the  wide  expanse  of  national  interests,  which 
then  seemed  fermenting  in  the  French  Republic  as  in 
the  main  outlet  and  chief  crater  of  tlie  revolutionary 
torrents ; and  who  confidently  believed,  that  these  tor- 
rents, like  the  lavas  of  Vesuvius,  were  to  subside  into 
a soil  of  inexhaustible  fertility  on  the  circumjacent 
lands,  the  old  divisions  and  mouldering  edifices  of 
which  they  had  covered  or  swept  away. — Enthusiasts 
of  kindliest  temperament,  who,  to  use  tlie  words  of  the 
Poet  (having  already  borrowed  the  meaning  and  the 
metaphor)  had  approached 

“ the  shield 

Of  human  nature  from  the  golden  side. 

And  would  have  fought  even  to  the  death  to  attest 
The  quality  of  the  metal  which  they  saw.” 

My  honoured  friend  has  permitted  me  to  give  a value 
and  relief  to  the  present  Essay,  by  a quotation  from 
one  of  his  unpublished  Poems,  the  length  of  which  I 


regret  only  from  its  forbidding  me  to  trespass  on  his 
kindness  by  making  it  longer.  I trust  there  are  many 
of  my  readers  of  the  same  age  with  myself,  wlio  will 
throw  themselves  back  into  the  state  of  thought  and 
feeling  in  which  they  were,  when  France  was  rei^rted 
to  have  solemnised  her  first  sacrifice  of  error  and  pre- 
judice on  the  bloodless  altar  of  Freedom,  by  an  oath 
of  peace  and  good-will  to  all  mankind.” 

‘ The  Friend,'  II.  p.  38. — II.  R.] 

Note  3,  p.  240. 

“ Ellen  Irwin." 

[This  is  affectionate  Service  to  the  old  Jlinstrelsy. 
The  Poet  has  here  versified,  with  great  fidelity 
to  the  tradition,  the  incidents  associated  with  an  an- 
cient ballad,  abounding  with  the  tragic  pathos  and 
simplicity  of  the  Scottish  minstrelsy.  It  was  fitting 
that  the  story  of  ‘Fair  Helen,’  as  well  as  her  lover’s 
lament,  should  be  preserved  in  verse.  The  ballad  is 
contained  in  Sir  Walter  Scott’s  ‘ Minstrelsy  of  the  Bor- 
der,’ from  which  it  is  here  inserted  : 

“FAIR  HELEN. 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies, 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 

O that  1 were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee  ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought. 

And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 

When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt. 

And  died  to  succour  me ! 

0 think  na  ye  my  heart  was  sair, 

When  my  love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair! 

There  did  she  swoon  wi’  mickle  care. 

On  fair  Kircontiell  I.ee ; 

As  1 went  down  the  water  side, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide. 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

1 lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 

1 hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’, 

1 hacked  him  in  pieces  sma’. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me 

0 Helen  fair,  beyond  compare! 

1 ’ll  make  a garland  of  thy  hair. 

Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair, 

Until  the  day  I die. 

O that  1 were  where  Helen  lies ! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 

Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  “ Haste  and  come  to  me !” — 

O Helen  fair ! O Helen  chaste  ! 

If  1 were  with  thee,  1 were  blest. 

Where  thou  lies  low,  and  takes  thy  rest. 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 


376 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


I wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 

A winding-sheet  drawn  ovver  my  een, 

And  I in  Helen’s  arms  lying, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  Lee. 

I wish  I were  where  Helen  lies! 

Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries; 

And  I am  weary  of  the  skies. 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me.” 

Scott’s  Poetical  IVbris,  III.  p.  103. — H.  R.] 

Note  4,  p.  255. 

Sonnet  XI. 

[The  concluding  lines  of  this  sonnet  are  thus  quo- 
ted by  Coleridge  : 

“Effects  will  not  immediately  disappear  with  their 
causes;  but  neitlier  can  they  long  continue  without 
them.  If  by  the  reception  of  Truth  in  the  spirit  of 
Truth,  we  became  what  we  are;  only  by  the  retention 
of  it  in  the  same  spirit,  can  we  remain  what  we  are. 
7’he  narrow  seas  that  form  our  boundaries,  what  were 
they  in  times  of  old  1 The  convenient  highway  for 
Danish  and  Norman  pirates.  What  are  they  now] 
Still  but  ‘a  Span  of  Waters.’ — Yet  they  roll  at  the 
base  of  the  inisled  Ararat,  on  which  the  Ark  of  the 
Hope  of  Europe  and  of  Civilization  rested  I 

Even  so  doth  God  protect  us,  if  we  be 
Virtuous  and  Wise.  Winds  blow  and  Waters  roll. 

Strength  to  the  Brave,  and  Power  and  Deity ; 

Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing  ! One  Decree 
Spake  laws  to  them,  and  said  that  by  the  Soul 
Only  the  Nations  shall  be  great  and  free !’ — Wordsworth.” 

‘ The  Friend,’  VoL  I p.  106. 

Again,  in  tlie  ‘ Sibylline  Leaves’ : 

*'  Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 

O Albion ! O my  mother  Isle  ! 

Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden’s  bowers. 

Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers.; 

Thy  grasisy  uplands’  gentle  swells 
Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks; 

(Tliose  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 
Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) 

And  Oce.vn  ’MtD  nis  upro.vr  wild 
Sl’E.'lKS  SAFETV  TO  Ills  ISLAND-CHILD; 

Hence  for  many  a fearless  age 
Has  Social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore  ; 

Nor  ever  proud  invader’s  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore.” 

Coleridge  : ‘ Ode  to  the  Departing  Year.’—  II.  R.] 

Note  5,  p.  255. 

Sonnet  XIII. 

[This  Sonnet  appears  to  have  been  composed  in  a 
state  of  feeling  different  from  that  which  pervades  the 
Series,  of  which  one  distinguishing  trait  is  a placid  but 
ronstant  confidence  in  the  cause  of  Truth,  — a relying 
upon  a rational  love  of  freedom  and  of  country  as  a 


means  of  security — a hope  which  resulting  from  alook- 
ing  up  to  Providence  is  not  lastingly  impaired  by 
either  fear  or  distrust  — in  a word,  that  mood  of  mind 
which  at  an  earlier  day  enabled  a kindred  spirit  to 

“argue  not 

Against  Heaven’s  hand  or  will,  nor  bate  a jot 
Of  heart  or  hope ; but  still  bear  up  and  steer 
Right  onward.” 

Well  does  the  Poet  claim  the  praise  that  “ his  song 
did  not  shrink  from  hope  in  the  worst  moments  of  evil 
days,”  (Sonnet  XXXllI.  p.  263.)  It  is  true,  indeed, 
there  may  be  traced  apprehensions — momentary  mis- 
givings— an.xieties,  but  only  while  clouds  floating  over 
a gentle  sky,  adorning  rather  than  darkening  it.  The 
peculiarity  of  this  Sonnet  seems  to  be  simply  this; 
that  after  the  expression  of  heart-sinking,  it  does  not, 
as  is  usual  with  him,  express  also  the  self-recovery  of 
the  Poet’s  spirit,  a beautiful  instance  of  which  occurs 
in  Sonnet  XVII.  p.  255.  At  the  same  time  the  feeling 
which  is  expressed  is  perfectly  natural,  especially  if 
we  consider  the  locality  of  the  Sonnet;  nor  is  it,  if 
we  regard  it  as  a transitory  feeling,  at  all  at  variance 
with  the  general  tenor  of  the  poems  of  the  Series.  In 
inserting  in  this  Note  the  affectionate  expostulation 
of  one  of  the  Poet’s  most  zealous  admirer-s,  Mr.  Hart- 
ley Coleridge,  it  will,  I hope,  be  perceived  that  it  is 
designed  not  for  a corrective  comment,  but  to  guard 
against  a probable  over-estimate  of  tlie  despondency 
which  darkened  the  Poet’s  thought  in  the  conception 
of  the  Sonnet  alluded  to. 

“ Mr.  Wordsworth  will,  I doubt  not,  excuse  me,  if, 
admiring  above  measure  the  poetry  of  this  sublime 
Sonnet,  I venture  to  object  to  the  querulous  spirit 
which  it  breathes.  That  we  are  much  worse  than  wo 
ought  to  be  is  unfortunately  a standing  truism,  but  that 
the  ‘stream  of  tendency’  is  recently  diverted  from 
good  to  evil,  I confidently  deny.  Having  said  this 
much,  it  is  better  to  give  the  Sonnet  at  once,  for  I am 
afraid  that  some  one  of  my  readers  may  not  have  a 
copy  of  Wordsworth’s  poems  in  his  pocket,  or  even  in 
his  parlour  window.”  (After  quoting  the  Sonnet,  he 
proceeds :) 

“ Seldom  has  the  .=ame  feeling,  which  is  expressed 
so  often,  been  expressed  so  beautifully ; but  is  not  the 
feeling  itself  a delusion,  or  rather  in  minds  like 
Wordsworth’s  a voluntary  r7/«s/on  Greater  virtues 
were  rendered  visible  by  the  trials  of  the  past,  than 
by  the  security  of  the  present ; but  it  was  not  the  good- 
ness of  the  times  that  called  those  virtues  into  act. 
Had  there  been  no  persecutors,  there  would  liave  been 
no  martyrs:  war  and  oppression  make  patriots  and  he- 
roes; and  wherever  we  hear  of  much  almsgiving,  we 
may  be  sure  that  there  is  much  poverty.  If  Anne 
Clifford  had  not  had  a bad  father  and  two  bad  hus- 
bands, and  a long  weary  widowhood,  and  lived  in  days 
of  rebellion,  usurpation,  and  profligacy,  she  perhaps 
would  have  obtained  no  other  record  than  that  of  a 
sensible,  good  sort  of  a s’oman,  upon  whose  brow  the 


rOEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


377 


corohet  sat  with  graceful  ease.  Nay,  it  is  possible, 
that  the  same  disposition  which  her  adversities  disci- 
plined to  steady  purpose,  meek  self-command,  consi- 
derate charity,  and  godly  fortitude,  might  under  belter 
circumstMices  have  produced  a most  unamiable  degree 
of  patrician  haughtiness.  From  reading  the  memoirs 
of  her,  and  such  as  her,  an  imaginative  mind  receives 
a strong  impression  of  the  superior  sanctity  of  former 
generations;  but  a little  examination  will  prove  that 
these  high  examples  have  always  been  elect  exceptions, 
called  out  of  the  world  — no  measures  of  the  world’s 
righteousness.  No  period  produced  more  saintly  ex- 
cellence than  that  in  which  Anne  Clifford  lived : in 
none  were  greater  crimes  perpetrated ; and  if  we  look 
to  her  later  years  — never,  in  a Christian  age,  was  the 
average  of  morals  so  low.  But  the  age  was  charac- 
terised more  by  the  evil  than  the  good,  as  Rochester’s 
poems  were  much  more  characteristicul  of  Charles  the 
Second’s  time  than  Milton’s. 

One  thing  is  obvious,  that  if  we  are  not  better  than 
our  ancestors,  we  must  be  much  worse  — if  we  are  not 
wiser  than  the  ancients,  we  must  be  incorrigible  fools. 
God  forbid  that  I should  glory,  save  in  the  glory  of 
God.  God  forbid  that  I should  flatter  the  men  of  my 
own  generation,  or  detract  one  atom  from  the  wise  or 
good  of  ages  past.  Wliat  we  are  we  did  not  make 
ourselves ; whatever  truth  perfumes  our  atmosphere,  is 
the  flower  of  a seed  planted  long  ago.  We  do  not,  we 
need  not  do  more  than  cultivate  and  improve  our  pater- 
nal fields.  But  to  deny  that  we  are  benefiting  by  the 
labours  of  our  forefathers,  morally  as  well  as  physical- 
ly, would  be  impious  ingratitude  to  that  Great  Power 
which  hath  given,  and  is  giving,  and  will  give  the  wish, 
and  the  will,  and  the  power,  and  the  knowledge,  and 
the  means  to  do  the  good  which  he  willeth  and  doeth. 

Much,  very  much  remains  to  do.  It  is  no  time  to  sit 
down  self-complacently  and  count  our  gains ; but  neither 
is  it  a time  to  stretch  out  our  arms  vainly  to  catch  the 
irrevocable  past.  We  can  neither  stand  still  nor  go 
backward,  but  striving  to  go  backward,  we  may  go 
lamentably  astray.  There  is  one  line  in  Mr.  Words- 
worth’s sonnet,  against  which,  for  his  own  sake,  I 
must  enter  my  protest : 

‘ No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 
Delights  us.’ 

If  by ‘us,’  he  means  the  numerical  majority  of  the 
population,  I answer,  that  many  more  are  awake  to  the 
grandeur  and  beauty  of  nature  now  than  at  any  former 
era:  if  he  means  that  the  mind  and  soul  of  England 
is  insensible  to  the  sublime,  in  the  visible  or  in  the  in- 
tellectual world,  let  him  only  consider  the  number  of 
yoting,  and  pure,  and  noble  hearts,  that  have  joyfully 
acknowledged  the  grandeur  of  his  book,  and  let  him 

unsay  the  slander.” Hartley  Coleridge’s  ‘ Lives 

of  distinguished  Northerns:' — Life  of  Anne  Clif- 
ford.—II.  R.] 


Note  6,  p.  200. 

Sonnet  XVI. 

“ Of  more  than  martial  courage  in  the  breast 
Of  peaceful  civic  virtue:" 

[The  siege-renowned  City  has  received  from  the  Poet 
another  tribute,  — indeed  a high  ‘ iinpa-ssioned  strain,’ 
though  sustained  ‘ without  aid  of  numbers.’  It  occurs 
in  his  Tract  on  the  Convention  of  Cintra,  referred  to 
in  Sonnets  VII.  and  VIII.  p.  259;  and  whether  we  re- 
gard the  eloquence  of  the  expression  or  the  sublime 
moral  truth  it  teaches,  it  is  a noble  passage  of  English 
prose.  It  is  in  such  true  harmony  with  these  Sonnets, 
that  it  is  gratifying  to  place  it  in  connection  with  them 
by  means  of  a note  : 

“ Most  gloriously  have  the  citizens  of  Zaragoza 
proved  that  the  true  army  of  Spain,  in  a contest  of  this 
nature,  is  the  whole  people.  The  same  city  has  also 
exemplified  a melancholy,  yea,  a dismal  truth,  — yet 
consolatory  and  full  of  joy,  — that  when  a people  are 
called  suddenly  to  fight  for  their  liberty,  and  are  sorely 
pressed  upon,  their  best  field  of  battle  is  the  floors  upon 
which  their  children  have  played  ; the  chambers  where 
the  family  of  each  man  has  slept,  (his  own  or  his 
neighbours’ ; ) upon  or  under  the  roofs  by  which  they 
have  been  sheltered ; in  the  gardens  of  their  recrea- 
tion ; in  the  street,  or  in  the  market  place ; before  the 
altars  of  their  temples,  and  among  their  congregated 
dwellings,  blazing  or  uprooted. 

“ The  government  of  Spain  must  never  forget  Zara- 
goza for  a moment.  Nothing  is  wanting  to  produce 
the  same  effects  everywhere,  but  a leading  mind  such 
as  that  city  was  blessed  with.  In  the  latter  contest 
this  has  been  proved;  for  .Zaragoza  contained  at  that 
time,  bodies  of  men  from  almost  all  parts  of  Spain. 
The  narrative  of  those  two  sieges  should  be  the  manual 
of  every  Spaniard.  He  may  add  to  it  the  ancient 
stories  of  Numantia  and  Saguntum ; let  him  sleep  upon 
the  book  as  a pillow,  and  if  he  be  a devout  adherent 
to  the  religion  of  his  country,  let  him  wear  it  in  his 

bosom  for  his  crucifix  to  rest  upon.” Wordsworth  : 

‘ On  the  Convention  of  Cintra.’ 

In  closing  this  note  I cannot  refrain  from  adding  the 
single  remark,  that  he  must  be  dull  of  heart,  who,  in 
perusing  this  series  of  Poems  ‘ dedicated  to  Liberty,’ 
does  not  feel  his  affection  for  his  own  country  — where- 
ever  it  may  be — and  his  love  of  freedom  — under 
whatever  form  of  government  his  lot  may  have  been 
cast  — at  once  invigorated  and  chastened  into  a purer 
and  more  thoughtful  emotion;  — and  that  mind  must 
be  of  a weak  abstracting  power,  which  fails  to  trace 
amid  these  notices  of  men  and  of  events  which  have 
passed  away,  the  record  of  those 

truths  that  wake, 

I To  perish  never. 


2X 


32 


II.  R.] 


378 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  7,  p.  278. 

“ Bmges." 

This  is  not  the  first  poetical  tribute  wliich  in  our 
times  has  been  paid  to  this  beautiful  City.  Mr.  Southey, 
in  tlie  “ Poet’s  Pilgrimage,”  speaks  of  it  in  lines  which 
I cannot  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  connecting  with 
my  own. 

“ Time  hath  not  wronged  her,  nor  hath  ruin  sougiit 
Rudely  her  splendid  structures  to  destroy, 

Save  in  those  recent  days,  with  evil  fraught. 

When  Mutability,  in  drunken  joy 
Triumphant,  and  from  all  restraint  relea.sed. 

Let  loose  her  fierce  and  many-headed  beast. 

“ But  for  the  scars  in  that  unhappy  rage 
Inflicted,  firm  she  stands  and  undecayed  ; 

Like  our  first  Sires,  a beautiful  old  age 
Is  hers  in  venerable  years  arrayed  ; 

And  yet,  to  her,  benignant  stars  may  bring, 

^Vhat  fate  denies  to  man,  — a second  spring. 

“ When  I may  read  of  lilts  in  days  of  old. 

And  tourneys  graced  by  Chieftains  of  renown. 

Fair  dames,  grave  citizens,  and  warriors  bold. 

If  fancy  would  pourtray  some  stalely  town 
Which  for  such  pomp  fit  theatre  should  be. 

Fair  Bruges,  1 shall  then  remember  thee.” 

In  this  City  arc  many  vestiges  of  the  splendour  of 
the  Burgundian  Dukedom,  and  the  long  black  mantle 
universally  worn  by  the  females  is  probably  a remnant 
of  the  old  Spanish  connection,  which,  if  I do  not  much 
deceive  myself,  is  traceable  in  the  grave  deportment 
of  its  inhabitants.  Bruges  is  comparatively  little  dis- 
turbed by  that  curious  contest,  or  rather  conflict,  of 
Flemish  with  French  propensities  in  matters  of  taste, 
so  conspicuous  through  other  parts  of  Flanders.  The 
hotel  to  which  we  drove  at  Ghent  furnished  an  odd  in- 
stance. In  the  passages  were  paintings  and  statues, 
after  the  antique,  of  Hebe  and  Apollo ; and  in  the  gar- 
den, a little  pond,  about  a yard  and  a half  in  diameter. 
With  a weeping  willow  bending  over  it,  and  under  the 
shade  of  that  tree,  in  the  centre  of  the  pond,  a wooden 
painted  statue  of  a Dutch  or  Flemish  boor,  looking  in- 
effably tender  upon  his  mistress,  and  embracing  her.  j 
A living  duck,  tethered  at  the  feet  of  the  sculptured 
lovers,  alternately  tormented  a miserable  eel  and  itself  | 
with  endeavours  to  escape  from  its  bonds  and  prison.  I 
Had  we  chanced  to  espy  the  hostess  of  the  hotel  in 
this  quaint  rural  retreat,  the  e.xhibition  would  have  j 
been  complete.  She  was  a true  Flemi.sh  figure,  in  the 
dress  of  the  days  of  Holbein,  her  symbol  of  office,  a 
weighty  bunch  of  keys,  pendent  from  her  portly  waist. 
In  Brussels,  the  modern  taste  in  costume,  architecture, 
&c.,  has  got  the  mastery ; in  Ghent  there  is  a struggle ; 
but  in  Bruges  old  images  are  still  paramount,  and  an 
air  of  monastic  life  among  the  quiet  goings-on  of  a 
thinly-peopled  City  is  ine.xprcssibly  soothing;  a pen- 
sive grace  seems  to  be  cast  over  all,  even  the  very 
children. Extract  from  Journal. 


Note  8,  p.  295. 

Sonnet  VI. 

“ There  bloomed  the  strawberry  of  the  wilderness, 

The  trembling  eyebright  showed  her  sapphire  blue." 

These  two  lines  are  in  a great  measure  taken  from 
‘‘  The  Beauties  of  Spring,  a Juvenile  Poem,”  by  the  Rev. 
Joseph  Sympson,  author  of  “ The  Vision  of  Alfred,”  &c. 
He  was  a native  of  Cumberland,  and  was  educated  in 
the  vale  of  Grasmere,  and  at  Hawkshead  school : his 
poems  are  little  known,  but  they  contain  passages  of 
splendid  description;  and  the  versification  of  his  “ Vis- 
I ion  of  Alfred,’  is  harmonious  and  animated.  In  descri- 
bing the  motions  of  the  Sylphs,  that  cons'ilute  the 
strange  machinery  of  his  Poem,  he  uses  the  f illotving 
illustrative  simile : — 

“ Glancing  from  their  plumes 

A changeful  light  the  azure  vault  illumes. 

Less  varying  hues  beneath  the  Pole  adorn 
The  streamy  glories  of  the  Boreal  morn. 

That  wavering  to  and  fro  their  radiance  shed 
On  Bothnia’s  gulf  with  glassy  ice  o’erspread, 

Where  the  lone  native,  as  he  homeward  glides 
On  polished  sandals  o'er  the  imprisoned  tides, 

And  still  the  balance  of  his  frame  preserves. 

Wheeled  on  alternate  foot  in  lengthening  curvei 
Sees  at  a glance,  above  him  and  below. 

Two  rival  heavens  with  equal  splendour  glow. 

Sphered  in  the  centre  of  the  world  he  seems : 

For  all  around  with  soft  effulgence  gleams  ; 

Stars,  moons,  and  meteors,  ray  oppose  to  ray. 

And  solemn  midnight  pours  the  blaze  of  day.” 

He  was  a man  of  ardent  feeling,  and  bis  faculties 
of  mind,  particularly  his  memory,  were  extraordinary. 
Brief  notices  of  his  life  ought  to  find  a place  in  the 
History  of  Westmoreland. 

Note  9,  p.  29G. 

Sonnet  XVII. 

The  E.vgle  requires  a large  domain  for  its  support, 
but  several  pairs,  not  many  years  ago,  were  constantly 
resident  in  tins  country,  building  their  nests  in  tlw 
steeps  of  Borrowdale,  Wastdale,  Ennerdale,  and  on  th 
eastern  side  of  Helvellyn.  Often  have  I heard  anglei 
speak  of  the  grandeur  of  their  appearance,  as  the) 
hovered  over  Red  Tarn,  in  one  of  the  coves  of  this 
mountain.  The  bird  frequently  returns,  but  is  always 
destroyed.  Not  long  since,  one  visited  Rydal  Lake, 
and  remained  some  hours  near  its  banks : the  conster- 
nation which  it  occasioned  among  the  different  species 
of  fowl,  particularly  tlie  herons,  was  e.xpressed  by  loud 
screams.  The  horse  also  is  naturally  afraid  of  the 
pagle. — There  were  several  Roman  stations  among 
these  mountains ; the  most  considerable  seems  to  have 
been  in  a meadow  at  the  head  of  Windermere,  estab- 
lished, undoubtedly,  as  a check  over  the  passes  of 
Kirkstone,  Dunmail-raise,  and  of  Hardknot  and  Wry- 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


nose.  On  the  margin  of  Rydal  Lake,  a coin  of  Trajan 
was  discovered  very  lately. — The  Roman  Fort  here 
alluded  to,  called  by  tlie  country  people  “ Ilardknot 
Castle,”  is  most  impressively  situated  half-way  down 
the  hill  on  the  right  of  the  road  that  descends  from 
Ilardknot  into  Eskdale.  It  has  escaped  the  notice  of 
most  antiquarians,  and  is  but  slightly  mentioned  by 
Lysons. — The  Duuidical  Circle  is  about  half  a mile 
to  the  left  of  the  road  ascending  Stone-side  from  the 
vale  of  Duddon  : the  country  people  call  it  “ Simken 
Church.” 

The  reader  who  may  have  been  interested  in  the 
foregoing  Sonnets,  (which  together  may  be  considered 
as  a Poem,)  will  not  be  displeased  to  find  in  this  place 
a prose  account  of  the  Duddon,  extracted  from  Green’s 
comprehensive  Guide  to  the  Lakes,  lately  published. 
“ The  road  leading  from  Coniston  to  Broughton  is  over 
high  ground,  and  commands  a view  of  the  River  Dud- 
don ; which,  at  high  water,  is  a grand  sight,  having 
the  beautiful  and  fertile  lands  of  Lancashire  and  Cum- 
berland stretching  each  way  from  its  margin.  In  this 
extensive  view,  the  face  of  nature  is  displayed  in  a 
wonderful  variety  of  hill  and  dale ; wooded  grounds 
and  buildings;  amongst  the  latter,  Broughton  Tower, 
seated  on  the  crown  of  a hill,  rising  elegantly  from  the 
valley,  is  an  object  of  extraordinary  interest.  Fertility 
on  each  side  is  gradually  diminished,  and  lost  in  the 
superior  heights  of  Blackcomb,  in  Cumberland,  and  the 
high  lands  between  Kirkby  and  Ulverstone. 

“The  road  from  Broughton  to  Seathwaite  is  on  the 
banks  of  the  Duddon,  and  on  its  Lancashire  side  it  is 
of  various  elevations.  The  river  is  an  amusing  com- 
panion, one  while  brawling  and  tumbling  over  rocky 
precipices,  until  the  agitated  water  becomes  again  calm 
by  arriving  at  a smoother  and  less  precipitous  bed,  but 
its  course  is  soon  again  ruffled,  and  the  current  thrown 
into  every  variety  of  foam  which  the  rocky  channel 
of  a river  can  give  to  water.” — Vide  Green's  Guide 
to  the  Lakes,  vol.  i.  pp.  98 — 100. 

After  all,  the  traveller  would  bo  most  gratified  who 
should  approach  this  beautiful  Stream,  neither  at  its 
source,  as  is  done  in  the  Sonnets,  nor  from  its  termina- 
tion; but  from  Coniston  over  Walna  Scar;  first  de- 
scending into  a little  circular  valley,  a collateral  com- 
partment of  the  long  winding  vale  through  which  flows 
the  Duddon.  This  recess,  towards  the  close  of  Sep- 
tember, when  the  after-grass  of  the  meadows  is  stilt  of 
a fresh  green,  with  the  leaves  of  many  of  the  trees 
faded,  but  perhaps  none  fallen,  is  truly  enchanting.  At 
a point  elevated  enough  to  show  the  various  objects  in 
the  valley,  and  not  so  high  as  to  diminish  their  impor- 
tance, the  stranger  will  instinctively  halt.  On  the 
foreground,  a little  below  the  most  favourable  station, 
a rude  foot-bridge  is  thrown  over  the  bed  of  the  noisy 
brook  foaming  by  the  way-side.  Russet  and  craggy 
hills,  of  bold  and  varied  outline,  surround  the  level  val- 
ley, which  is  besprinkled  with  gray  rocks  plumed  with 


birch  trees.  A few  homesteads  are  interspersed,  in 
some  places  peeping  out  from  among  the  rocks  like 
hermitagc.s,  whose  site  has  been  chosen  for  the  benefit 
of  sunshine  as  well  as  shelter;  in  other  instances,  the 
dwelling-house,  barn,  and  byre,  compose  together  a 
cruciform  structure,  which,  with  its  embowering  trees, 
and  the  ivy  clothing  part  of  the  walls  and  roof  like  a 
fleece,  call  to  mind  the  remains  of  an  ancient  abbey. 
Time,  in  most  cases,  and  nature  every  where,  have 
given  a sanctity  to  the  humble  works  of  man,  that  are 
scattered  over  this  peaceful  retirement.  Hence  a har- 
mony of  tone  and  colour,  a perfection  and  consumma- 
tion of  beauty,  which  would  have  been  marred  had  aim 
or  purpose  interfered  with  the  course  of  convenience, 
utility,  or  necessity.  This  unvitiated  region  stands  in 
no  need  of  the  veil  of  twilight  to  soften  or  disguise  its 
features.  As  it  glistens  in  the  morning  sunshine,  it 
would  fill  the  spectator’s  heart  with  gladsomeness. 
Looking  from  our  chosen  station,  he  would  feel  an  im- 
patience to  rove  among  its  pathways,  to  be  greeted  by 
the  milkmaid,  to  wander  from  house  to  house,  exchan- 
ging “ good-morrows”  as  he  passed  the  open  doors ; hut, 
at  evening,  when  the  sun  is  set,  and  a pearly  light 
gleams  from  the  western  quarter  of  the  sky,  with  an 
answering  light  from  the  smooth  surface  of  the  mea- 
dows; when  the  trees  are  dusky,  but  each  kind  still 
distinguishable;  when  the  cool  air  has  condensed  the 
blue  smoke  rising  from  the  cottage-chimneys;  when 
the  dark  mossy  stones  seem  to  sleep  in  the  bed  of  the 
foaming  Brook ; then,  he  would  be  unwilling  to  move 
forward,  not  less  from  a reluctance  to  relinquish  what 
he  beholds,  than  from  an  apprehension  of  disturbing, 
by  his  approach,  the  quietness  beneath  him.  Issuing 
from  the  plain  of  this  valley,  the  Brook  descends  in  a 
rapid  torrent,  passing  by  the  churchyard  of  Seathwaite. 
The  traveller  is  thus  conducted  at  once  into  the  midst 
of  the  wild  and  beautiful  scenery  which  gave  occasion 
to  the  Sonnets  from  the  14th  to  the  20th  inclusive. 
From  the  point  w’here  the  Seathwaite  Brook  joins  the 
Duddon,  is  a view  upwards,  into  the  pass  through 
which  the  River  makes  its  way  into  the  Plain  of  Don- 
nerdale.  The  perpendicular  rock  on  the  right  bears 
the  ancient  British  name  of  The  Pen  ; the  one  oppo- 
site is  called  Walla-barrow  Crag,  a name  that 
occurs  in  several  places  to  designate  rocks  of  the  same 
character.  The  chaotic  aspect  of  the  scene  is  well 
marked  by  the  expression  of  a stranger,  who  strolled 
out  while  dinner  W’as  preparing,  and  at  his  return, 
being  asked  by  his  host,  “ What  way  he  had  been 
wandering  1”  replied,  “As  far  as  it  is  finished! 

The  bed  of  the  Duddon  is  here  strewm  with  large  frag- 
ments of  rocks  fallen  from  aloft;  which,  as  Mr.  Green 
truly  says,  “are  happily  adapted  to  the  many-shaped 
waterfalls,”  (or  rather  water-breaks,  for  none  of  them' 
are  high,)  “ displayed  in  the  short  space  of  half  a mile.” 
That  there  is  some  hazard  in  frequenting  these  desolate 
places,  I myself  have  had  proof;  for  one  night  an 


380 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


immense  mass  of  rock  fell  upon  the  very  spot  w'here, 
with  a friend,  I had  lingered  the  day  before.  The  con- 
cussion,” says  Mr.  Green,  speaking  of  the  event,  (for 
he  also,  in  the  practice  of  his  art,  on  that  day  sat 
e.xposed  for  a still  longer  time  to  the  same  peril,) 
“ was  heard,  not  without  alarm,  by  the  neighbouring 
shepherds.”  But  to  return  to  Seathwaite  Church-yard  : 
it  contains  the  following  inscription. 

“Ill  memory  of  the  Reverend  Robert  Walker,  who 
died  the  25th  of  June,  1802,  in  the  93d  year  of  his  age, 
and  67th  of  his  curacy  at  Seathwaite. 

“ Also,  of  Anne,  his  wife,  who  died  the  28th  of  Janu- 
ary, in  the  93d  year  of  her  age.” 

In  the  parish-register  of  Seathwaite  Chapel,  is  this 
notice : 

“Buried,  June  28th,  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker.  He 
was  curate  of  Seathwaite  si.xty-six  years.  He  was 
a man  singular  for  his  temperance,  industry,  and  in- 
tegrity.” 

This  individual  is  the  Pastor  alluded  to,  in  the 
eighteenth  Sonnet,  as  a worthy  compeer  of  the  Coun- 
try Parson  of  Chaucer,  &c.  In  the  Seventh  Book  of 
the  Excursion,  an  abstract  of  his  character  is  given, 
beginning  — 

“A  Priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 
Fall  to  the  ground  ; — ” 

and  some  account  of  his  life,  for  it  is  worthy  of  being 
recorded,  will  not  be  out  of  place  here.  [See  Appen- 
dix IV.,  to  which  this  memoir  has  been  transferred, 
reference  being  made  to  the  subject  of  it  in  several 
places  in  this  volume.  — H.  R.] 

Note  10,  p.  304. 

“ Highland  Hut." 

This  sonnet  describes  the  exterior  of  a Highland  hut, 
as  often  seen  under  morning  or  evening  sunshine.  The 
reader  may  not  be  displeased  with  the  following  extract 
from  the  journal  of  a Lady,  my  fellow-traveller  in 
Scotland,  in  the  autumn  of  1803,  which  accurately 
describes,  under  particular  circumstances,  the  beautiful 
appearance  of  the  interior  of  one  these  rude  habita- 
tions. 

“ On  our  return  from  the  Trossachs  the  evening  be- 
gan to  darken,  and  it  rained  so  heavily  that  we  were 
completely  wet  before  we  had  come  two  miles,  and  it 
was  dark  when  we  landed  with  our  boatman,  at  his 
hut  upon  the  banks  of  Loch  Katrine.  I was  faint 
from  cold;  the  good  woman  had  provided,  according  to 
her  promise,  a better  fire  than  we  had  found  in  the 
morning;  and,  indeed,  when  I sat  dosvn  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner of  her  smoky  biggin,  I thought  I had  never 
felt  more  comfortable  in  my  life : a pan  of  coffee  was 
boiling  for  us,  and  having  put  our  clothes  in  the  way 
of  drying,  we  all  sat  down  thankful  for  a shelter.  We 
could  not  prevail  upon  our  boatman,  the  master  of  the 
house,  to  draw  near  the  fire,  though  he  was  cold  and 
wet,  or  to  suffer  his  wife  to  get  him  dry  clothes  till 


she  had  served  us,  which  she  did  most  willingly,  though 
not  very  expeditiously. 

“A  Cumberland  man  of  the  same  rank  would  not 
have  had  such  a notion  of  what  was  fit  and  right  in  his 
own  house,  or,  if  he  had,  one  would  have  accused  him 
of  servility ; but  in  the  Highlander  it  only  seemed  like 
politeness  (however  erroneous  and  painful  to  us),  na- 
turally growing  out  of  the  dependence  of  the  inferiors 
of  the  clan  upon  their  laird:  he  did  not,  however,  re- 
fuse to  let  his  wife  bring  out  the  whisky  bottle  for  his 
refreshment,  at  our  request.  “ She  keeps  a dram,”  as 
the  phrase  is:  indeed,  I believe  there  is  scarcely  a 
lonely  house  by  the  wayside,  in  Scotland,  where  travel- 
lers may  not  be  accommodated  with  a dram.  We 
asked  for  sugar,  butter,  barley-bread,  and  milk ; and, 
with  a smile  and  a stare  more  of  kindness  than  wonder, 
she  replied,  “Ye’ll  get  that,”  bringing  each  article 
separately.  We  caroused  over  our  cups  of  coffee,  laugh- 
ing like  children  at  the  strange  atmosphere  in  which  w'e 
were:  the  smoke  came  in  gusts,  and  spread  along  the 
walls;  and  above  our  heads  in  the  chimney  (where  the 
hens  were  roosting)  like  clouds  in  the  sky.  We 
laughed  and  laughed  again,  in  spite  of  the  smarting 
of  our  eyes,  yet  had  a quieter  pleasure  in  observing 
the  beauty  of  the  beams  and  rafters  gleaming  between 
the  clouds  of  smoke : they  had  been  crusted  over,  and 
varnished  by  many  winters,  till,  w-here  the  firelight  fell 
upon  them,  they  had  become  as  glossy  as  blqck  rocks, 
on  a sunny  day,  cased  in  ice.  When  we  had  eaten 
our  supper  we  sat  about  half  an  hour,  and  I think  I 
never  felt  so  deeply  the  blessing  of  a hospitable  wel- 
come and  a warm  fire.  The  man  of  the  house  re- 
peated from  time  to  time  that  we  should  often  tell  of 
this  night  when  we  got  to  our  homes,  and  interposed 
praises  of  his  own  lake,  which  he  had  more  than  once, 
when  we  were  returning  in  the  boat,  ventured  to  say 
was  “ bonnier  than  Loch  Lomond.”  Our  companion 
from  the  Trossachs,  who,  it  appeared,  was  an  Edin- 
burgh drawing-master  going,  during  the  vacation,  on  a 
pedestrian  tour  to  John  o’  Groat’s  house,  was  to  sleep 
in  the  barn  with  my  fellow-travellers,  where  the  man 
said  he  had  plenty  of  dry  hay.  I do  not  believe  that 
the  hay  of  the  Highlanders  is  ever  very  dry,  but  this 
year  it  had  a better  chance  than  usual:  wet  or  dry, 
however,  the  next  morning  they  said  they  had  slept 
comfortably.  When  I went  to  bed,  the  mistress,  de- 
siring me  to  "go  ben"  attended  me  with  a candle,  and 
assured  me  that  the  bed  was  dry,  though  not  “ sic  as 
I had  been  used  to.”  It  was  of  chaff;  there  were 
two  others  in  the  room,  a cupboard  and  two  chests, 
upon  one  of  which  stood  milk  in  wooden  vessels, 
covered  over.  The  walls  of  the  whole  house  were  of 
stone  unplastered;  it  consisted  of  three  apartments, 
the  cowhouse  at  one  end,  the  kitchen  or  house  in  the 
middle,  and  the  spence  at  the  other  end ; the  rooms 
were  divided,  not  up  to  the  rigging,  but  only  to  the 
beginning  of  the  roof,  so  that  there  was  a free  passage 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


381 


for  light  and  smoke  from  one  end  of  the  house  to  the 
other.  I went  to  bed  some  time  before  the  rest  of  the 
family:  the  door  was  shut  between  us,  and  they  had  a 
bright  fire,  whicli  I could  not  see,  but  the  light  it  sent 
up  among  the  varnished  rafters  and  beams,  which 
crossed  each  other  in  almost  as  intricate  and  fantastic 
a manner  as  I have  seen  the  under  boughs  of  a large 
beech  tree  withered  by  the  depth  of  shade  above,  pro- 
duced the  most  beautiful  efiecl  that  can  be  conceived. 
It  was  like  what  I should  suppose  an  underground 
cave  or  temple  to  be,  with  a dripping  or  moist  roof,  and 
the  moonlight  entering  in  upon  it  by  some  means  or 
other;  and  yet  the  colours  were  more  like  those  of 
melted  gems.  I lay  looking  up  till  the  light  of  the 
fire  faded  away,  and  the  man  and  his  wife  and  child 
had  crept  into  their  bed  at  the  other  end  of  the  room : 
I did  not  sleep  much,  but  passed  a comfortable  night; 
for  my  bed,  though  hard,  was  warm  and  clean : the 
unusualness  of  my  situation  prevented  me  from  sleep- 
ing. I could  hear  the  waves  beat  against  the  shore  of 
tlie  lake ; a little  rill  close  to  the  door  made  a much 
louder  noise,  and,  when  I sat  up  in  my  bed,  I could  see 
the  lake  through  an  open  window-place  at  the  bed’s 
head.  Add  to  this,  it  rained  all  night.  I was  less 
occupied  by  remembrance  of  the  Trossachs,  beautiful 
as  they  were,  than  the  vision  of  the  Highland  hut, 
which  I could  not  get  out  of  my  head;  I thought  of 
the  Fairy-land  of  Spenser,  and  what  I had  read  in  ro- 
mance at  other  times,  and  then  what  a feast  it  would 
be  for  a London  Pantomime-maker,  could  he  but  trans- 
plant it  to  Drury  Lane,  with  all  its  beautiful  co- 
lours !” — MS. 

Note  11,  p.  304. 

“ Bolhwell  Castle." 

The  following  is  from  the  .same  MS.,  and  gives  an 
account  of  the  visit  to  Bothwell  Castle  here  alluded 
to:  — 

“ It  was  exceedingly  delightful  to  enter  thus  unex- 
pectedly upon  such  a beautiful  region.  The  castle 
stands  nobly,  overlooking  the  Clyde.  When  we  came 
up  to  it,  I was  hurt  to  see  tliat  flower-borders  had  taken 
place  of  the  natural  overgrowings  of  the  ruin,  the  scat- 
tered stones  and  wild  plants.  It  is  a large  and  grand 
pile  of  red  freestone,  harmonizing  perfectly  with  the 
rocks  of  the  river,  from  which,  no  doubt,  it  has  been 
hewn.  When  I was  a little  accustomed  to  the  unna- 
turalness of  a modern  garden,  I could  not  help  admiring 
the  excessive  beauty  and  luxuriance  of  some  of  the 
plants,  particularly  the  purple-flowered  clematis,  and 
a broad-leafed  creeping  plant  without  flowers,  which 
scrambled  up  the  castle  wall,  along  with  the  ivy,  and 
spread  its  vine-like  branches  so  lavishly  that  it  seemed 
to  be  in  its  natural  situation,  and  one  could  not  help 
thinking  that,  though  not  self-planted  among  the  ruins 
of  this  country,  it  must  somewhere  have  its  native  abode 
in  such  places.  If  Bothwell  Castle  had  not  been  close 


to  the  Douglas  mansion,  we  should  have  been  disgusted 
with  the  possessor's  miserable  conception  of  adorning 
such  a venerable  ruin ; but  it  is  so  very  near  to  the 
house,  tliat  of  necessity  the  pleasure-grounds  must  have 
extended  beyond  it,  and  perhaps  the  neatness  of  a 
shaven  lawn  and  the  complete  desolation  natural  to 
ruin  might  have  made  an  unpleasing  contrast;  am!, 
besides  being  witliin  the  precincts  of  the  pleasure- 
grounds,  and  so  very  near  to  the  dwelling  of  a noble 
family,  it  had  forfeited,  in  some  degree,  its  independent 
majesty,  and  becomes  a tributary  to  the  mansion : its 
solitude  being  interrupted,  it  has  no  longer  the  com- 
mand over  the  mind  in  sending  it  back  into  past  times, 
or  excluding  the  ordinary  feelings  which  we  boar 
about  us  in  daily  life.  We  had  then  only  to  regret 
that  the  castle  and  the  house  were  so  near  to  each 
other;  and  it  was  impossible  not  to  regret  it;  for  the 
ruin  presides  in  state  over  the  river,  far  from  city  or 
town,  as  if  it  might  have  a peculiar  privilege  to  preserve 
its  memorials  of  past  ages,  and  maintain  its  own  charac- 
ter for  centuries  to  come.  We  sat  upon  a bench  under 
the  high  trees,  and  had  beautiful  views  of  the  different 
reaches  of  the  river,  above  and  below.  On  the  oppo- 
site bank,  which  is  finely  wooded  with  elms  and  other 
trees,  are  the  remains  of  a priory  built  upon  a rock  ; and 
rock  and  ruin  are  so  blended,  that  it  is  impossible  to 
separate  the  one  from  the  other.  Nothing  can  be  more 
beautiful  than  the  little  remnant  of  this  holy  place: 
elm  trees  (for  we  were  near  enough  to  distinguish 
them  by  their  branches)  grow  out  of  the  walls,  and 
overshadow  a small,  but  very  elegant  window.  It  can 
scarcely  be  conceived  what  a grace  the  castle  and 
priory  impart  to  each  other ; and  tlie  river  Clyde  flows 
on  smooth  and  unruffled  below,  seeming  to  my  thoughts 
more  in  harmony  with  the  sober  and  stately  images 
of  former  times,  than  if  it  had  roared  over  a rocky 
channel  forcing  its  sound  upon  the  ear.  It  blended 
gently  with  the  warbling  of  the  smaller  birds,  and  the 
chattering  of  the  larger  ones,  that  had  made  tlieir  nests 
in  the  ruins.  In  this  fortress  the  chief  of  the  English 
nobility  were  confined  after  the  battle  of  Bannockburn. 
If  a man  is  to  be  a prisoner,  he  scarcely  could  have  a 
more  pleasant  place  to  solace  his  captivity;  but  I 
thought  that,  for  close  confinement,  I should  prefer  the 
banks  of  a lake,  or  the  sea-side.  The  greatest  charm 
of  a brook  or  river  is  in  the  liberty  to  pursue  it  through 
its  windings ; *you  can  then  take  it  in  whatever  mood 
you  like ; silent  or  noisy,  sportive  or  quiet.  The  beau- 
ties of  a brook  or  river  must  be  sought,  and  the  pleasure 
is  in  going  in  search  of  them ; those  of  a lake,  or  of 
the  sea,  come  to  you  of  them.selves.  These  rude  war- 
riors cared  little,  perhaps,  about  either;  and  yet,  if  one 
may  judge  from  the  writings  of  Chaucer,  and  from  the 
old  romances,  more  interesting  passions  were  connected 
with  natural  objects  in  the  days  of  chivalry  tiian  now ; 
though  going  in  search  of  scenery,  as  it  is  called,  had 
not  then  been  thought  of.  I had  previously  heard  no- 


382 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


thing  of  Bothwell  Castle,  at  least  nothing  that  I re-  I 
meinbered ; therefore,  perhaps,  my  pleasure  was  greater, 
compared  with  what  I received  elsewhere,  than  others 
might  feel.” MS.  Joxirnal. 

Note  12,  p.  305. 

‘ The  Hart' s-horn  Tree.' 

“ In  the  lime  of  the  first  Robert  de  Clifford,  in  the 
year  13.33  or  1334,  Edward  Baliol,  king  of  Scotland, 
came  into  Westmoreland,  and  stayed  some  time  with 
the  said  Robert  at  his  castles  of  Appleby,  Brougham, 
and  Pendragon.  And  during  that  time  they  ran  a stag 
by  a single  greyhound  out  of  Whinfell  Park  to  Red- 
kirk,  in  Scotland,  and  back  again  to  this  place ; where, 
being  both  spent,  the  stag  leaped  over  the  pales,  but 
died  on  the  other  side ; and  the  greyhound,  attempting 
to  leap,  fell,  and  died  on  the  contrary  side.  In  memory 
of  this  fact  the  stag’s  horns  were  nailed  upon  a tree 
just  by,  and  (the  dog  being  named  Hercules)  this  rhyme 
was  made  upon  them  : 

‘Hercules  kill’d  Hart  a greese 
And  Hart  a greese  kill'd  Hercules.’ 

3’he  tree  to  this  day  bears  the  name  of  Hart’s-horn 
Tree.  The  horns  in  process  of  time  were  almost 
grown  over  by  the  growth  of  the  tree,  and  another  pair 

was  put  up  in  their  place.” Nicholson  and  Burns's 

History  of  Westmoreland  and  Cumherla?id. 

The  tree  has  now  disappeared,  but  the  author  of 
these  poems  well  remembers  its  imposing  appearance 
as  it  stood,  in  a decayed  state,  by  the  side  of  the  high 
road  leading  from  Penrith  to  Appleby.  This  whole 
neighbourhood  abounds  in  interesting  traditions  and 
vestiges  of  antiquity,  viz.,  Julian’s  Bower;  Brougham 
and  Penrith  Tlastles ; Penrith  Beacon,  and  the  curious 
remains  in  Penrith  church-yard ; Arthur’s  Round  Table ; 
the  excavation,  called  the  Giant’s  Cave,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Eamont ; Long  Meg  and  her  Daughters,  near 
Eden,  &c.  &-C. 

Note  13,  p.  308. 

The  River  Greta. 

“ But  if  thou  like  Cocytus,"  &c. 

Many  years  ago,  when  the  author  was  at  Greta 
Bridge,  in  Yorkshire,  the  hostess  of  the  inn,  proud 
of  her  skill  in  etymology,  said,  tlia*  “the  name 
of  the  river  was  taken  from  the  bridge,  the  form  of 
which,  as  every  one  must  notice,  exactly  resembled  a 
great  A.”  But  Dr.  Whitaker  has  derived  it  from  the 
word  of  common  occurrence  in  the  north  of  England, 
^'to  greet;"  signifying  to  lament  aloud,  mostly  witli 
weeping:  a conjecture  rendered  more  probable  from 
the  stony  and  rocky  channel  of  both  the  Cumberland 
and  Yorkshire  rivers.  Tlie  Cumberland  Greta,  though 
it  does  not,  among  the  country  people,  take  up  that 
name  till  within  three  miles  of  its  disappearance  in 
the  river  Derwent,  may  be  considered  as  having  its 


source  in  the  mountain  cove  of  Wythburn,  and  flowing 
through  TJiirlmere,  the  beautiful  features  of  which 
lake  are  known  only  to  those  who,  travelling  between 
Grasmere  and  Keswick,  have  quitted  the  main  road  in 
the  vale  of  Wythburn,  and,  crossing  over  to  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  lake,  have  proceeded  with  it  on  the 
right  hand. 

The  channel  of  the  Greta,  immediately  above  Kes- 
wick, has,  for  the  purposes  of  building,  been  in  a great 
measure  cleared  of  the  immense  stones  wliich,  by  their 
concussion  in  high  floods,  produced  the  loud  and  awful 
noises  described  in  the  sonnet. 

“ The  scenery  upon  this  river,”  says  Mr.  Southey 
in  his  Colloquies,  “where  it  passes  under  the  woody 
side  of  Latrigg,  is  of  the  finest  and  most  rememberable 
kind : — 

‘ambiguo  lapsu  refluitque  fluitque, 

Occurrensque  sibi  venturas  aspicit  undas.’ 

Note  14,  p.  317. 

St.  Bees. 

“ Were  not,  in  sooth,  their  Requiems  sacred  ties." 

The  author  is  aware  that  he  is  here  treading  upon 
tender  ground ; but  to  the  intelligent  reader  he  feels 
that  no  apology  is  due.  The  prayers  of  survivors, 
during  passionate  grief  for  the  recent  loss  of  relatives 
and  friends,  as  the  object  of  those  prayers  could  no 
longer  be  the  suffering  body  of  the  dying,  would  natu- 
rally be  ejaculated  for  the  souls  of  the  departed ; the 
barriers  between  the  two  worlds  dissolving  before  the 
power  of  love  and  faith.  The  ministers  of  religion, 
from  their  habitual  attendance  upon  sick-beds,  would 
be  daily  witnesses  of  these  benign  results;  and  hence 
w'ould  be  strongly  tempted  to  aim  at  giving  to  them 
permanence,  by  embodying  them  in  rites  and  ceremo- 
nies, recurring  at  stated  periods.  All  this,  as  it  was 
in  course  of  nature,  so  was  it  blameless,  and  even 
praiseworthy  ; but  no  reflecting  person  can  view  with- 
out sorrow  the  abuses  which  rose  out  of  thus  formal- 
izing sublime  instincts,  and  disinterested  movements 
of  passion,  and  perverting  them  into  means  of  gratify- 
ing the  ambition  and  rapacity  of  the  priesthood.  But, 
while  we  deplore  and  are  indignant  at  these  abuses,  it 
would  be  a great  mistake  if  we  imputed  the  origin  of 
the  offices  to  prospective  selfishness  on  the  part  of  the 
monks  and  clergy  ; they  were  at  first  sincere  in  their 
sympathy,  and  in  their  degree  dupes  rather  of  their 
own  creed,  than  artful  and  designing  men.  Charity  is, 
upon  the  w'hole,  the  safest  guide  that  we  can  take  in 
judging  our  fellow-men,  whether  of  past  ages,  or  of 
the  present  time. 

Note  15,  p.  328. 

“ The  White  Doe  of  Rylstone." 

The  Poem  of  the  lYhite  Doe  of  Rylstone  is  found- 
ed on  a local  tradition,  and  on  the  Ballad  in  Percy’s 
Collection,  entitled,  “ The  Rising  of  the  North.”  The 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


38.3 


tradition  is  as  follows:  — “About  this  time,”  not 
long  after  the  Dissolution,  “ a White  Doe,  say  the  aged 
people  of  the  neighbourhood,  long  continued  to  make 
a weekly  pilgrimage  from  Rylstone  over  the  fells  of 
Bolton,  and  was  constantly  found  in  the  Abbey  Church- 
yard during  divine  service;  after  the  close  of  which 
she  returned  home  as  regularly  as  tlie  rest  of  the  con- 
gregation.” — Dr.  Whitaker’s  History  of  the  Dean- 
ery of  Craven.  — Rylstone  was  the  property  and  resi- 
dence of  the  Nortons,  distinguished  in  that  ill-advised 
and  unfortunate  Insurrection ; which  led  me  to  connect 
with  this  tradition  the  principal  circumstances  of  their 
fate,  as  recorded  in  the  Ball.ad. 

“Bolton  Priory,”  says  Dr.  Whitaker  in  his  excellent 
book.  The  History  and  Antiquities  of  the  Deanery  of 
Craven,  “ stands  upon  a beautiful  curvature  of  the 
Wharf,  on  a level  sufficiently  elevated  to  protect  it 
from  inundations,  and  low  enough  for  every  purpose  of 
picturesque  effect. 

“ Opposite  to  the  East  window  of  the  Priory  Church, 
the  river  W'ashes  the  foot  of  a rock  nearly  perpendicu- 
lar, and  of  the  richest  purple,  where  several  of  tlie 
mineral  beds,  which  break  out,  instead  of  maintaining 
their  usual  inclination  to  the  horizon,  are  twisted  by 
some  inconceivable  process  into  undulating  and  spiral 
lines.  To  the  South  all  is  soft  and  delicious;  the  eye 
reposes  upon  a few  rich  pastures,  a moderate  reach  of 
the  river,  sufficiently  tranquil  to  form  a mirror  to  the 
sun,  and  the  bounding  hills  beyond,  neither  too  near 
nor  too  lofty  to  exclude,  even  in  winter,  any  portion  of 
his  rays. 

“ But,  after  all,  the  glories  of  Bolton  are  on  the 
North.  Whatever  the  most  fastidious  taste  could  re- 
quire to  constitute  a perfect  landscape  is  not  only  found 
here,  but  in  its  proper  place.  In  front,  and  immedi- 
ately under  the  eye,  is  a smooth  e.xpanse  of  park-like 
enclosure,  spotted  with  native  elm,  ash,  &c.  of  the 
finest  growth : on  the  right  a skirting  oak  wood,  with 
jutting  points  of  gray  rock  ; on  the  left  a rising  copse. 
Still  forw'ard,  are  seen  the  aged  groves  of  Bolton  Park, 
the  growth  of  centuries ; and  farther  yet,  the  barren 
and  rocky  distances  of  Simon-seat  and  Barden  Fell 
contrasted  with  the  warmth,  fertility,  and  luxuriant 
foliage  of  the  valley  below. 

“ About  half  a mile  above  Bolton  the  valley  closes, 
and  either  side  of  the  Wharf  is  overhung  by  solemn 
woods,  from  which  huge  perpendicular  masses  of  gray 
rock  jut  out  at  intervals. 

“This  sequestered  scene  was  almost  inaccessible 
till  of  late,  that  ridings  have  been  cut  on  both  sides  of 
the  River,  and  the  most  interesting  points  laid  open  by 
judicious  thinnings  in  the  wmods.  Here  a tributary 
stream  rushes  from  a waterfall,  and  bursts  through  a 
woody  glen  to  mingle  its  waters  with  the  Wharf;  there 
the  Wharf  itself  is  nearly  lost  in  a deep  cleft  in  the 
rock,  and  next  becomes  a horned  flood  enclosing  a 
woody  island  — sometimes  it  reposes  fora  moment,  and 


then  resumes  its  native  character,  lively,  irregular,  and 
impetuous. 

“ The  cleft  mentioned  above  is  the  tremendous  Strid. 
This  chasm,  being  incapable  of  receiving  the  winter 
floods,  has  formed  on  either  side,  a broad  strand  of  na- 
ked gritstone  full  of  rock-basins,  or  ‘ pots  of  the  Linn,’ 
which  bear  witness  to  the  restless  impetuosity  of  so 
many  Northern  torrents.  But,  if  here  Wharf  is  lost 
to  the  eye,  it  amply  repays  another  sense  by  its  deep 
and  solemn  roar,  like  ‘the  Voice  of  the  angry  Spirit 
of  the  Waters,’  heard  far  above  and  beneath,  arnid.st 
the  silence  of  tlie  surrounding  woods. 

“ The  terminating  object  of  the  landscape  is  the  re- 
mains of  Barden  Tower,  interesting  from  their  form 
and  situation,  and  still  more  so  from  the  recollections 
which  they  excite.” 

Note  16,  p.  331. 

“ Who  loved  the  Shepherd  Lord  to  meet.” 

At  page  186  of  this  volume  will  be  found  a Poem 
entitled,  “ Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle, 
upon  the  Restoration  of  Lord  Clifford  the  Shepherd  to 
the  Estates  and  Honours  of  his  Ancestors,”  to  which 
is  annexed  an  account  of  this  personage,  chiefly  ex- 
tracted from  Burn’s  and  Nicholson’s  History^  of  Cum- 
berland and  Westmoreland.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
add  these  further  particulars  concerning  him,  from  Dr. 
Whitaker,  who  says,  “he  retired  to  the  solitude  of 
Barden,  where  he  seems  to  have  enlarged  the  tower 
out  of  a common  keeper’s  lodge,  and  where  he  found 
a retreat  equally  favourable  to  taste,  to  instruction,  and 
to  devotion.  The  narrow  limits  of  his  residence  show 
that  he  had  learned  to  despise  the  pomp  of  greatness, 
and  that  a small  train  of  servants  could  suffice  him, 
wlio  had  lived  to  tlie  age  of  thirty  a servant  himself.  I 
think  this  nobleman  resided  here  almost  entirely  when 
in  Yorkshire,  for  all  his  charters  which  I have  seen  arc 
dated  at  Barden. 

“His  early  habits,  and  the  want  of  those  artificial 
measures  of  time  which  even  shepherds  now  possess, 
had  given  him  a turn  for  observing  the  motions  of  the 
heavenly  bodies  ; and,  having  purchased  such  an  appa- 
ratus as  could  then  be  procured,  he  amused  and  inform- 
ed himself  by  those  pursuits,  with  the  aid  of  the  Can- 
ons of  Bolton,  some  of  w'hom  are  said  to  have  been 
well  versed  in  what  was  then  known  of  the  science. 

“I  suspect  this  nobleman  to  have  been  sometimes 
occupied  in  a more  visionary  pursuit,  and  probably  in 
the  same  company. 

“For,  from  the  family  evidences,  I have  met  with 
two  MSS.  on  the  subject  of  Alchemy,  which,  from  the 
character,  spelling,  &,c.,  may  almost  certainly  be  re- 
ferred to  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh.  If  these 
were  originally  deposited  with  the  MSS.  of  the  Clif- 
fords, it  might  have  been  for  the  use  of  this  nobleman. 
If  they  were  brought  from  Bolton  at  the  Dissolution, 


384 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


they  must  have  been  the  work  of  those  Canons  whom 
he  almost  exclusively  conversed  with. 

“ In  these  peaceful  employments  Lord  Clifford  spent 
tlie  whole  reign  of  Henry  the  Seventh,  and  the  first 
years  of  his  son.  But  in  the  year  1.513,  when  almost 
sixty  years  old,  he  was  appointed  to  a principal  com- 
mand over  the  army  which  fought  at  Flotlden,  and 
showed  that  the  military  genius  of  the  family  had  nei- 
ther been  chilled  in  him  by  age,  nor  extinguished  by 
habits  of  peace. 

“He  survived  the  battle  of  Flodden  ten  years,  and 
died  April  23d,  1523,  aged  about  70.  I shall  endea- 
vour to  appropriate  to  him  a tomb,  vault,  and  chantry 
in  the  choir  of  the  church  of  Bolton,  as  I should  be 
sorry  to  believe  that  he  was  deposited,  when  dead,  at 
a distance  from  the  place  which  in  his  lifetime  he 
loved  so  well. 

“ By  his  last  will  he  ap|X)inted  his  body  to  be  in- 
terred at  Shap,  if  he  died  in  Westmoreland ; or  at 
Bolton,  if  he  died  in  Yorkshire.” 

With  respect  to  the  Canons  of  Bolton,  Dr.  Whitaker 
shows  from  MSS.  that  not  only  alchemy  but  astronomy 
was  a favourite  pursuit  with  thera 

Note  17,  p.  33S. 

“ In  that  other  day  of  Neville's  Cross. 

“ In  the  night  before  the  battle  of  Durham  was  striick- 
en  and  begun,  the  17th  day  of  October,  amio,  1346,  there 
did  appear  to  John  Fosser,  then  Prior  of  the  abbey  of 
Durham,  a Vision,  commanding  him  to  take  the  holy 
Corporax-cloth,  wherewith  St.  Cuthbert  did  cover  the 
chalice  when  he  used  to  say  mass,  and  to  put  the  same 
holy  relique  like  to  a banner-cloth  upon  the  point  of  a 
spear,  and  the  next  morning  to  go  and  repair  to  a place 
on  the  west  side  of  the  city  of  Durham,  called  the 
Red  Hills,  where  the  Rlaid’s  Bower  wont  to  be,  and 
there  to  remain  and  abide  till  the  end  of  the  battle.  To 
which  vision,  the  Prior  obeying,  and  taking  the  same 
for  a revelation  of  God’s  grace  and  mercy  by  the  me- 
diation of  holy  St.  Cuthbert,  did  accordingly  the  next 
morning,  with  the  monks  of  the  said  abbey,  repair  to 
the  said  Red  Hills,  and  there  most  devoutly  humbling 
and  prostrating  themselves  in  prayer  for  the  victory  in 
the  said  battle : (a  groat  multitude  of  the  Scots  run- 
ning and  pressing  by  them,  with  intention  to  have 
spoiled  them,  yet  had  no  power  to  commit  any  violence 
under  such  holy  persons,  so  occupied  in  prayer,  being 
protected  and  defended  by  the  mighty  Providence  of 
AlmigTity  God,  and  by  the  mediation  of  Holy  St.  Cuth- 
bert, and  the  presence  of  the  holy  relique.)  And,  after 
many  conflicts  and  warlike  exploits  there  had  and  done 
between  the  Englishmen  and  the  King  of  Scots  and 
his  company,  the  said  battle  ended,  and  the  victory 
was  obtained,  to  the  great  overthrow  and  confusion  of 
tlie  Scots,  their  enemies:  And  then  the  said  Prior 
and  monks  accompanied  witli  Ralph  Lord  Nevil,  and 


John  Nevil  his  son,  and  the  Lord  Percy,  and  many 
other  nobles  of  England,  returned  home,  and  went  to 
the  abbey  church,  there  joining  in  hearty  prayer  and 
thanksgiving  to  God  and  holy  St.  Cuthbert  for  the  vic- 
tory achieved  that  day.” 

This  battle  was  afterwards  called  the  Battle  of  Ne- 
ville’s Cross,  from  the  following  circumstance : — 

“ On  the  west  side  of  the  city  of  Durham,  where 
two  roads  pass  each  other,  a most  notable,  famous,  and 
goodly  cross  of  stone-work  was  erected  and  set  up  to 
the  honour  of  God  for  the  victory  there  obtained  in  the 
field  of  battle,  and  known  by  the  name  of  Nevil’.s 
Cross,  and  built  at  the  sole  cost  of  the  Lord  Ralph 
Nevil,  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  chief  persons  in 
tlie  said  battle.”  The  Relique  of  St.  Cuthbert  after- 
wards became  of  great  importance  in  military  events. 
For  soon  after  this  battle,  says  the  same  author,  “ The 
prior  caused  a goodly  and  sumptuous  banner  to  be 
made,”  (which  is  then  described  at  great  length,)  “ and 
in  the  midst  of  the  same  banner-cloth  was  the  said 
holy  relique  and  corporax-cloth  enclosed,  &c.  &c.  and 
so  sumptuously  finished,  and  absolutely  perfected,  this 
banner  was  dedicated  to  holy  St.  Cuthbert,  of  intent 
and  purpose  that  for  the  future  it  should  be  carried  to 
any  battle,  as  occasion  should  serve ; and  was  never 
carried  and  showed  at  any  battle  but  by  the  especial 
grace  of  God  Almighty,  and  the  mediation  of  holy  St. 
Cuthbert,  it  brought  home  victory  ; which  banner-cloth, 
after  the  dissolution  of  the  abbey,  fell  into  the  posses- 
sion of  Dean  Whittingham,  whose  wife,  called  Ka- 
therine, being  a French  woman,  (as  is  most  credibly 
reported  by  eye-witnesses,)  did  most  injuriously  burn 
the  same  in  her  fire,  to  the  open  conten)pt  and  dis- 
grace of  all  ancient  and  goodly  reliques.”  — Extracted 
from  a book  entitled,  “Durham  Cathedral,  as  .it  stood 
before  the  Dissolution  of  the  Monastery.”  It  appears, 
from  the  old  metrical  History,  that  the  above-mention- 
ed banner  was  carried  by  the  Earl  of  Surrey  to  Flod- 
den Field. 

Note  18,  p.  351. 

"Man's  life  is  like  a Sparrow." 

See  the  original  of  this  speech  in  Bede.  — The  Con- 
version of  Edwin,  as  related  by  him,  is  highly  interest- 
ing— and  the  breaking  up  of  this  Council  accom- 
panied with  an  event  so  striking  and  characteristic, 
that  I am  tempted  to  give  it  at  length  in  a translation. 
“ Who,  exclaimed  the  King,  when  the  Council  was 
ended,  shall  first  desecrate  the  Altars  and  the  Tem- 
ples 1 I,  answered  the  Chief  Priest;  for  who  more  fit 
than  myself,  through  the  wisdom  which  the  true  God 
hath  given  me,  to  destroy,  for  the  good  example  of 
others,  what  in  foolishness  I worshipjHjd  ? Immediate- 
ly, casting  away  vain  superstition,  he  besought  the 
King  to  grant  him,  what  the  laws  did  not  allow  to  a 
Priest,  arms  and  a courser  (equum  emissariuin) ; which 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


385 


•lounting,  and  furnished  with  a sword  and  lance,  he 
proceeded  to  destroy  the  Idols.  The  crowd,  seeing’ 
tliis,  thought  him  mad — he  however  halted  not,  but, 
approaching,  he  profaned  the  Temple,  casting  against 
it  the  lance  wliich  he  had  held  in  his  hand,  and,  exult- 
ing in  acknowledgment  of  the  worship  of  the  true 
God,  he  ordered  his  companions  to  pull  down  the  Tem- 
ple, with  all  its  enclosures.  The  place  is  shown 
where  those  idols  formerly  stood,  not  far  from  York,  at 
the  source  of  the  river  Derwent,  and  is  at  this  day 
called  Gormund  Gaham,  ubi  pontifex  ille,  inspirante 
Deo  vero,  polluit  ac  destruxit  eas,  quas  ipse  sacraverat 
aras.”  The  last  expression  is  a pleasing  proof  that  the 
venerable  Monk  of  Wearmouth  was  familiar  with  the 
poetry  of  Virgil. 

Note  19,  p.  357. 

Sonnet  XIII. 

“ Wiclije.” 

[The  concluding  part  of  this  Sonnet,  marked  as  a 
quotation,  is  one  of  the  instances  of  the  obligations  of 
the  Poet  to  the  early  Prose  writers  acknowledged  by 
him  in  a note  at  p.  292.  The  judgment  and  skill 
with  which  he  has  adapted  to  verse  the  phraseology 
of  old  Fuller,  scarcely  changing  it  in  the  process,  can 
be  appreciated  only  by  a comparison  with  the  original 
passage,  which  should  be  placed  within  reach  of  every 
reader  of  this  volume,  were  it  only  for  that  purpose. 

Wicklrffe’s  body  burnt  by  order  of  the  Council  of 
Constance,  A.  D.  1428. — “ Hitherto  the  corpse  of 
John  Wickliffe  had  quietly  slept  in  his  grave  about 
one  and  forty  years  after  his  death,  till  his  body  was 
reduced  to  bones,  and  his  bones  almost  to  dust.  For 
though  the  earth  in  the  chancel  of  Lutterworth,  in 
Leicestershire,  where  he  was  interred,  hath  not  so 
quick  a digestion  with  the  earth  of  Aceldama,  to  con- 
sume flesh  in  twenty-four  hours,  yet  such  the  appetite 
thereof,  and  all  other  English  graves,  to  leave  small 
reversions  of  a body  after  so  many  years.  But  now  such 
the  spleen  of  the  Council  of  Constance,  as  they  not 
only  cursed  his  memory  as  dying  an  obstinate  heretic, 
but  ordered  that  his  bones  (with  this  charitable  cau- 
tion,—if  it  may  be  discerned  from  the  bodies  of  other 
faithful  people)  to  be  taken  out  of  the  ground,  and 
thrown  far  off  from  any  Christian  burial.  In  obedience 
hereunto,  Richard  Fleming,  Bishop  of  Lincoln,  Dio- 
cesan of  Lutterworth,  sent  his  officers  (vultures  with  a 
quick  sight  scent,  at  a dead  carcase)  to  ungrave  him 
accordingly.  To  Lutterworth  they  come,  Sumner, 
Commissary,  Official,  Chancellor,  Proctors,  Doctors, 
and  the  servants  (so  that  the  remnant  of  the  body 
would  not  hold  out  a bone  amongst  so  many  hands), 
take  what  was  left  out  of  the  grave,  and  burnt  them 
to  ashes,  and  cast  them  into  Swift,  a neighbouring 
brook,  running  hard  by.  Thus  this  brook  has  conveyed 
his  ashes  into  Avon,  Avon  into  Severn,  Severn  into 


the  narrow  seas,  they  into  the  main  Ocean  ; and  thus 
the  ashes  of  Wickliffe  are  the  emblem  of  his  doctrine, 
which  now  is  disj.!>rsed  all  the  world  over.”— Fci.ler. 
—''The  Church  History  of  Britain."  — 'Rook  IV'. 

The  delightful  comment  of  the  late  Charles  Lamb 
upon  this  passage  in  Fuller  will  not,  I am  confident,  be 
regarded  by  any  one,  as  intruded  by  being  here  con- 
nected with  the  sonnet  containing  the  imitation  : 

“ The  concluding  period  of  this  most  lively  narrative 
I will  not  call  a conceit;  it  is  one  of  the  grandest  con- 
ceptions I ever  met  with.  One  feels  the  ashes  of  Wick- 
liffe gliding  away  out  of  reach  of  the  Sumners,  Commis- 
saries, Officials,  Proctors,  Doctors,  and  all  the  pudder- 
ing rout  of  executioners  of  the  impotent  rage  of  the 
baffled  Council:  from  Swift  to  Avon,  from  Avon  into 
Severn,  from  Severn  into  the  narrow  seas,  from  the 
narrow  seas  into  the  main  Ocean,  where  they  become 
the  emblem  of  his  doctrine,  “dispersed  all  the  world 
over.”  Hamlet’s  tracing  the  body  of  Cmsar  to  the 
clay  that  stops  a beer-barrel,  is  a no  less  curious  pur- 
suit of  “ ruined  mortality;”  but  it  is  in  an  inverse  ratio 
to  this : it  degrades  and  saddens  us,  for  one  part  of  our 
nature  at  least ; but  this  expands  the  whole  of  our 
nature,  and  gives  to  the  body  a sort  of  ubiquity,  — a 
diffusion,  as  far  as  the  actions  of  its  partner  can  have 
reach  or  influence. 

I have  seen  this  passage  smiled  at,  and  set  down  as 
a quaint  conceit  of  old  Fuller.  But  what  is  not  a con- 
ceit to  those  who  read  it  in  a temper  different  from 
that  in  which  the  writer  composed  itl  The  most 
pathetic  parts  of  poetry  to  cold  tempers  seem  and  are 
nonsense,  as  divinity  was  to  the  Greeks  foolishness. 
When  Richard  II.,  meditating  on  his  own  utter  anni- 
hilation as  to  royalty,  cries  out, 

“ Oh  that  I were  a mockery  King  of  snow, 

To  melt  before  the  sun  of  Bolingbroke,” 

if  we  have  been  going  on  pace  for  pace  with  the  pas- 
sion before,  this  sudden  conversion  of  a strong-felt 
metaphor  into  something  to  be  actually  realized  in 
nature,  like  that  of  Jeremiah,  “ Oh ! that  my  head 
were  waters,  and  mine  eyes  a fountain  of  tears,”  is 
strictly  and  strikingly  natural ; but  come  unprepared 
upon  it,  and  it  is  a conceit : and  so  is  a ‘ head’  turned 
into  ‘ waters.’  ” 

Lamb’s  Prose  Works. H.  R.] 

Note  20,  p.  360. 

“ One  {like  those  Prophets  whom  God  sent  of  old) 
Transfigured,"  &c. 

“M.  Latimer  very  quietly  suffered  his  keeper  to 
pull  off  his  hose,  and  his  other  array,  which  to  loi  ke 
unto  was  very  simple:  and  being  stripped  into  his 
shrowd,  he  seemed  as  comely  a person  to  them  that 
were  present,  as  one  should  lightly  see:  and  whereas 
in  his  clothes  hee  appeared  a withered  and  crooked 


386 


WORDSWORTFPS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


comely  a father  as  one  might  lightly  behold.  * * * * 
Tlipn  they  brought  a fagotto,  kindled  with  fire,  and 
laid  the  same  downe  at  Dr.  Ridley’s  feete.  To  whom 
M.  Latimer  spake  in  this  manner,  ‘Bee  of  good  com- 
fort, master  Ridley,  and  play  the  man : wee  shall  this 
day  light  such  a candle  by  God’s  grace  in  England,  as 
I trust  shall  never  bee  put  out.’” — Fox's  Acts,  &,c. 

Similar  alterations  in  the  outward  figure  and  de- 
portment of  persons  brought  to  like  trial  were  not  un- 
common. See  note  to  tlie  above  passage  in  Dr.  Words- 
worth’s  Ecclesiastical  Biography,  for  an  example  in  an 
humble  Welsh  fisherman. 

Note  21,  p.  381. 

“ The  gift  exalting,  and  with  playful  smile." 

“ On  foot  they  went,  and  took  Salisbury  in  their 
way,  purposely  to  see  the  good  Bishop,  who  made  Mr. 
Hooker  sit  at  his  own  table : which  Mr.  Hooker  boast- 
ed of  with  much  joy  and  gratitude  when  he  saw  his 
mother  and  friends ; and  at  the  Bishop’s  parting  with 
him,  the  Bishop  gave  him  good  counsel,  and  his  bene- 
diction, but  forgot  to  give  him  money;  which  when 
the  Bishop  had  considered,  he  sent  a Servant  in  all 
haste  to  call  Richard  back  to  him,  and  at  Richard’s  re- 
turn, the  Bishop  said  to  him,  ‘Richard,  I sent  for  you 
back  to  lend  you  a horse  which  hath  carried  me  many 
a mile,  and  I thank  God  with  much  ease,’  and  present- 
ly delivered  into  his  hand  a walking-staff,  with  which 
he  professed  he  had  travelled  through  many  parts  of 
Germany ; and  he  said,  ‘ Richard,  I do  not  give,  but 
lend  you  my  horse ; be  sure  you  be  honest,  and  bring 
my  horse  back  to  me  at  your  return  this  way  to  Ox- 
ford. And  I do  now  give  you  ten  groats  to  bear  your 
charges  to  Exeter ; and  here  is  ten  groats  more,  which 
I charge  you  to  deliver  to  your  mother,  and  tell  her,  I 
send  her  a Bishop’s  benediction  with  it,  and  beg  the 
continuance  of  her  prayers  for  me.  And  if  you  bring 
my  horse  back  to  me,  I will  give  you  ten  groats  more 
to  carry  jmu  on  foot  to  the  college ; and  so  God  bless 
you,  good  Richard.’  ” See  Walton's  Life  of  Rich- 

ard Hooker. 

Note  22,  p.  362. 

“ Laud." 

In  this  age  a word  cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  Laud, 
or  even  in  compassion  for  his  fate,  without  incurring  a 
charge  of  bigotry;  but,  fearless  of  such  imputation,  I 
concur  with  Hume,  “ that  it,  is  sufficient  for  his  vindica- 
tion to  observe,  that  his  errors  were  the  most  excusable 
of  all  those  which  prevailed  during  that  zealous  period.” 
A key  to  the  right  understanding  of  those  parts  of  his 
conduct  that  brought  the  most  odium  upon  him  in  his 
own  time,  may  be  found  in  the  following  passage  of 
his  speech  before  the  Bar  of  tlie  House  of  Peers:  — 
‘‘Ever  since  I came  in  place,  I have  laboured  nothing 
more,  than  that  the  external  publick  worship  of  God,  so 


much  slighted  in  divers  parts  of  this  kingdom,  miglit 
be  preserved,  and  that  with  as  much  decency  and  uni- 
formity as  might  be.  For  I evidently  saw,  that  the 
publick  neglect  of  God’s  service  in  the  outward  face 
of  it,  and  the  nasty  lying  of  many  places  dedicated  to 
that  service,  had  almost  cast  a damp  upon  the  true 
and  inward  worship  of  God,  which,  while  we  live  in 
the  body,  needs  external  helps,  and  all  little  enough 
to  keep  it  in  any  vigour." 

Note  23,  p.  365. 

‘‘  A genial  hearth, 

And  a refined  rusticity,  belong 
To  the  7ieat  Mansion," 

Among  the  benifits  arising,  as  Mr.  Coleridge  has 
well  observed,  from  a Church  Establishment  of  endow- 
ments corresponding  with  the  wealth  of  the  Country 
to  which  it  belongs,  may  be  reckoned,  as  eminently 
important,  the  examples  of  civility  and  refinement 
which  the  Clergy,  stationed  at  intervals,  afford  to  the 
whole  people.  The  established  Clergy  in  many  parts 
of  England  have  long  been,  as  they  continue  to  be,  the 
principal  bulwark  against  barbarism,  and  the  link 
which  unites  the  sequestered  Peasantry  with  the  in- 
tellectual advancement  of  the  age.  Nor  is  it  below 
the  dignity  of  the  subject  to  observe,  that  their  Taste, 
as  acting  upon  rural  Residences  and  scenery,  often 
furnishes  models  which  Country  Gentlemen,  who  are 
tnore  at  liberty  to  follow  the  caprices  of  Fashion, 
might  profit  by.  The  precincts  of  an  old  residence 
must  be  treated  by  Ecclesiastics  with  respect,  both 
from  prudence  and  necessity.  I remember  being  much 
pleased,  some  years  ago,  at  Rose  Castle,  the  rural 
Seat  of  the  See  of  Carlisle,  with  a style  of  Garden 
and  Architecture,  which,  if  the  place  had  belonged  to 
a wealthy  Layman,  would  no  doubt  have  been  swept 
away.  A Parsonage-house  .generally  stands  not  far 
from  the  Church ; this  proximity  imposes  favourable 
restraints,  and  sometimes  suggests  an  affecting  union 
of  the  accommodations  and  elegancies  of  life  with  the 
outward  signs  of  piety  and  mortality.  With  pleasure 
I recall  to  mind  a happy  instance  of  this  in  the  Resi- 
dence of  an  old  and  much  valued  Friend  in  Oxford- 
shire. The  house  and  Church  stand  parallel  to  each 
other,  at  a small  distance ; a circular  lawn,  or  rather 
grass-plot,  spreads  between  them;  shrubs  and  trees 
curve  from  each  side  of  the  Dwelling,  veiling,  but  not 
hiding,  the  Church.  From  the  front  of  this  Dwelling, 
no  part  of  the  Burial-ground  is  seen  ; but,  as  you  wind 
by  the  side  of  the  Shrubs  towards  the  Steeple-end  of 
the  Church,  the  eye  catches  a single,  small,  low,  monu- 
mental headstone,  moss-grown,  sinking  into,  and  gently 
inclining  towards,  the  earth.  Advance,  and  the 
Church-yard,  populous  and  gay  with  glittering  Tomb- 
stones, opens  upon  the  view.  This  humble,  and  beau- 
tiful Parsonage  called  forth  a tribute,  for  which  see 

p.  228. 


POEMS  OF  THE  I M A G I N A T 1 0 


887 


ADDITIONAL  NOTES. 


Page  164. 

“ Yew  Trees” 

[Mr,  Ruskin  in  his  chapter  on  “Imagination  Con- 
templative” refers  to — “ the  real  and  high  action  of  the 
Imagination  in  Wordsworth’s  Yew  Trees”  (perhaps  the 
most  vigorous  and  solemn  bit  of  forest  landscape  ever 
painted) : — 

“Each  particular  trunk  a growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibres  serpentine, 

Up  coiling  and  inveterately  convolved, 

Nor  uninformed  with  phantasy,  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane.” 

It  is  too  long  to  quote,  but  the  reader  should  refer  to  it : 
let  him  note,  especially  if  painter,  that  pure  touch  of 
colour,  “ by  sheddings  from  the  pining  umbrage  tinged.” 

“ Modern  Painters”  Vol.  II.,  p.  189.  Part  III.,  Sect,  ii.. 
Chap.  iv. 

Coleridge  in  quoting  this  poem,  in  his  ‘ Biographia 
Lileraria'  substituted  the  word  Spinal'  for  Opining 
umbrage,’  and  his  daughter  remarks,  “I  have  left  my 
father’s  substitution,  as  a curious  instance  of  a possible 
different  reading.  ‘Piny  shade’  and  piny  ‘verdure’ 
we  read  of  in  the  poets,  but  ‘pinal’  I believe  is  new. 
Pining,  which  has  quite  a different  sense,  is  doubtless  i 
still  better;  but,  perhaps  my  father’s  ear  shrunk  from  it 
after  the  word  ‘ sheddings'  at  the  beginning  of  the  line. 
S.  C.” — (Sara  Coleridge.)  “ Biographia  Lileraria,” 
Vol.  II.,  p.  177,  Note:  Chap,  ix.  — H.  R.] 

Page  167. 

“T/ie  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle.” 

This  story  is  a Cumberland  tradition.  I have  heard 
it  also  related  of  the  Hall  of  Hutton  John,  an  ancient 
residence  of  the  Huddlestons,  in  a sequestered  valley 
upon  the  river  Dacor. 

Page  186. 

“Son^  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle.” 
[“The  transitions  and  vicissitudes  in  this  noble  lyric, 

I have  always  thought,  rendered  it  one  of  the  finest 
specimens  of  modern  subjective  poetry  which  our  age 
has  seen.  Tlie  ode  commences  in  a tone  of  high  gratu- 
lation  and  festivity  — a tone  not  only  glad,  but,  com- 
paratively, even  jocund  and  light-hearted.  The  Clif- 
ford is  restored  to  the  home,  the  honours,  and  estates 
of  his  ancestors.  Then  it  sinks  and  falls  away  to  the  re- 
membrance of  tribulation — times  of  war  and  bloodshed, 
flight  and  terror,  and  hiding  away  from  the  enemy — times 
of  poverty  and  distress,  when  the  Clifford  was  brought,  j 
a little  child  to  the  shelter  of  the  northern  valley,  i 


1 After  a while  it  emerges  from  those  depths  of  sorrow— 
gradually  rises  into  a strain  of  elevated  tranquillity  aii.l 
contemplative  rapture ! I’hrough  the  power  of  the 
imagination,  the  beautiful  and  impressive  aspects  of 
nature  are  brought  into  relationship  with  the  spirit  of 
him,  whose  fortunes  and  character  form  the  subject  of 
the  piece,  and  are  represented  as  gladdening  and  e.\- 
alting  it,  whilst  they  keep  it  pure  and  unspotted  from 
the  world.  Suddenly  the  Poet  is  carried  on  with 
greater  animation  and  passion;  — he  has  returned  to 
the  point  whence  he  started  — flung  himself  back  into 
the  tide  of  stirring  life  and  moving  events.  All  is  to 
come  over  again,  struggle  and  conflict,  chances  and 
changes  of  war,  victory  and  triumph,  overthrow  and 
desolation.  I know  nothing,  in  lyric  poetry,  more 
beautiful  or  affecting  than  the  final  transition  from  this 
part  of  the  ode,  with  its  rapid  metre,  to  the  slow  elegiac 
stanzas  at  the  end  ; when,  from  the  warlike  fervour 
and  eagerness,  the  jubilant  menacing  strain  which  has 
just  been  described,  the  Poet  passes  back  into  the  .sub- 
lime silence  of  Nature  gathering  amid  her  deep  and 
quiet  bosom  a more  subdued  and  solemn  tenderness  than 
he  had  manifested  before ; — it  is  as  if  from  the  heights 
of  the  imaginative  intellect,  his  spirit  had  retreated 
into  the  recesses  of  a profoundly  thoughtful  Christian 
I heart.  — S.  C.”  (Sara  Coleridge.)  Biographia  Lile- 
raria of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  Vol.  II.,  p.  152,  Note:  Edit, 
1847.  — H.  R.] 

Page  215. 

“ Mild  content.” 

“ Something  less  than  joy,  but  more  than  dull  content.” 
Countess  of  Wi.nchelse.v. 

Page  221. 

“The  world  is  too  much  with  us;  late  and  soon.” 

[See  Dr.  Arnold’s  comment  on  this  sonnet  as  quoted 
by  him:  “Miscellaneous  Works  of  Thomas  Arnold, 
D.  D.,”  p.  311 : and  also  that  of  Mr.  Henry  Taylor,  in 
the  Quarterly  Review,  Vol.  LXIX.,  p.  25.,  No.  1-37, 
now  reprinted  in  Mr.  Taylor’s  “ Notes  from  Books.”— 
H.  R.] 

Page  229. 

“ Strange  visitation,”  cj-c. 

This  Sonnet,  as  Poetry,  explains  itself,  yet  the  scene 
of  the  incident  having  been  a wild  wood,  it  may  be 
doubted,  as  a point  of  natural  history,  whether  the  bird 
was  aware  that  his  attentions  were  bestowed  upon  a 
human,  or  even  a living  creature.  But  a Redbreast 
will  perch  upon  the  foot  of  a gardener  at  work,  and 


388 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


alight  on  the  handle  of  the  spade  when  his  hand  is  half 
upon  it  — this  I have  seen.  And  under  my  own  roof  I 
nave  witnessed  affecting  instances  of  the  creature’s 
friendly  visits  to  the  chambers  of  sick  persons,  as  de- 
scribed in  tlie  verses  to  the  Redbreast,  page  127.  One 
of  these  welcome  intruders  used  frequently  to  roost 
upon  a nail  in  the  wall,  from  which  a picture  had  hung, 
and  was  ready,  as  morning  came,  to  pipe  his  song  in 
the  hearing  of  the  invalid,  who  had  long  been  confined 
to  her  room.  These  attachments  to  a particular  person, 
when  marked  and  continued,  used  to  be  reckoned 
ominous;  but  the  superstition  is  passing  away. 

Page  237. 

“ At  Furness  Abbey.” 

[The  subject  of  tliese  four  sonnets  (Nos.  XXII.  to 
XXV.),  was  also  handled  by  the  author  in  his  “Two 
Letters  on  the  Kendal  and  Windermere  Railway” — 
published  in  tlie  “ Morning  Post,”  (London,)  and  after- 
wards reprinted  in  a pamphlet,  in  184.5.  The  following 
is  an  extract  from  the  second  letter : 

“It  will  be  felt,  by  those  who  think  with  me  on  this 
occasion,  that  I have  been  writing  on  behalf  of  a social 
condition  which  no  one,  who  is  competent  to  judge  of 
it,  will  be  willing  to  subvert;  and  that  I have  been  en- 
deavouring to  support  moral  sentiments  and  intellectual 
pleasures  of  a high  order  against  an  enmity  wdiich 
seems  growing  more  and  more  formidable  every  day  ; 
1 mean  ‘Utilitarianism,’  serving  as  a mask  for  cupidity 
and  gambling  speculations.  My  business  with  this  evil 
lies  in  its  reckless  mode  of  action  by  Railways  — now 
its  favourite  instruments.  Upon  good  authority,  I have 
been  told  that  there  was  lately  an  intention  of  driving 
one  of  these  pests,  as  they  are  likely  too  often  to  prove, 
through  a part  of  the  magnificent  ruins  of  Furness 
Abbey  — an  outrage  which  was  prevented  by  some  one 
pointing  out  how  easily  a deviation  might  be  made;  and 
the  hint  produced  its  due  effect  upon  the  engineer. 

“ Sacred  as  that  relic  of  the  devotion  of  our  ancestors 
deserves  to  be  kept,  there  are  temples  of  Nature — tem- 
ples built  by  the  Almighty,  which  have  a still  higher 
claim  to  be  left  unviolated.  Almost  every  reach  of  the 
winding  vales  in  this  district  might  once  have  pre- 
sented itself  to  a man  of  imagination  and  feeling  under 
that  aspect;  or,  as  the  Vale  of  Grasmere  appeared  to 
the  Poet  Gray,  more  than  seventy  years  ago.  ‘No 
flaring  gentleman’s  house,’  says  he,  ‘ nor  garden-walls, 
break  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little  unsuspected  para- 
dise, but  all  is  peace,’  &c.,  &c.  Were  the  poet  now 
living,  how  would  he  have  lamented  the  probable  intru- 
sion of  a railway,  with  its  scarifications,  its  intersections, 
its  noisy  machinery,  its  smoke,  and  swarms  of  pleasure- 
hunters,  most  of  them  thinking  that  they  do  not  fly  fast 
enough  through  the  country  which  they  have  come  to 
see.  Even  a broad  highway  may,  in  some  places, 
greatly  impair  the  characteristic  beauty  of  the  country, 
as  will  be  readily  acknowledged  by  those  who  remem- 
ber what  the  Lake  of  Grasmere  was  before  the  new 


road  that  runs  along  its  eastern  margin  had  been  con- 
structed. 

Quanto  prasstantius  essei 
Numen  aquae  viridi  si  margine  clauderet  undas 
Herba 

As  it  once  was,  and  fringed  with  wood,  instead  of  the 
breastwork  of  bare  wall  that  now  confines  it.  In  the 
same  manner  has  the  beauty,  and  still  more  the  sub- 
limity of  many  Passes  in  the  Alps  been  injuriously 
affected.” 

After  citing  the  sonnet  entitled  “ Steamboats,  Via- 
ducts and  Railways,”  written  some  years  before,  and 
contained  in  the  “Poems  Suggested  during  a Tour  in 
1833,”  to  show  that  he  was  “far  from  undervaluing  the 
benefit  to  be  expected  from  railways  in  their  legitimate 
application,”  the  writer  concluded  as  follows: 

“ I have  now  done  with  the  subject.  The  time  of 
life  at  which  I have  arrived  may,  I trust,  if  nothing 
else  will,  guard  me  from  the  imputation  of  having 
written  from  any  selfish  interest,  or  from  fear  of  dis- 
turbance which  a railway  might  cause  to  myself.  If 
gratitude  for  what  repose  and  quiet  in  a district  hitlierto, 
for  the  most  part,  not  disfigured  but  beautified  by  liuman 
hands,  have  done  for  me  through  the  course  of  a long 
life,  and  hope  that  others  might  be  benefited  in  the 
same  manner  and  in  the  same  country,  be  selfishness; 
then,  indeed,  but  not  otherwise,  I plead  guilty  to  the 
charge.  Nor  have  I opposed  this  undertaking  on 
account  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  district  merely,  but 
as  hath  been  intimated,  for  the  sake  of  every  one, 
however  humble  his  condition,  who  coming  hither  shall 
bring  with  him  an  eye  to  perceive,  and  a heart  to  feel  and 
worthily  to  enjoy.  And  as  for  holiday  pastimes,  if  a 
scene  is  to  be  chosen  suitable  to  them,  for  persons 
thronging  from  a distance,  it  may  be  found  elsewhe.  ^ 
at  less  cost  of  every  kind.  But,  in  fact,  we  have  too 
much  hurrying  about  in  these  islands;  much  for  idle 
pleasure,  and  more  from  over-activity  in  the  pursuit  of 
wealth,  without  regard  to  the  good  or  happiness  of 
others.”  — II.  R.] 

Page  239. 

The  following  is  extracted  from  the  journal  of  my 
fellow-traveller,  to  which,  as  persons  acquainted  with 
my  poems  will  know,  I have  been  obliged  on  other 
occasions ; — 

“ Dumfries,  August,  1803. 

“On  our  way  to  the  church-yard  where  Burns  is 
buried,  we  were  accompanied  by  a bookseller,  who 
showed  us  the  outside  of  Burns’s  house,  where  he  had 
lived  the  last  three  years  of  his  life,  and  where  he  died. 
It  has  a mean  appearance,  and  is  in  a bye  situation  ; the 
front  whitewashed ; dirty  about  the  doors,  as  most 
Scotch  houses  are;  flowering  plants  in  the  window. 
Went  to  visit  his  grave ; he  lies  in  a corner  of  the 
church-yard,  and  his  second  son,  Francis  \5'allace,  be- 
side him.  There  is  no  stone  to  mark  the  spot;  but  a 
hundred  guineas  have  been  collected  to  be  expended 
upon  some  sort  of  monument.  ‘ There,’  said  the  book- 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


380 


seller,  pointing  to  a pompous  monument,  ‘ lies  Mr. 

(t  have  forgotten  the  name)  — a remarkably  clever 
man;  he  was  an  attorney,  and  scarcely  ever  lost  a 
cause  he  undertook.  Burns  made  many  a lampoon 
upon  him,  and  there  they  rest  as  you  see.’  We  looked 
at  Burns’s  grave  with  melancholy  and  painful  reflections, 
repeating  to  each  other  his  own  poet’s  epitaph : — 

Is  there  a man,’  &,c. 

“The  church-yard  is  full  of  grave-stones  and  ex- 
pensive monuments,  in  all  sorts  of  fantastic  shapes  — 
obelisk-wise,  pillar-wise,  &.c.  When  our  guide  had  left 
us  we  turned  again  to  Burns’s  grave,  and  afterwards 
went  to  his  house,  wishing  to  inquire  after  Mrs.  Burns, 
who  was  gone  to  spend  some  time  by  the  sea-shore 
with  her  children.  We  spoke  to  the  maid-servant  at 
the  door,  who  invited  us  forward,  and  we  sate  down 
in  the  parlour.  Tlie  walls  were  coloured  with  a blue 
wash ; on  one  side  of  the  fire  was  a mahogany  desk ; 
opposite  the  window  a clock,  which  Burns  mentions,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  having  received  as  a present.  The 
house  was  cleanly  and  neat  in  the  inside,  the  stairs  of 
stone  scoured  white,  tlie  kitchen  on  the  right  side  of 
the  passage,  the  parlour  on  the  left.  In  the  room  above 
the  parlour  the  poet  died,  and  his  son,  very  lately,  in  the 
same  room.  The  servant  told  us  she  had  lived  four 
years  with  Mrs.  Burns,  who  was  now  in  great  sorrow 
for  the  death  of  Wallace.  She  said  that  Mrs.  B.’s 
youngest  son  was  n-:w  at  Christ’s  Hospital.  We  were 
glad  to  leave  Dumfries,  where  we  could  think  of  little 
but  poor  Burns,  and  his  moving  about  on  that  unpoetic 
ground.  In  our  road  to  Brownhill,  the  next  stage,  we 
passed  Ellisland,  at  a little  distance  on  our  right  — his 
farm-house.  Our  pleasure  in  looking  round  would  have 
been  still  greater,  if  the  road  had  led  us  nearer  the  spot. 
****** 

“ I cannot  take  leave  of  this  country  which  we  passed 
through  to-day,  without  mentioning  that  we  saw  the 
Cumberland  mountains  within  half-a-mile  of  Ellisland, 
Burns’s  house,  the  last  view  we  had  of  them.  Drayton 
has  prettily  described  the  connexion  which  this  neigh- 
bourhood has  with  ours,  when  he  makes  Skiddaw  say, — 

‘ Scruffel,  from  the  sky 

That  Annandale  doth  crown,  with  a most  amorous  eye 
Salutes  me  every  day,  or  at  my  pride  looks  grim. 

Oft,  threatening  me  with  clouds,  as  I oft  threaten  him.’ 

“ These  lines  came  to  my  brother’s  memory,  as  well 
as  the  Cumberland  saying, — 

‘ If  Skiddaw  hath  a cap, 

Scruffel  wots  well  of  that.’ 

“We  talked  of  Burns,  and  of  the  prospect  he  must 
have  had,  perhaps  from  his  own  door,  of  Skiddaw  and 
his  companions;  indulging  ourselves  in  the  fancy  that 
we  might  have  been  personally  known  to  each  other, 
and  he  have  looked  upon  those  objects  with  more  plea- 
sure for  our  sakes.” 

[The  fellow-traveller,  whose  admirable  Journal  is 


here  and  elsewhere  quoted,  was  the  poet’s  sister,  whose 
genius  and  influence  upon  his  character  have  been 
jKirtly  made  known  by  the  Tintern  Abbey  Lines,  and 
now  will  become  more  so  by  his  beautiful  tribute.s  of 
gratitude  to  her  in  “ The  Prelude,"  particularly  in 
Book  XI.,  and  in  the  fine  passage  in  Book  XIV., 
beginning : 

“Child  of  my  parents!  Sister  of  my  soul  I” 

Wordsworth’s  opinion  of  the  character  of  Burns,  and 
of  the  proper  mode  of  treating  it  in  biograpliy,  has  been 
given  also  in  prose,  in  his  “ Letter  to  a Friend  of  Robert 
Burns,”  (James  Gray,  Esq.,  Edinburgh,)  published  in 
pamphlet  in  181G. — II.  R.] 

Page  253. 

“Jones!  as  from  Calais  southward." 

(See  Dedication  to  “Descriptive  Sketches,”  p.  29.) 

This  excellent  Person,  one  of  my  earliest  and  dearest 
friends,  died  in  the  year  1835.  We  were  under-gra- 
duates together  of  the  same  year,  at  the  same  college; 
and  companions  in  many  a deliglitful  ramble  Ibrough 
his  own  romantic  Country  of  Nortli  Wales.  Mucii  of 
the  latter  part  of  his  life  he  passed  in  comparative 
solitude;  which  I know  was  often  cheered  by  remem- 
brance of  our  youthful  adventures,  and  of  tlie  beautiful 
regions  which  at  lioine  and  abroad,  we  had  visited  to- 
gether. Our  long  friendship  was  never  subject  to  a 
moment’s  interruption,  — and,  while  revising  these 
volumes  for  the  last  time,  I have  been  so  often  reminded 
of  my  loss,  with  a not  unpleasing  sadness,  that  1 trust 
the  Reader  will  excuse  this  passing  mention  of  a IMan 
W'ho  well  deserves  from  me  something  more  than  so 
brief  a notice.  Let  me  only  add,  that  during  the 
middle  part  of  his  life  he  resided  many  years  (as  In- 
cumbent of  the  Living)  at  a Parsonage  in  Oxfiirdshire, 
which  is  the  subject  of  the  33d  of  the  “ Miscellaneous 
Sonnets,”  Part  IL,  p.  228. 

Page  2.57.  Sonnet  xxvii. 

“ Danger  which  they  fear,  and  honour  which  they 
understand  not," 

Words  in  Lord  Brooke’s  Life  of  Sir  P.  Sidney. 

Page  259. 

“Tract  occasioned  by  the  Convention  of  Cintra." 

[Of  this  prose  work,  Southey  writing  to  William 
Taylor,  of  Norwich,  says  with  a confident  anticipation 
which  was  realized: 

“ Wordsworth’s  pamphlet  upon  the  cursed  Cintra 
Convention  will  be  in  that  strain  of  political  morality 
to  which  Hutchinson,  and  Milton,  and  Sidney  could 
have  set  their  hands.”  “ Keswick,  December  G,  1608.” 
Life  of  Taylor,  Vol.  II.  p.  232. 

The  title  “pamphlet,”  it  may  be  added,  does  not 
adequately  name  this  philosophical  and  eloquent 
33* 


390 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


treatise  on  the  principles  of  government  and  nationality 
as  applied  to  the  affairs  of  Spain  and  Portugal  during 
the  Peninsular  War.  — H.  R.] 

Page  260. 


men,  they  have  no  wings  to  fly  from  God : war  is  his 
beadle,  war  is  his  vengeance.'"  Act  IV.,  Scene  1. — 
H.  R.] 

Page  273. 

'•'Perilous  is  sweeping  change,  all  chance  unsound." 


“ O'er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain." 

[Tliat  thoughtful -and  eloquent  writer,  the  younger 
Aubrey  De  Vere,  in  quoting  tliis  sonnet,  lias  accom- 
panied it  with  the  following  classical  comment : 

“ The  fact  that  defensive  wars  are  religious  wars, 
and  assisted  by  religious  sanctions,  is  in  no  instance 
more  remarkably  illustrated  than  in  the  glorious  de- 1 
fence  of  Greece  against  Persia.  Among  the  instances 
of  supernatural  aid  by  which  the  righteous  cause  was 
supposed  to  have  been  vindicated,  perhaps  the  most  re- 
markable was  the  interference  of  the  god  Pan,  wiio 
had  promised  to  leave  his  Arcadian  retreats,  and  to  help 
tlie  Athenians  at  Marathon.  It  was  in  commemoration 
of  such  aid  that  the  Athenians  dedicated  to  that  pastoral, 
and  not  less  mystical  divinity,  the  cave  in  tlie  rocky 
foundations  of  the  Acropolis,  which  still  bears  his  name. 
As  I gazed  on  that  cave,  I could  not  but  call  to  mind 
that  the  support  which  the  Athenians  believed  they  had 
received,  was  no  other  than  that  to  which  Wordsworth 
appealed  on  behalf  of  the  Tyrolese.  The  circumstance 
is  a singular  instance  of  that  analogy  of  thought  which 
is  to  be  found  in  all  places  and  at  all  times,  when  great 
minds  are  moved  by  great  events.  The  deepest  poet 
of  modern  times  uttering,  in  his  ‘ Sonnets  Dedicated  to 
Liberty,’  his  solemn  and  authoritative  protest  against 
the  aggressive  tyranny  of  Buonaparte,  and  exhorting 
each  nation  of  Europe,  in  turn,  to  withstand  that  ag- 
gression to  the  death,  admonishes  them  likewise  that 

‘The  power  of  armies  is  a visible  thing. 

Formal  and  circumscribed  in  time  and  place.’ 

And  bids  them  place  their  trust  in  that  universal  prin- 
ciple of  Strength,  Justice  and  Immortality,  of  which 
the  soul  of  man  is  the  special  abode,  and  of  which  Pan 
was  a Pagan  type.”  Aulrrey  De  Vere's  Picturesque 
Sketches  of  Greece  and  Turkey,  Vol.  I.,  p.  204, 
Chap.  viii.  — II.  R.] 


“All  change  is  perilous,  and  all  chance  unsound.” 
Spen.ser. 

Page  278.  Sonnet  i. 

If  in  this  Sonnet  I should  seem  to  have  borne  a little 
too  hard  upon  the  personal  appearance  of  the  worthy 
Poissards  of  Calais,  let  me  take  shelter  under  the  autho- 
rity of  my  lamented  friend,  the  late  Sir  George  Beau- 
mont. lie,  a most  accurate  observer,  used  to  say  of 
them,  that  their  features  and  countenances  seemed  to 
have  conformed  to  those  of  the  creatures  they  dealt  in; 
at  all  events  the  resemblance  was  striking. 

Page  321. 

" Aquapcndente." 

It  would  be  ungenerous  not  to  advert  to  the  religious 
movement  that,  since  tlie  composition  of  these  verres  in 
1837,  has  made  itself  felt,  more  or  less  strongly,  through- 
out the  English  Church;  — a movement  that  takes,  for 
its  first  principle,  a devout  deference  to  the  voice  of 
Christian  antiquity.  It  is  not  my  office  to  pass  judgment 
on  questions  of  theological  detail ; but  my  own  i ejuig- 
nance  to  the  spirit  and  system  of  Romanism  ha.s  been 
so  repeatedly  and,  I trust,  feelingly  expressed,  that  I 
shall  not  be  suspected  of  a leaning  that  way,  if  I do  not 
join  in  the  grave  charge,  thrown  out,  perhaps  in  the  heat 
of  controversy,  against  the  learned  and  pious  men  to 
whose  labours  I allude.  I speak  apart  from  controversy ; 
but,  with  strong  faith  in  the  moral  temper  which  would 
elevate  the  present  by  doing  reverence  to  the  past,  I 
would  draw  cheerful  auguries  for  the  English  Clinrch 
from  this  movement,  as  likely  to  restore  among  us  a 
tone  of  piety  more  earnest  and  real,  than  that  produced 
by  the  mere  formalities  of  the  understanding,  refusing, 
in  a degree,  which  I cannot  but  lament,  that  its  own 
temper  and  judgment  shall  be  controlled  by  those  of 
antiquity.  [1842.] 

Page  321. 


Page  260. 

“ Zaragoza." 

In  this  Sonnet  I am  under  some  obligations  to  one  of 
an  Italian  author,  to  which  I cannot  refer. 

Page  270-1. 

"Thanksgiving  Ode."  Stanza  xii. 

[The  poetical  figures,  which  once  were  objected  to 
as  expressing  too  strongly  the  idea  of  this  stanza,  are 
not  without  a parallel  in  Shakspeare,  in  that  passage 
of  “Henry  the  Fifth,”  where  the  king  is  represented 
saying,  “ * * if  tliese  men  have  defeated  law,  and 

outrun  native  punishment,  though  they  can  outstrip 


Within  a couple  of  hours  of  my  arrival  at  Rome,  I 
saw  from  Monte  Pincio,  the  Pine  tree  as  described  in 
the  sonnet;  and,  while  expressing  admiration  at  the 
beauty  of  its  appearance,  I was  told  by  an  acquaintance 
of  my  fellow-traveller,  who  happened  to  join  us  at  the 
moment,  that  a price  had  been  paid  for  it  by  tlie  late 
Sir  G.  Beaumont,  upon  condition  tliat  tlie  proprietor 
should  not  act  upon  his  known  intention  of  cutting  it 
down. 

Page  325. 

“ Camaldoli." 

This  famous  sanctuary  was  the  original  establish- 
ment of  Saint  Romualdo,  (or  Rumwald,  as  our  ancestors 
saxonised  the  name)  in  the  11th  century,  the  ground 


POEMS  OF  THE  IMAGINATION. 


sni 


(cainpo)  being  given  by  a Count  Maldo.  The  Camaldo- 
lensi,  liowever,  have  spread  wide  as  a branch  of  Bene- 
dictines, and  may  therefore  be  classed  among  the  ^en- 
tlcmen  of  the  monastic  orders.  The  society  compre- 
hends  two  orders,  monks  and  hermits;  symbolised  by 
their  arms,  two  doves  drinking  out  of  the  same  cup. 
The  monastery  in  which  the  monks  here  reside,  is 
beautifully  situated,  but  a large  unattractive  edifice, 
not  unlike  a factory.  The  hermitage  is  placed  in  a 
loftier  and  wilder  region  of  the  forest.  It  comprehends 
between  20  and  30  distinct  residences,  each  including 
for  its  single  hermit  an  inclosed  piece  of  ground  and 
three  very  small  apartments.  There  are  days  of  in- 
dulgence when  the  liermit  may  quit  his  cell,  and  when 
old  age  arrives,  he  descends  from  the  mountain  and 
takes  his  abode  among  the  monks. 

My  companion  had,  in  the  year  1831,  fallen  in  with 
the  monk,  the  subject  of  these  two  sonnets,  who  showed 
him  his  abode  among  the  hermits.  It  is  from  him  that 
I received  the  following  particulars.  He  was  then 
about  40  years  of  age,  but  his  appearance  was  that  of 
an  older  man.  He  had  been  a painter  by  profession, 
but  on  taking  orders  changed  his  name  from  Santi  to 
Raffaello,  perhaps  with  an  unconscious  reference  as 
well  to  the  great  Sanzio  d’Urbino  as  to  the  archangel. 
He  assured  my  friend  that  he  had  been  13  years  in  the 
hermitage  and  had  never  known  melancholy  or  ennui. 
In  the  little  recess  for  study  and  prayer,  tliere  was  a 
small  collection  of  books.  “I  read  only,”  said  he, 
“ books  of  asceticism  and  mystical  theology.”  On  being 
asked  the  names  of  the  most  famous  mystics,  he  enume- 
rated Scaramelli,  San  Giovanni  della  Croce,  Si.  Diony- 
sius the  Areopagite  (supposing  the  work  which  bears 
his  name  to  be  really  his),  and  with  peculiar  emphasis 
Ricardo  di  San  Vittori.  The  works  of  Saint  Theresa 
are  also  in  high  repute  among  ascetics.  These  names 
may  interest  some  of  my  readers. 

We  heard  that  Raffaello  was  then  living  in  the  con- 
vent ; my  friend  sought  in  vain  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance with  him.  It  was  probably  a day  of  seclusion. 
The  reader  will  perceive  that  these  sonnets  were  sup- 
po.sed  to  be  written  when  he  was  a young  man. 


Page  325. 

“H7mt  aim  had  they  the  pair  of  Monks?’' 

In  justice  to  the  Benedictines  of  Camaldoli,  by  whom 
strangers  are  so  hospitably  entertained,  I feel  obliged  to 
notice,  that  I saw  among  them  no  other  figures  at  all 
resembling,  in  size  and  complexion,  the  two  Monks  de- 
scribed in  this  Sonnet.  What  was  their  office,  or  ihe 
motive  which  brought  them  to  this  place  of  mortifica- 
tion, which  they  could  not  have  approaclicd  williout 
being  carried  in  this  or  some  other  way,  a feeling  of 
delicacy  prevented  me  from  inquiring.  An  account 
has  before  been  given  of  the  hermitage  they  were  about 
to  enter.  It  was  visited  by  us  toward  the  end  of  the 
month  of  May;  yet  snow  was  lying  thick  under  tlie 
pine-trees,  within  a few  yards  of  the  gate. 

Page  325. 

“At  Vallombrosa." 

The  name  of  Milton  is  pleasingly  connected  witn 
Vallombrosa  in  many  ways.  The  pride  with  which  tlie 
Monk,  without  any  previous  question  from  me,  pointed 
out  his  residence,  I shall  not  readily  forget.  It  may  be 
proper  here  to  defend  the  Poet  from  a charge  which 
has  been  brought  against  him,  in  respect  to  the  passage 
in  “ Paradise  Lost,”  where  this  place  is  mentioned.  It 
is  said,  that  he  has  erred  in  speaking  of  the  trees  there 
being  deciduous,  whereas  they  are,  in  fact,  pines.  The 
fault-finders  are  themselves  mistaken;  the  natural 
woods  of  the  region  of  Vallombrosa  are  deciduous,  and 
spread  to  a great  extent;  those  near  the  convent  are, 
indeed,  mostly  pines;  but  they  are  avenues  of  trees 
planted  within  a few  steps  of  each  other,  and  thus  com- 
posing large  tracts  of  wood  ; plots  of  which  are  pe- 
riodically cut  down.  The  appearance  of  those  narrow 
avenues,  upon  steep  slopes  open  to  the  sky,  on  account 
of  the  height  which  the  trees  attain  by  being  forced  to 
grow  upwards,  is  often  very  impressive.  My  guide,  a 
boy  of  about  fourteen  years  old,  pointed  this  out  to  me 
in  several  places. 


392 


WORDSWORTirS  P 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S. 


SUPPLEMENTARY  NOTE. 


[The  Author’s  political  Work  on  “ The  Relations  of  j 
Great  Britain,  Spain  and  Portugal,"  (referred  to  at 
p.  259,  and  in  the  Notes,  pp.  377  and  389,)  has  become 
60  rare  a volume  that  I insert  here  the  two  following 
extracts,  not  only  on  account  of  the  valuable  truths 
expressed  in  them,  but  also  as  having  an  especial 
interest  for  the  American  reader. 

Treating  of  the  qualifications  needed  by  military 
men,  as  “ heads  of  an  army,”  Wordsworth  speaks  of, — 
“ # * * intellectual  courage  * * * that 

higher  quality,  which  is  never  found  witliout  one  or 
other  of  the  three  accompaniments,  talents,  gCHius,  or 
principle;  — talents  matured  by  experience,  without 
which  it  cannot  exist  at  all;  or  the  rapid  insight  of 
peculiar  genius,  by  which  the  fitness  of  an  act  may  be 
instantly  determined,  and  which  will  supply  higher 
motives  than  mere  talents  can  furnish  for  encountering 
difficulty  and  danger,  and  will  suggest  better  resources 
for  diminishing  or  overcoming  them.  Thus,  through 
the  power  of  genius,  this  quality  of  intellectual  courage 
may  exist  in  an  eminent  degree,  tho.ugli  the  moral 
character  be  greatly  perverted  ; as  in  those  personages 
who  are  so  conspicuous  in  history,  conquerors  and 
usurpers,  the  Alexanders,  the  Caesars  and  Cromwells; 
and  in  that  other  class  still  more  perverted,  remorseless 
and  energetic  minds,  the  Catilines,  and  Borgias,  whom 
poets  have  denominated  “bold  bad  men.”  But  though 
a course  of  depravity  will  neither  preclude  nor  destroy 
this  quality,  nay,  in  certain  circumstances  will  give  it 
a peculiar  promptness  and  hardihood  of  decision,  it  is 
not  on  this  account  the  less  true,  that  to  consummate 
tins  species  of  courage,  and  to  render  it  equal  to  all 
occasions  (especially  when  a man  is  not  acting  for  him- 
self, but  has  an  additional  claim  on  his  resolution  from 
the  circumstance  of  responsibility  to  a superior),  princi- 
ple is  indispensably  requisite.  I mean  that  fixed  and 
habitual  principle,  which  implies  the  absenceof all  selfish 
anticipations,  whetiier  of  hope  or  fear,  and  tlie  inward 
disavowal  of  any  tribunal  higher  and  more  dreaded  than 
the  mind’s  own  judgment  upon  its  own  act.  The  ex- 
istence of  such  principle  cannot  but  elevate  the  most 
confmanding  genius,  add  rapidity  to  the  quickest  glance, 
a wider  range  to  the  most  ample  comprehension;  but 
without  this  principle,  the  ordinary  powers  must,  in  the 
trying  hour,  be  found  utterly  wanting.  Neither  with- 
out it  can  the  man  of  excelling  powers  be  trust-worthy, 
or  have  at  all  times  a calm  and  confident  repose  in 
himself.  But  he.  in  whom  talents,  genius,  and  principle 


are  united,  will  have  a firm  mind,  in  whatever  em- 
barrassments he  may  be  placed  ; will  look  steadily  at 
the  most  undefined  shapes  of  difficulty  and  danger,  of 
possible  mistake  or  mischance ; nor  will  they  appear  to 
him  more  formidable  than  they  really  are.  For  his 
attention  is  not  distracted  — he  has  but  one  business, 
and  that  is  with  the  object  before  him.  Neither  in 
general  conduct  nor  in  particular  emergencies,  are  his 
plans  subservient  to  considerations  of  rewards,  estate 
or  title : these  are  not  to  have  precedence  in  his  thoughts, 
to  govern  his  actions,  but  to  follow  in  the  train  of  his 
duty.  Such  men  in  ancient  times,  were  Pliocion, 
Epaminondas,  and  Philopoemen;  and  such  a man  was 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  of  whom  it  has  been  said,  that  he 
first  taught  his  country  the  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 
With  these  may  be  named  the  honour  of  our  own  age, 
Washington,  the  deliverer  of  the  American  Continent ; 
with  these,  though  in  many  things  unlike.  Lord  Nelson, 
whom  we  have  lately  lost.  Lord  Peterborough,  who 
fought  in  Spain  a hundred  years  ago,  had  the  same  e.x- 
cellence  with  a sense  of  exalted  honour,  and  a tinge  of 
romantic  enthusiasm,  well  suited  to  the  country  which 
was  the  scene  of  his  exploits.”  — Pages  54-5-6. 


fi*  * * Our  duty  is — our  aim  ought  to  be  — to 
employ  the  true  means  of  liberty  and  virtue  for  the  ends 
of  liberty  and  virtue.  In  such  policy,  thoroughly  under- 
stood, there  is  fitness  and  concord  and  rational  subordina- 
tion ; it  deserves  a higher  name — organization,  health, 
and  grandeur.  Contrast,  in  a single  instance,  the  two 
processes;  and  the  qualifications  which  they  require. 
The  ministers  of  that  period  found  it  an  easy  task  to 
hire  a band  of  Hessians,  and  to  send  it  across  the 
Atlantic,  that  they  might  assist  in  bringing  the 
Americans  (according  to  the  phrase  then  prevalent)  to 
reason.  The  force  with  which  these  troops  would 
attack  was  gross — tangible — and  might  be  calculated  ; 
but  the  spirit  of  resistance,  which  their  presence  would 
create,  was  subtle  — ethereal  — mighty  — and  incalcu- 
lable. Accordingly,  from  the  moment  when  tirese 
foreigners  landed  — men  who  had  no  interest,  no  busi- 
ness in  the  quarrel,  but  what  the  wages  of  their  master 
bound  them  to,  and  he  imposed  upon  his  miserable 
slaves; — nay,  from  the  first  rumour  of  their  destina- 
tion, the  success  of  the  British  was  (as  has  since  been 
affirmed  by  judicious  Americans)  impossible.”  Pages 
139-40.  — II.  R.] 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION* 


EXPOSTULATION  AND  REPLY. 

‘ Why,  William,  on  that  old  gray  stone, 

Thus  for  the  length  of  half  a day. 

Why,  William,  sit  you  thus  alone. 

And  dream  your  time  away? 

Where  are  your  books?  — that  light  bequeathed 
To  beings  else  forlorn  and  blind! 

Up ! up  ! and  drink  the  spirit  breathed 
From  dead  men  to  their  kind. 

You  look  round  on  your  mother  Earth, 

As  if  she  for  no  purpose  bore  you ; 

As  if  you  were  her  first-born  birth, 

And  none  had  lived  before  you !” 

One  morning  thus,  by  Esthwaite  lake, 

When  life  was  sweet,  I knew  not  why. 

To  me  my  good  friend  Matthew  spake, 

And  thus  I made  reply : 

“ The  eye  — it  cannot  choose  but  see ; 

We  cannot  bid  the  ear  be  still ; 

Our  bodies  feel,  where’er  they  be. 

Against,  or  with  our  will. 

Nor  less  I deem  that  there  are  Powers 
Which  of  themselves  our  minds  impress ; 

That  we  can  feed  this  mind  of  ours 
In  a wise  passiveness. 

Think  you,  ’mid  all  this  mighty  sum 
Of  things  for  ever  speaking, 

That  nothing  of  itself  will  come. 

But  we  must  still  be  seeking? 

— Then  ask  not  wherefore,  here,  alone. 
Conversing  as  I may, 

I sit  upon  this  old  gray  stone. 

And  dream  my  time  away.” 


THE  TABLES  TURNED; 

AN  EVENING  SCENE  ON  THE  SAME  SUBJECT. 
Up  ! up ! my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books  ; 

Or  surely  you  ’ll  grow  double : 

Up ! up ! my  Friend,  and  clear  your  looks ; 
Why  all  this  toil  and  trouble  ? 


The  sun,  above  the  mountain’s  head, 

A freshening  l-ustre  mellow 

Through  all  the  long  green  fields  has  spread. 

His  first  sweet  evening  yellow. 

Books!  ’t  is  a dull  and  endless  strife: 

Come,  hear  the  woodland  Linnet, 

How  sweet  his  music ! on  my  life. 

There’s  more  of  wisdom  in  it. 

And  hark  ! how  blithe  the  Throstle  sings! 

He,  too,  is  no  mean  preacher: 

Come  forth  into  the  light  of  things. 

Lot  Nature  be  your  teacher. 

She  has  a world  of  ready  wealth. 

Our  minds  and  hearts  to  bless  — 

Spontaneous  wisdom  breathed  by  health. 

Truth  breathed  by  cheerfulness. 

One  impulse  from  a vernal  wood 
May  teach  you  more  of  man, 

Of  moral  evil  and  of  good. 

Than  all  the  sages  can. 

Sweet  is  the  lore  which  Nature  brings; 

Our  meddling  intellect 

Mis-shapes  the  beauteous  forms  of  things: 

— We  murder  to  dissect. 

Enough  of  Science  and  of  Art; 

Close  up  these  barren  leaves; 

Come  forth,  and  bring  with  you  a heart 
That  watches  and  receives. 


WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY, 

ON  ONE  OF  THE  COLDEST  DAYS  OP  THE  CENTURY 

The  Reader  must  be  apprised,  that  the  Stoves  in  Norih-Ger 
many  generally  have  the  impression  of  a galloping  Horse  upon 
them,  this  being  part  of  the  Brunswick  Arms. 

A PLAGUE  on  your  languages,  German  and  Norse  ! 

Let  me  have  the  song  of  the  Kettle ; 

And  the  tongs  and  the  poker,  instead  of  that  Horse 
That  gallops  away  with  such  fury  and  force 
On  his  dreary  dull  plate  of  black  metal. 

3<ia 


894 


WOKDSWOETH’S  POETICAL  WOKKS. 


See  that  Fly,  — a disconsolate  creature ! perhaps 
A child  of  the  field  or  the  grove; 

And,  sorrow  for  him!  the  dull  treacherous  heat 
lias  seduced  the  poor  fool  from  his  winter  retreat. 

And  he  creeps  to  the  edge  of  my  stove. 

Alas ! how  he  fumbles  about  the  domains 

Wliich  this  comfortless  oven  environ  ! 

lie  cannot  find  out  in  what  track  he  must  crawl. 

Now  back  to  the  tiles,  then  in  search  of  the  wall, 

And  now  on  the  brink  of  the  iron. 

Stock-still  there  he  stands  like  a traveller  bemazed : 
The  best  of  his  skill  he  has  tried ; 

His  feelers,  methinks,  1 can  see  him  put  forth 

To  the  East  and  the  West,  to  the  South  and  the  North; 

But  he  finds  neither  Guide-post  nor  Guide. 

How  his  spindles  sink  under  him,  foot,  leg,  and  thigh ! 
His  eyesight  and  hearing  are  lost; 

Between  life  and  death  his  blood  freezes  and  thaws; 
And  his  two  pretty  pinions  of  blue  dusky  gauze 
Are  glued  to  his  sides  by  the  frost. 

No  Brother,  no  Mate  has  he  near  him  — while  I 
Can  draw  warmth  from  the  cheek  of  my  Love ; 

As  blest  and  as  glad,  in  this  desolate  gloom. 

As  if  green  summer  grass  were  the  floor  of  my  room. 
And  woodbines  were  hanging  above. 

Yet,  God  is  my  witness,  thou  small  helpless  Thing! 
Thy  life  I would  gladly  sustain 

Till  summer  comes  up  from  the  South,  and  with  cro  wds 
Of  thy  brethren  a march  thou  shouldst  sound  through 
the  clouds. 

And  back  to  the  forests  again ! 


A NIGHT  THOUGHT. 

Lo ! where  the  moon  along  the  sky 
Sails  with  her  happy  destiny; 

Oft.  is  she  hid  from  mortal  eye 
Or  dimly  seen. 

But  when  the  clouds  asunder  fly 
How' bright  her  mien! 

Far  different  we  — a froward  race. 
Thousands  though  rich  in  Fortune’s  grace 
With  cherished  sullenness  of  pace 
Their  way  pursue. 

Ingrates  who  wear  a smileless  face 
The  whole  year  through. 

If  kindred  humours  e’er  would  make 
My  spirit  droop  for  drooping’s  sake. 

From  Fancy  following  in  thy  wake, 
Bright  ship  of  heaven  ! 

A counter  impulse  let  me  take 
And  be  forgiven. 


UPON  SEEING  A COLOURED  DRAWING  OF  THE  BIRD  OF 
PARADISE  IN  AN  ALBUM. 

Who  rashly  strove  thy  image  to  portray  1 
Thou  buoyant  minion  of  the  tropic  air ; 

How  could  he  think  of  the  live  creature  — gay 
With  a divinity  of  colours,  drest 
In  all  her  brightness,  from  the  dancing  crest 
Far  as  the  last  gleam  of  the  filmy  train 
Extended  and  extending  to  sustain 
The  motions  that  it  graces  — and  forbear 
To  drop  his  pencil ! Flowers  of  every  clime 
Depicted  on  these  pages  smile  at  time ; 

And  gorgeous  insects  copied  with  nice  care 
Are  here,  and  likenesses  of  many  a shell 
Tossed  ashore  by  restless  waves. 

Or  in  the  diver’s  grasp  fetched  up  from  caves 
Where  sea-nymphs  might  be  proud  to  dwell ; 

But  whose  rash  hand  (again  I ask)  could  dare, 

’Mid  casual  tokens  and  promiscuous  shows. 

To  circumscribe  this  sliape  in  fixed  repose ; 

Could  imitate  for  indolent  survey. 

Perhaps  for  touch  profane. 

Plumes  that  miglit  catch,  but  cannot  keep,  a stain; 
And,  with  cloud-streaks  lightest  and  loftiest,  share 
The  sun’s  first  greeting,  his  last  farewell  ray  ! 

Resplendent  Wanderer!  followed  with  glad  eyes 
Where’er  her  course ; mysterious  bird  ! 

To  whom  by  wondering  fancy  stirred. 

Eastern  Islanders  have  given 
A holy  name  — the  Bird  of  Heaven ! 

And  even  a title  higher  still. 

The  Bird  of  God ! whose  blessed  will 
She  seems  performing  as  she  flies 
Over  the  earth  and  through  the  skies 
In  never-wearied  search  of  Paradisi  — 

Region  that  crowns  her  beauty  with  the  name 
She  bears  for  us  — for  us  how  blest, 

How  happy  at  all  seasons,  could  like  aim 
Uphold  our  spirits  urged  to  kindred  flight 
On  wings  that  fear  no  glance  of  God’s  pure  sight. 

No  tempest  from  his  breath,  their  promised  rest 
Seeking  with  indefatigable  quest 
Above  a world  that  deems  itself  most  wise 
When  most  enslaved  by  gross  realities ! 


CHARACTER  OF  THE  HAPPY  WARRIOR. 

Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he? 

That  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be? 

It  is  the  generous  Spirit,  who,  when  brought 

Among  the  tasks  of  real  life,  hath  wrought 
Upon  the  plan  that  pleased  his  boyish  thought: 
Whose  high  endeavours  are  an  inward  light 
That  makes  the  path  before  him  always  bright; 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLEC'I'ION. 


395 


Who,  with  a natural  instinct  to  discern 

What  knowledge  can  perform,  is  diligent  to  learn  ; 

Abides  by  this  resolve,  and  stops  not  there, 

But  makes  his  moral  being  his  prime  care; 

Who,  doomed  to  go  in  company  with  Pain, 

And  Fear,  and  Bloodshed,  miserable  train ! 

Turns  his  necessity  to  glorious  gain  ; 

In  face  of  these  doth  exercise  a power 
Which  is  our  human  nature’s  highest  dower; 
Controls  them  and  subdues,  transmutes,  bereaves 
Of  their  bad  influence,  and  their  good  receives: 

By  objects,  which  miglit  force  the  soul  to  abate 
Her  feeling,  rendered  more  compassionate; 

Is  placable — because  occasions  rise 
So  often  that  demand  such  sacrifice ; 

More  skilful  in  self-knowledge,  even  more  pure. 

As  tempted  more ; more  able  to  endure. 

As  more  exposed  to  suffering  and  distress; 

Thence,  also,  more  alive  to  tenderness. 

— ’T  is  he  whose  law  is  reason  ; wlio  depends 
Upon  that  law  as  on  the  best  of  friends; 

Whence,  in  a state  where  men  are  tempted  still 
To  evil  for  a guard  against  worse  ill. 

And  what  in  quality  or  act  is  best 
Doth  seldom  on  a right  foundation  rest. 

He  fixes  good  on  good  alone,  and  owes 
To  virtue  every  triumph  that  lie  knows: 

— Who,  if  he  rise  to  station  of  command. 

Rises  by  open  means ; and  tliere  will  stand 
On  lionoiirable  terms,  or  else  retire. 

And  in  himself  posse.ss  his  own  desire; 

Who  comprehends  his  trust,  and  to  the  same 
Keeps  faithful  with  a singleness  of  aim  ; 

And  therefore  does  not  stoop,  nor  lie  in  wait 
For  wealth,  or  honours,  or  for  worldly  state; 

Whom  they  must  follow ; on  whose  head  must  fall. 
Like  showers  of  manna,  if  they  come  at  all: 

Whose  powers  shed  round  him  in  the  common  strife. 
Or  mild  concerns  of  ordinary  life, 

A constant  influence,  a peculiar  grace; 

But  who,  if  he  be  called  upon  to  face 

Some  awful  moment  to  which  Heaven  has  joined 

Great  issues,  good  or  bad  for  human  kind. 

Is  happy  as  a Lover ; and  attired 

With  sudden  brightness,  like  a Man  inspired ; 

And,  through  the  heat  of  conflict,  keeps  the  law 
In  calmness  made,  and  sees  what  he  foresaw ; 

Or  if  an  unexpected  call  succeed. 

Come  when  it  will,  is  equal  to  the  need: 

— He  who  though  thus  endued  as  with  a sense 
And  faculty  for  storm  and  turbulence. 

Is  yet  a Soul  whose  master-bias  leans 
To  homefelt  pleasures  and  to  gentle  scenes  ; 

Sweet  images ! which,  wheresoe’er  he  be. 

Are  at  his  heart;  and  such  fidelity 
It  is  his  darling  passion  to  approve; 

More  brave  for  this,  that  he  hath  much  to  love:  — 


’Tis,  finall}^  the  Man,  who,  lifted  high. 
Conspicuous  object  in  a Nation’s  eye. 

Or  left,  unthought-of  in  obscurity.  — 

Who,  with  a toward  or  untoward  lot, 

Prospefous  or  adverse,  to  his  wish  or  not. 

Plays,  in  the  many  games  of  life,  that  one 
Where  what  he  most  doth  value  must  be  won: 
Whom  neither  shape  of  danger  can  dismay. 

Nor  thought  of  tender  happiness  betray  ; 

Who,  not  content  that  former  worth  stand  fast. 
Looks  forward,  persevering  to  the  last, 

I From  well  to  better,  daily  self-surpast : 

Who,  whether  praise  of  him  must  walk  the  earUi 
For  ever,  and  to  noble  deeds  give  birth. 

Or  He  must  go  to  dust  without  his  fame. 

And  leave  a dead  unprofitable  name. 

Finds  comfort  in  himself  and  in  his  cause; 

And,  while  the  mortal  mist  is  gathering,  draws 
His  breath  in  confidence  of  Heaven’s  applause: 
This  is  the  happy  Warrior;  this  is  He 
Whom  every  Man  in  arms  should  wish  to  be. 


A POET’S  EPITAPH. 

Art  thou  a Statesman,  in  the  van 
Of  public  business  trained  and  bred  1 
— First  learn  to  love  one  living  man ; 

Then  may’st  thou  think  upon  the  dead. 

A Lawyer  art  thou  1 — draw  not  nigh  : 

Go,  carry  to  some  fitter  place 
j The  keenness  of  that  practised  eye, 

I The  hardness  of  that  sallow  face. 

' Art  thou  a Man  of  purple  cheer  1 
I A rosy  Man,  right  plump  to  seel 
j Approach ; yet.  Doctor,  not  too  near  : 

I This  grave  no  cushion  is  for  thee. 

Or  art  thou  one  of  gallant  pride, 

A Soldier,  and  no  man  of  chaff*! 

Welcome!  — but  lay  thy  sword  aside. 

And  lean  upon  a Peasant’s  staff. 

Physician  art  thou  1 One,  all  eyes, 
Philosopher!  a fingering  slave. 

One  that  would  peep  and  botanize 
Upon  his  mother’s  gravel 

Wrapt  closely  in  thy  sensual  fleece, 

O turn  aside,  — and  take,  I pray, 

That  he  below  may  rest  in  peace. 

That  abject  thing,  thy  soul,  away ! 

— A Moralist  perchance  appears; 

Led,  Heaven  knows  how ! to  this  poor  sod : 
And  He  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears; 

Himself  his  world,  and  his  own  God; 


396 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


One  to  whose  smooth-rubbed  soul  can  cling 
Nor  form,  nor  feeling,  great  nor  small; 

A reasoning,  self-sufficient  thing. 

An  intellectual  All  in  All! 

Shut  close  the  door;  press  down  the  latch; 
Sleep  in  thy  intellectual  crust ; 

Nor  lose  ten  tickings  of  thy  watch 
Near  this  unprofitable  dust. 

But  who  is  He,  with  modest  looks, 

And  clad  in  homely  russet  brown  1 
He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A music  sweeter  than  their  own. 

He  is  retired  as  noontide  dew. 

Or  fountain  in  a noon-day  grove; 

And  you  must  love  him,  ere  to  you 
He  will  seem  worthy  of  your  love. 

The  outward  shows  of  sky  and  earth. 

Of  hill  and  valley,  he  has  viewed ; 

And  impulses  of  deeper  birth 
Have  come  to  him  in  solitude. 

In  common  things  that  round  us  lie 
Some  random  truths  he  can  impart, 

— The  harvest  of  a quiet  eye 

That  broods  and  sleeps  on  his  own  heart. 

But  he  is  weak,  both  Man  and  Boy, 

Hath  been  an  idler  in  the  land ; 

Contented  if  he  might  enjoy 

The  things  which  others  understand. 

— Come  hither  in  thy  hour  of  strength  ; 
Come,  weak  as  is  a breaking  wave  I 
Here  stretch  thy  body  at  full  length  ; 

Or  build  thy  house  upon  this  grave. 


TO  THE  SPADE  OF  A FRIEND, 

(AN  AGRICULTURIST,) 

CO.MPOSED  WHILE  WE  WERE  LABOURING  TOGETHER  IN  HIS 
PLEASURE-GROUND. 

Spade  ! with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  Lands, 
And  shaped  these  pleasant  walks  by  Emont’s  side. 
Thou  art  a tool  of  honour  in  my  hands; 

I press  thee,  through  the  yielding  soil,  with  pride. 

Rare  Master  has  it  been  thy  lot  to  know ; 

Long  hast  Thou  served  a Man  to  reason  true ; 

Whose  life  combines  the  best  of  high  and  low. 

The  toiling  many  and  the  resting  few ; 


Health,  meekness,  ardour,  quietness  secure. 

And  industry  of  body  and  of  mind ; 

And  elegant  enjoyments,  that  are  pure 
As  Nature  is;  — too  pure  to  be  refined. 

Here  often  hast  Thou  heard  the  Poet  sing 
In  concord  with  his  River  murmuring  by  ; 

Or  in  some  silent  field,  while  timid  Spring 
Is  yet  uncheered  by  other  minstrelsy. 

Who  shall  inherit  Thee  when  death  has  laid 
Low  in  the  darksome  Cell  thine  own  dear  Lord  ? 
That  Man  will  have  a trophy,  humble  Spade ! 

A trophy  nobler  than  a Conqueror’s  sword. 

If  he  be  One  that  feels,  with  skill  to  part 
False  praise  from  true,  or  greater  from  the  less. 
Thee  will  he  welcome  to  his  hand  and  heart. 
Thou  monument  of  peaceful  happiness! 

With  Thee  he  will  not  dread  a toilsome  day. 

His  powerful  Servant,  his  inspiring  Mate  ! 

And,  when  thou  art  past  service,  worn  away. 
Thee  a surviving  soul  shall  consecrate. 

His  thrift  thy  usefulness  will  never  scorn ; 

An  Heir-loom  in  his  cottage  wilt  thou  be : 

High  will  he  hang  thee  up,  and  will  adorn 
His  rustic  chimney  with  the  last  of  Thee! 


TO  MY  SISTER. 

WRITTEN  AT  A SMALL  DISTANCE  EROJl  MY  HOUSE, 
AND  SENT  BY  MY  LITTLE  BOY. 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March  : 

Each  minute  sweeter  than  before. 

The  Redbreast  sings  from  the  tall  Larch 
That  stands  beside  our  door. 

There  is  a blessing  in  the  air. 

Which  seems  a sense  of  joy  to  yield 
To  the  bare  trees,  and  mountains  bare. 

And  grass  in  the  green  field. 

My  Sister  ! (’tis  a wish  of  mine) 

Now  that  our  morning  meal  is  done, 
hlake  haste,  your  morning  task  resign , 

Come  forth  and  feel  the  sun. 

Edward  will  come  with  you; — and,  pray. 

Put  on  with  speed  your  woodland  dress; 

And  bring  no  book:  for  this  one  day 
We’ll  give  to  idleness. 

No  joyless  forms  shall  regulate 
Our  living  Calendar : 

We  from  to-day,  my  Friend,  will  date 
The  opening  of  the  year 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECl’ION. 


397 


fLove,  now  an  universal  birth, 

From  heart  to  heart  is  stealintr, 

From  earth  to  man,  from  man  to  earth : 
— It  is  the  hour  of  feeling. 

One  moment  now  may  give  us  more 
Than  fifty  years  of  reason  : 

Our  minds  shall  drink  at  every  pore 
The  spirit  of  the  season. 

Some  silent  laws  our  hearts  will  make. 
Which  they  shall  long  obey  : 

We  for  the  year  to  come  may  take 
Our  temper  from  to-day. 

And  from  the  blessed  power  that  rolls 
About,  below,  above. 

We’ll  frame  the  measure  of  our  souls: 
They  shall  be  tuned  to  love. 

u 

Then  come,  my  Sister ! come,  I pray. 
With  speed  put  on  your  woodland  dress; 
— And  bring  no  book:  for  this  one  day 
We’ll  give  to  idleness. 


TO  A YOUNG  LADY, 

WHO  HAD  BEEN  REPROACHED  FOR  TAKING  LONG 
WALKS  IN  THE  COUNTRY. 

Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail ! 

— There  is  a nest  in  a green  dale, 

A harbour  and  a hold. 

Where  thou,  a Wife  and  Friend,  shalt  see 
Thy  own  delightful  days,  and  be 
A light  to  young  and  old. 

There,  healthy  as  a Shepherd-boy, 

And  treading  among  flowers  of  joy, 

That  at  no  season  fade. 

Thou,  while  thy  Babes  around  thee  cling, 
Shalt  show  us  how  divine  a thing 
A Woman  may  be  made. 

Thy  thoughts  and  feelings  shall  not  die. 

Nor  leave  thee  when  gray  hairs  are  nigh 
A melancholy  slave ; 

But  an  old  age  serene  and  bright. 

And  lovely  as  a Lapland  night. 

Shall  lead  thee  to  thy  grave. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING. 

I HEARD  a thousand  blended  notes. 

While  in  a grove  I sate  reclined. 

In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 


To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran ; 

And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  man  has  made  of  man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower. 
The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths ; 

And  ’tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopped  and  played ; 
Their  thoughts  I cannot  measure:  — 

But  the  least  motion  which  they  made. 

It  seemed  a thrill  of  pleasure. 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan. 

To  catch  the  breezy  air ; 

And  I must  think,  do  all  I can, 

That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

From  Heaven  if  this  belief  be  sent, 

If  such  be  Nature’s  holy  plan. 

Have  I not  reason  to  lament 
What  man  has  made  of  man  I 


SIMON  LEE, 

THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN, 

WITH  AN  INCIDENT  IN  WHICH  HE  WAS  CONCERNED. 

I.N  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 

Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor-hall, 

An  Old  Man  dwells,  a little  man, 

’Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 

Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A running  Huntsman  merry ; 

And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  blooming  as  a cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound. 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee 
When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days,  he  little  cared 
For  husbandry  or  tillage ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 
The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun. 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind; 

And  often,  ere  the  chase  was  done. 

He  reeled  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there’s  something  in  the  world 
At  which  his  heart  rejoices ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out. 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices! 

34 


398 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


But,  oh  the  heavy  change! — berefl 
Of  health,  strength,  friends,  and  kindred,  see  I 
Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 
In  liveried  poverty. 

His  Master’s  dead,  — and  no  one  now 
Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick ; 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry. 

Rests  upon  ancles  swoln  and  thick; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, 

His  Wife,  an  aged  woman. 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall. 

Upon  the  village  Common. 

Beside  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay. 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

A scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 
Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 
Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger; 

But  what  avails  it  now,  the  land 
Which  he  can  till  no  longer! 

Ofl,  working  by  her  Husband’s  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride. 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 
From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

Alas  ! ’t  is  very  little  — all 
Which  they  can  do  between  tliem. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store. 

As  he  to  you  will  tell. 

For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
Do  his  weak  ancles  swell. 

My  gentle  Reader,  I perceive 
How  patiently  you ’ve  waited. 

And  now  I fear  that  you  expect 
Some  tale  will  be  related. 

O Reader!  had  you  in  your  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

O gentle  Reader!  you  would  find 
A tale  in  every  thing.* 

What  more  I have  to  say  is  short. 

And  you  must  kindly  take  it: 

It  is  no  tale;,  but  .should  you  thmk, 

Perhaps  a tale  you’ll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I chanced  to  see 
This  Old  Man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 

A stump  of  rotten  wood. 


The  mattock  tottered  in  his  hand; 

So  vain  was  his  endeavour. 

That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  worked  for  ever. 

“ You  ’re  overtasked,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,”  to  him  I said; 

And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  proffered  aid. 

I struck,  and  with  a single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I severed. 

At  which  the  poor  Old  Man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavoured. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought. 

And  thanks  and  praises  seemed  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 

— I’ve  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deeds 
With  coldness  still  returning; 

Alas ! the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oflener  left  me  mourning. 


INCIDENT  AT  BRUGES. 

In  Bruges  town  is  many  a street. 
Whence  busy  life  hath  fled ; 

Where,  without  hurry,  noiseless  feet 
The  grass-grown  pavement  tread. 

There  heard  we,  halting  in  the  shade 
Flung  from  a Convent-tower, 

A harp  that  tuneful  prelude  made 
To  a voice  of  thrilling  power. 

The  measure,  simple  truth  to  tell. 

Was  fit  for  some  gay  throng ; 

Though  from  the  same  grim  turret  fell 
The  shadow  and  the  song. 

When  silent  were  both  voice  and  chords 
The  strain  seemed  doubly  dear. 

Yet  sad  as  sweet,  for  English  words 
Had  fallen  upon  the  ear. 

It  was  a breezy  hour  of  eve ; 

And  pinnacle  and  spire 

Quivered  and  seemed  almost  to  heave, 
Clothed  with  innocuous  fire  ; 

But  where  we  stood,  the  setting  sun 
Showed  little  of  his  state; 

And,  if  the  glory  reached  the  Nun, 

’T  was  through  an  iron  grate. 

Not  always  is  the  heart  unwise. 

Nor  pity  idly  born. 

If  even  a passing  Stranger  sighs 
For  them  who  do  not  mourn. 


See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


309 


Sad  is  thy  doom,  self-solaced  dove, 
Captive,  whoe’er  thou  be  ! 

Oh ! what  is  beauty,  what  is  love. 
And  openingf  life  to  thee? 

Such  feeling  pressed  upon  ray  soul, 

A feeling  sanctified 
By  one  soft  trickling  tear  that  stole 
From  the  Maiden  at  my  side; 

Less  tribute  could  she  pay  than  this. 
Borne  gaily  o’er  the  sea. 

Fresh  from  the  beauty  and  the  bliss 
Of  English  liberty  ? 


THE  WISIIING-GATE. 

In  the  vale  of  Grasmere,  by  the  side  of  the  high-way,  leading 
to  Ambleside,  is  a gate,  which,  time  out  of  mind,  has  been  call- 
ed the  Wishing-gate,  from  a belief  that  wishes  formed  or  in- 
dulged there  have  a favourable  issue. 

Hope  rules  a land  for  ever  green: 

All  powers  that  serve  the  bright-eyed  Queen 
Are  confident  and  gay; 

Clouds  at  her  bidding  disappear; 

Points  she  to  aught  ? — the  bliss  draws  near. 
And  Fancy  smooths  the  way. 

Not  such  the  land  of  wishes  — there 
Dwell  fruitless  day-dreams,  lawless  prayer. 

And  thoughts  with  things  at  strife ; 

Yet  how  forlorn  should  ye  depart. 

Ye  superstitions  of  the  heart, 

How  poor  were  human  life! 

When  magic  lore  abjured  its  might. 

Ye  did  not  forfeit  one  dear  right. 

One  tender  claim  abate , 

Witness  this  symbol  of  your  sway. 

Surviving  near  the  public  way. 

The  rustic  Wishing-gate! 

Inquire  not  if  the  faery  race 
Shed  kindly  influence  on  the  place. 

Ere  northward  they  retired  ; 

If  here  a warrior  left  a spell. 

Panting  for  glory  as  he  fell; 

Or  here  a saint  expired. 

Enough  that  all  around  is  fair. 

Composed  with  Nature’s  finest  care 
And  in  her  fondest  love; 

Peace  to  embosom  and  content. 

To  overawe  the  turbulent. 

The  selfish  to  reprove. 


Yea!  even  the  Stranger  from  afar. 
Reclining  on  this  moss-grown  bar. 
Unknowing  and  unknown. 

The  infection  of  the  ground  partakes. 
Longing  for  his  Beloved  — who  makes 
All  happiness  her  own. 

Then  why  should  conscious  Spirits  fear 
The  mystic  stirrings  that  are  here. 

The  ancient  faith  disclaim? 

The  local  Genius  ne’er  befriends 
Desires  whose  course  in  folly  ends. 

Whose  just  reward  is  shame. 

Smile  if  thou  wilt,  but  not  in  scorn. 

If  some,  by  ceaseless  pains  outworn. 

Here  crave  an  easier  lot ; 

If  some  have  thirsted  to  renew 
A broken  vow,  or  bind  a true. 

With  firmer,  holier  knot. 

And  not  in  vain,  when  thoughts  are  cast 
Upon  the  irrevocable  past. 

Some  penitent  sincere 

May  for  a worthier  future  sigh. 

While  trickles  from  his  downcast  eye 
No  unavailing  tear. 

The  Worldling,  pining  to  be  freed 
From  turmoil,  who  would  turn  or  speed 
The  current  of  his  fate, 

Might  stop  before  this  favoured  scene. 

At  Nature’s  call,  nor  blush  to  lean 
Upon  the  Wishing-gate. 

The  Sage,  who  feels  how  blind,  how  weak 
Is  man,  though  loth  such  help  to  seek. 

Yet,  passing,  here  might  pause. 

And  yearn  for  insight  to  allay 
Misgiving,  while  the  crimson  day 
In  quietness  withdraws; 

Or  when  the  church-clock’s  knell  profound 
To  Time’s  first  step  across  the  bound 
Of  midnight  makes  reply  ; 

Time  pressing  on  with  starry  crest, 

To  filial  sleep  upon  the  breast 
Of  dread  eternity! 


INCIDEN  T 

CHARACTERISTIC  OF  A FAVOURITE  DOC. 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  Master 
Goes  to  learn  how  all  things  fare; 

Searches  pasture  after  pasture, 

Sheep  and  cattle  eyes  with  care; 


400 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And,  for  silence  or  for  talk, 

He  hath  comrades  in  his  walk; 

Four  dogs,  each  pair  of  different  breed. 
Distinguished  two  for  scent,  and  two  for  speed. 

See  a hare  before  him  started 
— Off  they  fly  in  earnest  chase ; 

Every  dog  is  eager-hearted, 

All  the  four  are  in  the  race: 

And  the  hare  whom  they  pursue, 

Hath  an  instinct  wliat  to  do; 

Her  hope  is  near:  no  turn  slie  makes; 

But,  like  an  arrow,  to  the  river  takes. 

Deep  the  River  was,  and  crusted 
Thinly  by  a one  night’s  frost ; 

But  the  nimble  Hare  hath  trusted 
To  the  ice,  and  safely  crost ; 

She  hath  crost,  and  without  heed 
All  are  following  at  full  speed. 

When,  lo ! the  ice,  so  thinly  spread. 

Breaks  — and  the  Greyhound,  Dart,  is  over  head! 

Better  fate  have  Prince  and  Swallow  — 

See  them  cleaving  to  the  sport! 

Music  has  no  heart  to  follow. 

Little  Music,  she  stops  short. 

She  hath  neither  wish  nor  heart. 

Hers  is  now  another  part : 

A loving  Creature  she,  and  brave  ! 

And  fondly  strives  her  struggling  Friend  to  save 

From  the  brink  her  paws  she  stretches, 

Very  hands  as  you  would  say  ! 

And  afflicting  moans  she  fetches, 

As  he  breaks  the  ice  away. 

For  herself  she  hath  no  fears,  — 

Him  alone  she  sees  and  hears, — 

Makes  efforts  and  complainings;  nor  gives  o’er 
Until  her  Fellow  sank,  and  re-appeared  no  more. 


TRIBUTE 

TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  SAME  DOG. 

Lie  here,  without  a record  of  thy  worth. 

Beneath  a covering  of  the  common  earth  ! 

It  is  not  from  unwillingness  to  praise. 

Or  want  of  love,  that  here  no  Stone  we  raise ; 
More  thou  deserv’st ; but  this  Man  gives  to  Man, 
Brother  to  Brother,  this  is  all  we  can. 

Yet  they  to  whom  thy  virtues  made  thee  dear 
Shall  find  thee  through  all  changes  of  the  year : 
This  Oak  points  out  thy  grave  ; the  silent  Tree 
Will  gladly  stand  a monument  of  thee. 


I grieved  for  thee,  and  wished  thy  end  were  past 
And  willingly  have  laid  thee  here  at  last : 

For  thou  hadst  lived  till  every  thing  that  cheers 
In  thee  had  yielded  to  the  weight  of  years ; 

E.xtreme  old  age  had  wasted  thee  away. 

And  left  thee  but  a glimmering  of  the  day  ; 

Thy  ears  were  deaf,  and  feeble  were  thy  knees,  — 

I saw  thee  stagger  in  the  summer  breeze. 

Too  weak  to  stand  against  its  sportive  breath, 

And  ready  for  the  gentlest  stroke  of  death. 

It  came,  and  we  were  glad  ; yet  tears  were  shed ; 
Both  Man  and  Woman  wept  when  Thou  wert  dead ; 
Not  only  for  a thousand  thoughts  that  were. 

Old  household  thoughts,  in  which  thou  hadst  thy  share ; 
But  for  some  precious  boons  vouchsafed  to  thee, 

Found  scarcely  anywhere  in  like  degree ! 

For  love,  that  comes  to  all  — the  holy  sense, 

Best  gift  of  God  — in  thee  was  most  intense  , 

A chain  of  heart,  a feeling  of  the  mind, 

A tender  sympathy,  which  did  thee  bind 
Not  only  to  us  Men,  but  to  thy  Kind  : 

Yea,  for  thy  Fellow-brutes  in  thee  we  saw 
The  soul  of  Love,  Love’s  intellectual  law  : — 

Hence,  if  we  wept,  it  was  not  done  in  shame ; 

Our  tears  from  passion  and  from  reason  came. 

And,  therefore,  shall  thou  be  an  honoured  name  ! 


In  the  School  of is  a Tablet,  on  which  are  inscribed, 

in  gilt  letters,  the  Names  of  the  several  Persons  who  have  been 
Schoolmasters  there  since  the  Foundation  of  the  School,  with 
the  Time  at  which  they  entered  upon  and  quitted  their  Office. 
Opposite  to  one  of  those  Names  the  Author  wrote  the  following 
Lines. 

If  Nature,  for  a favourite  Child, 

In  thee  hath  tempered  so  her  clay. 

That  every  hour  thy  heart  runs  wild. 

Yet  never  once  doth  go  astray. 

Read  o’er  these  lines;  and  then  review 
This  tablet,  that  thus  humbly  rears 
In  such  diversity  of  hue 
Its  history  of  two  hundred  years. 

— When  through  this  little  wreck  of  fame, 

Cipher  and  syllable!  thine  eye 

Has  travelled  down  to  Matthew’s  name, 

Pause  with  no  common  sympathy. 

And,  if  a sleeping  tear  should  wake, 

Then  be  it  neither  checked  nor  stayed: 

For  Matthew  a request  I make. 

Which  for  himself  he  had  not  made. 

Poor  Matthew,  all  his  frolics  o’er. 

Is  silent  as  a standing  pool ; 

Far  from  the  chimney’s  merry  roar, 

And  murmur  of  the  village  school. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


401 


The  sighs  which  Matthew  heaved  were  siglis 
Of  one  tired  out  with  fun  and  madness; 

The  tears  which  came  to  Matthew’s  eyes 
Were  tears  of  light,  the  dew  of  gladness. 

Yet,  sometimes,  when  the  secret  cup 
Of  still  and  serious  thought  went  round. 

It  seemed  as  if  he  drank  it  up  — 

He  felt  with  spirit  so  profound, 

— Thou  soul  of  God’s  best  earthly  mould' 
Thou  happy  Soul ! and  can  it  be 
That  these  two  words  of  glittering  gold 
Are  all  that  must  remain  of  theel 


THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun ; 

And  Matthew  stopped,  he  looked,  and  said, 
“The  will  of  God  be  done!” 

A village  Schoolmaster  was  he, 

With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 

As  blithe  a man  as  you  could  see 
On  a spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass. 
And  by  the  steaming  rills. 

We  travelled  merrily,  to  pass 
A day  among  the  hills. 

Our  work,”  said  I,  “ was  well  begun  ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a sun. 

So  sad  a sigh  has  brought?” 

A second  time  did  Matthew  stop ; 

And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 

To  me  he  made  reply : 

“ Yon  cloud  with  that  long  purple  cleft 
Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A day  like  this  which  I have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

“ And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colours,  and  no  other. 

Were  in  the  sky,  that  April  morn. 

Of  this  the  very  brother, 

“ With  rod  and  line  I sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave. 

And,  coming  to  the  church,  stopped  short 
Beside  my  daughter’s  grave. 

3 A 


“Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen. 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale; 

And  then  she  sang;  — she  would  have  been 
A very  nightingale. 

“ Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay ; 

And  yet  I loved  her  more. 

For  so  it  seemed,  than  till  that  day 
I e’er  had  loved  before. 

“And,  turning  from  her  grave,  I met. 
Beside  the  church-yard  Yew, 

A blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

“A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare; 

Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white: 

To  see  a child  so  very  fair. 

It  was  a pure  delight! 

“No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E’er  tripped  with  foot  so  free; 

She  seemed  as  happy  as  a wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

“ There  came  from  me  a sigh  of  pain 
Which  I could  ill  confine  ; 

I looked  at  her,  and  looked  again: 

— And  did  not  wish  her  mine.” 

Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now, 
Methinks,  I see  him  stand, 

As  at  that  moment,  with  a bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 


THE  FOUNTAIN. 

A CONVERSATION. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 

A pair  of  Friends,  though  I was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a spreading  oak. 

Beside  a mossy  seat ; 

And  from  the  turf  a fountain  broke. 

And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

“ Now,  Matthew !”  said  I,  “ let  us  match 
This  water’s  pleasant  tune 
With  some  old  Border-song,  or  Catch, 
That  suits  a summer’s  noon; 

Or  of  the  Church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade. 

That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  !” 

U* 


402 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
Tlie  spring-  beneath  the  tree  ; 

And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 

The  gray-’iaired  man  of  glee : 

“Down  to  the  vale  this  water  steers, 
How  merrily  it  goes! 

’T  will  murmur  on  a thousand  years, 

And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 

“And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 

I cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a vigorous  man,  I lay 
Beside  this  Fountain’s  brink. 

“My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears. 
My  heart  is  idly  stirred. 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I heard. 

“ Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay : 

And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  age  takes  away 

Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

“The  Blackbird  in  the  summer  tree.s. 
The  Lark  upon  the  hill. 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

“ With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A foolish  strife;  they  see 
A happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free: 

“ But  we  are  pressed  by  heavy  laws ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more. 

We  wear  a face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

“If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth. 

The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own, 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

“My  days,  my  Friend,  are  almost  gone. 
My  life  has  been  approved. 

And  many  love  me;  but  by  none 
Am  I enough  beloved.’’ 

“ Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs. 
The  man  who  thus  complains ! 

I live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains. 

“ .4nd,  Matthew,  for  thy  Children  dead 
I’ll  be  a son  to  thee!’’ 

At  this  he  grasped  my  hand,  and  said, 
“Alas!  that  cannot  be.” 


We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side; 

And  down  the  smooth  descent 

Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide; 

And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And,  ere  we  came  to  Leonard’s  rock. 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church  clock. 

And  the  bewildered  chimes. 


A CHARACTER. 

I MARVEL  how  Nature  could  ever  find  space 
For  so  many  strange  contrasts  in  one  human  face: 
There ’s  thought  and  no  thought,  and  there ’s  paleness 
and  bloom 

And  bustle  and  sluggishness,  pleasure  and  gloom. 

There’s  weakness,  and  strength,  both  redundant  and 
vain  ; 

Such  strength  as,  if  ever  affliction  and  pam 
Could  pierce  through  a temper  that’s  soft  to  disease, 
Would  be  rational  peace  — a philosopher’s  ease 

There’s  indifference,  alike  when  he  fails  or  succeeds. 
And  attention  full  ten  times  as  much  as  there  needs ; 
Pride  where  there ’s  no  envy,  there ’s  so  much  of  joy  ; 
And  mildness,  and  spirit  both  forward  and  coy. 

There ’s  freedom,  and  sometimes  a diffident  stare 
Of  shame  scarcely  seeming  to  know  that  she ’s  there, 
There’s  virtue,  the  title  it  surely  may  claim. 

Yet  wants  heaven  knows  what  to  be  worthy  the  name. 

This  picture  from  nature  may  seem  to  depart, 

Yet  the  man  would  at  once  run  away  w’ith  your  heart,, 
And  I for  five  centuries  right  gladly  would  be 
Such  an  odd,  such  a kind,  happy  creature  as  he. 


This  Lawn,  a carpet  all  alive 
With  shadows  flung  from  leaves  — to  strive 
In  dance,  amid  a press 
Of  sunshine,  an  apt  emblem  yields 
Of  worldlings  revelling  in  the  fields 
Of  strenuous  idleness; 

Less  quick  tlie  stir  when  tide  and  breeze 
Encounter,  and  to  narrow  seas 
Forbid  a moment’s  rest; 

The  medley  less  when  boreal  lights 
Glance  to  and  fro,  like  aery  sprites 
To  feats  of  arms  add  rest! 

Yet,  spite  of  all  this  eager  strife. 

This  ceaseless  play,  the  genuine  life 
That  serves  the  steadfast  hours. 

Is  in  the  grass  beneath,  that  grows 
Unheeded,  and  the  mute  repose 
Of  sweetly-breatliing  flowers 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive. 

Would  that  the  little  flowers  were  born  to  live. 
Conscious  of  half  the  pleasure  which  they  give; 

That  to  this  mountain-daisy’s  self  were  known 
The  beauty  of  its  star-shaped  shadow,  thrown 
On  the  smooth  surface  of  this  naked  stone! 

And  what  if  hence  a bold  desire  should  mount 
High  as  the  sun,  that  he  could  take  account 
Of  all  that  issues  from  his  glorious  fount! 

So  might  he  ken  how  by  his  sovereign  aid 
These  delicate  companionships  are  made; 

And  how  he  rules  the  pomp  of  light  and  shade ; 

And  were  the  sister-power  that  shines  by  night 
So  privileged,  what  a countenance  of  delight 
Would  through  the  clouds  break  forth  on  human  sight 

Fond  fancies!  wheresoe’er  shall  turn  thine  eye 
On  earth,  air,  ocean,  or  the  starry  sky. 

Converse  with  Nature  in  pure  sympathy  ; 

All  vain  desires,  all  lawless  wishes  quelled. 

Be  thou  to  love  and  praise  alike  impelled. 

Whatever  boon  is  granted  or  withheld. 


A^RITTEN  IN  A BLANK  LEAF  OF  MACPHER- 
SON’S  OSSIAN. 

Oft  have  I caught,  upon  a fitful  breeze, 
Fragments  of  far-off  melodies. 

With  ear  not  coveting  the  whole, 

A part  so  charmed  the  pensive  soul: 

While  a dark  storm  before  my  sight 
Was  yielding,  on  a mountain  height 
Loose  vapours  have  I watched,  that  won 
Prismatic  colours  from  the  sun; 

Nor  felt  a wish  that  Heaven  would  show 
The  image  of  its  perfect  bow. 

What  need,  then,  of  these  finished  strains  ? 
Away  with  counterfeit  remains! 

An  abbey  in  its  lone  recess, 

A temple  of  the  wilderness, 

Wrecks  though  they  be,  announce  with  feeling 
The  majesty  of  honest  dealing. 

Spirit  of  Ossian  ! if  imbound 
In  language  thou  may’st  yet  be  found. 

If  aught  (intrusted  to  the  pen 
Or  floating  on  the  tongues  of  men. 

Albeit  shattered  and  impaired) 

Subsist  thy  dignity  to  guard. 

In  concert  with  memorial  claim 
Of  old  gray  stone,  and  high-born  name. 

That  cleaves  to  rock  or  pillared  cave. 

Where  moans  the  blast,  or  beats  the  wave,  j 


Let  Truth,  stern  Arbitress  of  all, 
Interpret  that  Original, 

And  for  presumptuous  wrongs  atone; 
Authentic  words  be  given,  or  none ! 

Time  is  not  blind;  — yet  lie,  who  spares 
Pyramid  pointing  to  the  Stars, 

Hath  preyed  with  ruthless  appetite 
On  all  that  marked  the  primal  flight 
Of  the  poetic  ecstasy 
Into  the  land  of  mystery. 

No  tongue  is  able  to  rehearse 
One  measure,  Orpheus ! of  thy  verse ; 
Musseus,  stationed  with  his  lyre 
Supreme  among  the  Elysian  quire. 

Is,  for  the  dwellers  upon  earth. 

Mute  as  a Lark  ere  morning’s  birth. 

Why  grieve  for  these,  though  past  away 
The  Music,  and  e.xtinct  the  Lay  I 
When  thousands,  by  severer  doom. 

Full  early  to  the  silent  tomb 

Have  sunk,  at  Nature’s  call;  or  strayed 

From  hope  and  promise,  self-betrayed ; 

The  garland  withering  on  their  brows; 
Stung  with  remorse  for  broken  vows; 
Frantic  — else  how  might  they  rejoice  I 
And  friendless,  by  their  own  sad  choice 

Hail,  Bards  of  mightier  grasp!  on  you 
I chiefly  call,  the  chosen  Few, 

Wht)  cast  not  off  the  acknowledged  guide, 
Who  faltered  not,  nor  turned  aside; 

Whose  lofty  Genius  could  survive 
Privation,  under  sorrow  thrive  ; 

In  whom  the  fiery  Muse  revered 
The  symbol  of  a snow-white  beard. 
Bedewed  with  meditative  tears 
Dropped  from  the  lenient  cloud  of  years. 

Brothers  in  Soul!  though  distant  times 
Produced  you,  nursed  in  various  climes. 

Ye,  when  the  orb  of  life  had  waned, 

A plenitude  of  love  retained ; 

Hence,  while  in  you  each  sad  regret 
By  corresponding  hope  was  met. 

Ye  lingered  among  human  kind. 

Sweet  voices  for  the  passing  wind ; 
Departing  sunbeams,  loth  to  stop. 

Though  smiling  on  the  last  hill  top ! 

Such  to  the  tender-hearted  Maid 
Even  ere  her  joys  begin  to  fade; 

Such,  haply,  to  the  rugged  Chief 
By  Fortune  crushed,  or  tamed  by  grief , 
Appears,  on  Morven’s  lonely  shore. 
Dim-gleaming  through  imperfect  lore. 


404 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Son  of  Fingal ; such  was  blind 
Mseonides  of  ampler  mind ; 

Such  Milton,  to  the  fountain  head 
Of  Glory  bv  Urania  led  ! 


VERNAL  ODE. 


“ Rerum  Natura  tota  est  nusquam  magis  qiiam  in  minimis.” 
Plin.  Nat.  Hist. 


1. 

Beneath  the  concave  of  an  April  sky, 

When  all  the  fields  with  freshest  green  were  dight. 
Appeared,  in  presence  of  that  spiritual  eye 
That  aids  or  supersedes  our  grosser  sight. 

The  form  and  rich  habiliments  of  One 
Whose  countenance  bore  resemblance  to  the  sun. 
When  it  reveals,  in  evening  majesty. 

Features  half  lost  amid  their  own  pure  light. 

Poised  like  a weary  cloud,  in  middle  air 
He  hung,  — then  floated  with  angelic  ease 
(Softening  that  bright  effulgence  by  degrees) 

Till  he  had  reached  a summit  sharp  and  bare, 

^Vhere  oft  the  venturous  heifer  drinks  the  noon-tide 
breeze. 

Upon  the  apex  of  that  lofty  cone 
Alighted,  there  the  Stranger  stood  alone ; 

Fair  as  a gorgeous  Fabric  of  the  East 
Suddenly  raised  by  some  Enchanter’s  power. 

Where  nothing  was ; and  firm  as  some  old  Tower 

Of  Britain’s  realm,  whose  leafy  crest 

Waves  high,  embellished  by  a gleaming  shower! 

2. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  his  purple  wings 
Re.sted  a golden  Harp ; — he  touched  the  strings ; 

And,  after  prelude  of  unearthly  sound 
Poured  through  the  echoing  hills  around. 

He  sang 

“ No  wintry  desolations, 

“ Scorching  blight  or  noxious  dew, 

“ Affect  my  native  habitations ; 

“ Buried  in  glory,  far  beyond  the  scope 
“ Of  man’s  inquiring  gaze,  but  imaged  to  his  hope 
“ (Alas,  how  faintly !)  in  the  hue 
“ Profound  of  night’s  ethereal  blue  ; 

“And  in  the  aspect  of  each  radiant  orb;  — 

“ Some  fixed,  some  wandering  with  no  timid  curb; 
“But  wandering  star  and  fixed,  to  mortal  eye, 

“ Blended  in  absolute  serenity, 

“ And  free  from  semblance  of  decline  ; — 

“Fresh  as  if  Evening  brought  their  natal  hour; 

“ Her  darkness  splendour  gave,  her  silence  power, 
“To  testify  of  Love  and  Grace  divine. — 

“ And  though  to  every  draught  of  vital  breath 
’ Renew'ed  throughout  the  bounds  of  earth  or  ocean. 


“ The  melancholy  gates  of  Death 
“Respond  with  sympathetic  motion; 

“ Though  all  that  feeds  on  nether  air, 

“Howe’er  magnificent  or  fair, 

“Grows  but  to  perish,  and  intrust 
“Its  ruins  to  their  kindred  dust; 

“ Yet,  by  the  Almighty’s  ever-during  care, 

“ Her  procreant  vigils  Nature  keeps 
“Amid  the  unfathomable  deeps; 

“ And  saves  the  peopled  fields  of  earth 
“ P’rom  dread  of  emptiness  or  dearth. 

“Thus,  in  their  stations,  lifting  tow’rd  the  sky 
“The  foliaged  head  in  cloud-like  majesty, 

“ The  shadowi-casting  race  of  Trees  survive : 

“ Thus,  in  the  train  of  Spring,  arrive 

“Sweet  Flowers; — what  living  eye  hath  viewed 

“ Their  myriads  1 — endlessly  renewed,, 

“ Wherever  strikes  the  sun’s  glad  ray  ; 

“Where’er  the  subtle  waters  stray; 

“ Wherever  sportive  zephyrs  bend 
“ Their  course,  or  genial  showers  descend  I 
“ Mortals,  rejoice  ! the  very  Angels  quit 
“ Their  mansions  unsusceptible  of  change, 

“ Amid  your  pleasant  bowers  to  sit, 

“ And  through  your  sweet  vicissitudes  to  range !” 

3. 

O,  nursed  at  happy  distance  from  the  cares 
Of  a too-anxious  w’orld,  mild  pastoral  Muse  ! 

That,  to  the  sparkling  crown  Urania  wears. 

And  to  her  sister  Clio’s  laurel  wreath, 

Prefer’st  a garland  culled  from  purple  heath. 

Or  blooming  thicket  moist  with  morning  dews ; 

Was  such  bright  Spectacle  vouchsafed  to  me  ■* 

And  was  it  granted  to  the  simple  ear 
Of  thy  contented  Votary 
Such  melody  to  hear  ! 

Him  rather  suits  it,  side  by  side  with  thee. 
Wrapped  in  a fit  of  pleasing  indolence. 

While  thy  tired  lute  hangs  on  the  hawthorn  tree 
To  lie  and  listen,  till  o’er-drowsed  sense 
Sinks,  hardly  conscious  of  the  influence. 

To  the  soft  murmur  of  the  vagrant  Bee. 

— A slender  sound!  yet  hoary  Time'^ 

Doth  to  the  Soul  exalt  it  with  the  chime 
Of  all  his  years;  — a company 
Of  ages  coming,  ages  gone; 

(Nations  from  before  them  sweeping. 

Regions  in  destruction  steeping,) 

But  every  awful  note  in  unison 
With  that  faint  utterance,  which  tells 
Of  treasure  sucked  from  buds  and  bells. 

For  the  ‘pure  keeping  of  those  wa.xen  cells ; 
Where  She,  a statist  prudent  to  confer 
Upon  the  public  weal;  a warrior  bold, — 

Radiant  all  over  with  unburnished  gold. 

And  armed  with  living  spear  for  mortal  fight; 

A cunning  forager 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


405 


Tliat  spreads  no  waste;  — a social  builder;  one 

In  whom  all  busy  offices  unite 

With  all  fine  functions  that  afford  delight, 

Safe  through  the  winter  storm  in  quiet  dwells! 

4. 

And  is  She  brought  within  the  power 
Of  vision  I — o’er  this  tempting  flower 
Hovering  until  the  petals  stay 
Her  flight,  and  take  its  voice  away!  — 

Observe  each  wing ! — a tiny  van  ! — 

The  structure  of  her  laden  thigh. 

How  fragile  ! — yet  of  ancestry 
Mysteriously  remote  and  high; 

High  as  the  imperial  front  of  man. 

The  roseate  bloom  on  woman’s  clieek; 

The  soaring  eagle’s  curved  beak 
The  white  plumes  of  the  floating  swan; 

Old  as  the  tiger’s  paw,  the  lion’s  mane 
Ere  shaken  by  that  mood  of  stern  disdain 
At  which  the  desert  trembles.  — Humming  Bee  ! 
Thy  sting  w’as  needless  then,  percliance  unknown ; 
The  seeds  of  malice  were  not  sown; 

All  creatures  met  in  peace,  from  fierceness  free. 
And  no  pride  blended  with  their  dignity. 

— Tears  had  not  broken  from  their  source; 

Nor  anguish  strayed  from  her  Tartarian  den  ; 

The  golden  years  maintained  a course 
Not  undiversified,  though  smooth  and  even ; 

Wew^ere  not  mocked  with  glimpse  and  shadow, — then 
Bright  Seraphs  mixed  familiarly  with  men; 

And  earth  and  stars  composed  a universal  heaven ! 

ODE  TO  LYCORIS. 

MAY,  1817. 

L 

An  age  hath  been  when  Earth  was  proud 
Of  lustre  too  intense 
To  be  sustained;  and  Mortals  bowed 
The  front  in  self-defence. 

Who  then,  if  Dian’s  crescent  gleamed. 

Or  Cupid’s  sparkling  arrow  streamed 
While  on  the  wing  the  Urchin  played. 

Could  fearlessly  approach  the  shade? 

— Enough  for  one  soft  vernal  day, 

If  I,  a Bard  of  ebbing  time. 

And  nurtured  in  a fickle  clime. 

May  haunt  this  horned  bay ; 

Whose  amorous  water  multiplies 
The  flitting  halcyon’s  vivid  dyes; 

And  smooths  her  liquid  breast  — to  show 
These  swan-like  specks  of  mountain  snow. 

White  as  the  pair  that  slid  along  the  plains 
Of  Heaven,  when  Venus  held  the  reins! 


2. 

In  youth  we  love  the  darksome  lawn 
Brushed  by  the  owlet’s  wing; 

Then,  Twilight  is  preferred  to  Dawn, 

And  Autumn  to  the  Spring. 

Sad  fancies  do  we  then  affect. 

In  luxury  of  disrespect 
To  our  own  prodigal  excess 
Of  too  familiar  happiness. 

Lycoris  (if  such  name  befit 
Thee,  thee  my  life’s  celestial  sign!) 

When  Nature  marks  the  year’s  decline. 

Be  ours  to  welcome  it ; 

Pleased  with  the  harvest  hope  that  runs 
Before  the  path  of  milder  suns; 

Pleased  while  the  sylvan  world  displays 
Its  ripeness  to  the  feeding  gaze ; 

Pleased  when  the  sullen  winds  resound  the  knell 
Of  the  resplendent  miracle. 

3. 

But  something  whispers  to  my  heart 
That,  as  we  downward  tend, 

Lycoris ! life  requires  an  art 
To  which  our  souls  must  bend; 

A skill  — to  balance  and  supply; 

And,  ere  the  flowing  fount  be  dry. 

As  soon  it  must,  a sense  to  sip. 

Or  drink,  with  no  fastidious  lip. 

Frank  greeting,  then,  to  that  blithe  Guest 
Diffusing  smiles  o’er  land  and  sea 
To  aid  the  vernal  Deity 
Whose  home  is  in  the  breast ! 

May  pensive  Autumn  ne’er  present 
A claim  to  her  disparagement! 

While  blossoms  and  the  budding  spray 
Inspire  us  in  our  own  decay ; 

Still,  as  we  nearer  draw  to  life’s  dark  gaol. 

Be  hopeful  Spring  the  favourite  cf  the  Soul  I 


TO  THE  SAME. 

Enough  of  climbing  toil ! — Ambition  treads 
Here,  as  ’mid  busier  scenes,  ground  steep  and  rough. 
Or  slippery  even  to  peril ! and  each  step. 

As  we  for  most  uncertain  recompense 
Mount  tow’rd  the  empire  of  the  fickle  clouds, 

Each  weary  step,  dwarfing  the  world  below. 

Induces,  for  its  own  familiar  sights. 

Unacceptable  feelings  of  contempt. 

With  wonder  mixed  — that  Man  could  e’er  be  tied. 
In  anxious  bondage,  to  such  nice  arrav 
And  formal  fellowship  of  petty  things! 

— Oh  ! ’t  is  the  heart  that  magnifies  this  life. 
Making  a truth  and  beauty  of  her  own ; 

And  moss-grown  alleys,  circumscribing  shades, 


406 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  gurgling  rills,  assist  her  in  the  work 
More  efficaciously  than  realms  outspread, 

As  in  a map,  before  the  adventurer’s  gaze  — 

Ocean  and  Fjrth  contending  for  regard. 

The  umbrageous  woods  are  left  — how  far  beneath! 
But  lo!  where  darkness  seems  to  guard  the  mouth 
Of  yon  wild  cave,  whose  jagged  brows  are  fringed 
With  flaccid  threads  of  ivy,  in  the  still 
And  sultry  air,  depending  motionless. 

Yet  cool  the  space  within,  and  not  uncheered 
(As  whoso  enters  shall  ere  long  perceive) 

By  stealthy  influx  of  the  timid  day 
Mingling  with  night,  such  twilight  to  compose 
As  Numa  loved  ; when,  in  the  Egerian  Grot, 

From  the  sage  Nymph  appearing  at  his  wish, 

He  gained  whate’er  a regal  mind  might  ask. 

Or  need,  of  council  breathed  through  lips  divine. 

Long  as  the  heat  shall  rage,  let  that  dim  cave 
Protect  us,  there  deciphering  as  we  may 
Diluvian  records;  or  the  sighs  of  Earth 
Interpreting;  or  counting  for  old  Time 
His  minutes,  by  reiterated  drops. 

Audible  tears,  from  some  invisible  source 
That  deepens  upon  fancy  — more  and  more 
Drawn  tow’rd  the  centre  whence  those  sighs  creep  forth 
To  awe  the  lightness  of  humanity. 

Or,  shutting  up  thyself  within  thyself. 

There  let  me  see  thee  sink  into  a mood 
Of  gentler  thought,  protracted  till  tliine  eye 
Be  calm  as  water  when  the  winds  are  gone. 

And  no  one  can  tell  whither.  Dearest  Friend  ! 

We  two  have  known  such  happy  hours  together. 

That,  were  power  granted  to  replace  them  (fetched 
From  out  the  pensive  shadows  where  they  lie) 

In  the  first  warmth  of  their  original  sunshine. 

Loth  should  I be  to  use  it : passing  sweet 
Are  the  domjiins  of  tender  memory  ! 

ODE 

COMPOSED  ON  MAY  MORNING. 

Whixe  from  the  purpling  east  departs 
The  Star  that  led  the  dawn. 

Blithe  Flora  from  her  couch  upstarts. 

For  May  is  on  the  lawn. 

A quickening  hope,  a freshening  glee. 

Foreran  the  expected  Power, 

Whose  first-drawn  breath,  from  bush  and  tree. 
Shakes  off’  that  pearly  shower. 

All  Nature  welcomes  Her  whose  sway 
Tempers  the  year’s  extremes; 

Who  scattereth  lustres  o’er  noon-day. 

Like  morning’s  dewy  gleams; 


While  mellow  warble,  sprightly  frill. 

The  tremulous  heart  excite; 

And  hums  the  balmy  air  to  still 
The  balance  of  delight. 

Time  was,  blest  Power!  when  Youths  and  Maids 
At  peep  of  dawn  would  rise. 

And  wander  forth,  in  forest  glades 
Thy  birth  to  solemnize. 

Though  mute  the  song  — to  grace  the  rite 
Untouched  the  hawthorn  bough. 

Thy  Spirit  triumphs  o’er  the  slight; 

Man  changes,  but  not  Thou ! 

Thy  feathered  Lieges  bill  and  wings 
In  love’s  disport  employ ; 

Warmed  by  thy  influence,  creeping  Things 
Awake  to  silent  joy  : 

Queen  art  thou  still  for  each  gay  Plant 
Where  the  slim  wild  Deer  roves ; 

And  served  in  depths  where  Fishes  haunt 
Their  own  mysterious  groves. 

Cloud-piercing  Peak,  and  trackless  Heath, 
Instinctive  homage  pay; 

Nor  wants  the  dim-lit  Cave  a wreath 
To  honour  Thee,  sweet  May ! 

Where  Cities  fanned  by  thy  brisk  airs 
Behold  a smokeless  sky. 

Their  puniest  Flower-pot  nursling  dares 
To  open  a bright  eye. 

And  if,  on  this  thy  natal  morn. 

The  Pole,  from  which  thy  name 
Hath  not  departed,  stands  forlorn 
Of  song  and  dance  and  game. 

Still  from  the  village-green  a vow 
■ Aspires  to  thee  addrest 
Wherever  peace  is  on  the  brow. 

Or  love  within  the  breast 

Yes!  where  Love  nestles  thou  canst  teach 
The  soul  to  love  the  more; 

Hearts  also  shall  thy  lessons  reach 
That  never  loved  before. 

Stript  is  the  haughty  One  of  pride. 

The  bashful  freed  from  fear. 

While  rising,  like  the  ocean-tide, 

In  flows  the  joyous  year. 

Hush,  feeble  lyre ! weak  words  refuse 
The  service  to  prolong ! 

To  yon  exulting  Thrush  the  Muse 
Intrusts  the  imperfect  song; 

His  voice  shall  chant,  in  accents  clear, 
Throughout  the  live-long  day. 

Till  the  first  silver  Star  appear. 

The  sovereignty  of  May. 


rUEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


407 


TO  MAY. 

Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set 
Since  thou,  blithe  May,  wert  born, 
And  Bards,  who  liailed  tliee,  may  forget 
Thy  gifts,  thy  beauty  scorn ; 

There  are  who  to  a birthday  strain 
Confine  not  harp  and  voice, 

But  evermore  throughout  thy  reign 
Are  grateful  and  rejoice ! 

Delicious  odours!  music  sweet. 

Too  sweet  to  pass  away ! 

Oh  for  a deathless  song  to  meet 
The  soul’s  desire  — a lay 
That,  when  a thousand  years  are  told, 
Should  praise  thee,  genial  Power! 
Through  summer  heat,  autumnal  cold, 
And  winter’s  dreariest  hour. 

Earth,  Sea,  thy  presence  feel  — nor  less, 
If  yon  ethereal  blue 
With  its  soft  smile  the  truth  express. 
The  Heavens  have  felt  it  too. 

The  inmost  heart  of  man  if  glad 
Partakes  a livelier  cheer; 

And  eyes  that  cannot  but  be  sad 
Let  fall  a brightened  tear. 

Since  thy  return,  through  days  and  weeks 
Of  hope  that  grew  by  stealth. 

How  many  wan  and  faded  cheeks 
Have  kindled  into  health 
The  Old,  by  thee  revived,  have  said, 

“ Another  year  is  ours 
And  wayworn  Wanderers,  poorly  fed, 
Have  smiled  upon  thy  flowers. 

Who  tripping  lisps  a merry  song 
Amid  his  playful  peers? 

The  tender  Infant  who  was  long 
A prisoner  of  fond  fears ; 

But  now,  when  every  sharp-edged  blast 
Is  quiet  in  its  sheath. 

His  Mother  leaves  him  free  to  taste 
Earth’s  sweetness  in  thy  breath. 

Thy  help  is  with  the  Weed  that  creeps 
Along  the  humblest  ground  ; 

No  ClifT  so  bare  but  on  its  steeps 
Thy  favours  may  be  found  ; 

But  most  on  some  peculiar  nook 
That  our  own  hands  have  drest. 

Thou  and  thy  train  are  proud  to  look. 
And  seem  to  love  it  best. 

And  yet  how  pleased  we  wander  forth. 
When  May  is  whispering,  “Come! 
Choose  from  the  bowers  of  virgin  earth 
The  happiest  for  your  home; 


Heaven’s  bounteous  love  through  me  is  spread 
From  sunshine,  clouds,  winds,  waves. 

Drops  on  the  mouldering  turret’.s  head. 

And  on  your  turf-clad  graves!” 

Such  greeting  heard,  away  with  sighs 
For  lilies  that  must  fade. 

Or  “the  rathe  primrose  as  it  dies 
Forsaken”  in  the  shade  ! 

Vernal  fruitions  and  desires 
Are  linked  in  endless  chase ; 

While,  as  one  kindly  growth  retires. 

Another  takes  its  place. 

And  what  if  thou,  sweet  May,  hast  known 
Mishap  by  worm  and  blight; 

If  expectations  newly  blown 
Have  perished  in  thy  sight; 

If  loves  and  joys,  while  up  they  sprung, 

Were  caught  as  in  a snare; 

Such  is  the  lot  of  all  the  young, 

However  bright  and  fair. 

Lo!  Streams  that  April  could  not  check 
Are  patient  of  thy  rule  ; 

Gurgling  in  foamy  water-break. 

Loitering  in  glassy  pool : 

By  thee,  thee  only,  could  be  sent 
Such  gentle  Mists  as  glide. 

Curling  with  unconfirmed  intent. 

On  that  green  mountain’s  side. 

How  delicate  the  leafy  veil 
Through  which  yon  House  of  God 
Gleams  ’mid  the  peace  of  this  deep  dale. 

By  few  but  shepherds  trod  ! 

And  lowly  Huts,  near  beaten  ways. 

No  sooner  stand  attired 
In  thy  fresh  wreaths,  than  they  for  praise 
Peep  forth,  and  are  admired. 

Season  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Permit  not  for  one  hour 
A blossom  from  thy  crown  to  drop. 

Nor  add  to  it  a flower ! 

Keep,  lovely  May,  as  if  by  touch 
Of  self-restraining  art, 

This  modest  charm  of  not  too  much. 

Part  seen,  imagined  part! 


DEVOTIONAL  INCITEMENTS. 


“ Not  to  the  earth  confined, 
“Ascend  to  heaven.” 


Where  will  they  stop,  those  breathing  Powers, 
The  Spirits  of  the  new-born  flowers  ? 

They  wander  with  the  breeze,  they  wind 
Where’er  the  streams  a passage  find ; 


408 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Up  from  their  native  ground  they  rise 
In  mute  aerial  harmonies  ; 

From  humble  violet,  modest  thyme, 

Exhaled,  the  essential  odours  climb, 

As  if  no  space  below  the  sky 
Their  subtle  flight  could  satisfy; 

Heaven  will  not  tax  our  thoughts  with  pride 
If  like  ambition  be  their  guide. 

Roused  by  this  kindliest  of  May-showers, 

The  spirit-quickener  of  the  flowers. 

That  with  moist  virtue  softly  cleaves 
The  buds,  and  freshens  the  young  leaves. 
The  Birds  pour  forth  their  souls  in  note 
Of  rapture  from  a thousand  tliroats. 

Here  checked  by  too  impetuous  haste, 

While  there  the  music  runs  to  waste. 

With  bounty  more  and  more  enlarged. 

Till  the  whole  air  is  overcharged  ; 

Give  ear,  O Man ! to  their  appeal 
And  thirst  for  no  inferior  zeal. 

Thou,  who  canst  thinks  as  well  as  feel. 

Mount  from  the  earth;  aspire!  aspire! 

So  pleads  the  town’s  cathedral  choir. 

In  strains  that  from  tlieir  solemn  height 
Sink,  to  attain  a loftier  flight; 

While  incense  from  the  altar  breathes 
Rich  fragrance  in  embodied  wreaths: 

Or,  flung  from  swinging  censer,  shrouds 
The  taper  lights,  and  curls  in  clouds 
Around  angelic  Forms,  the  still 
Creation  of  the  painter’s  skill. 

That  on  the  service  wait  concealed 
One  moment,  and  the  next  revealed. 

— Cast  off  your  bonds,  awake,  arise, 

And  for  no  transient  ecstasies! 

What  else  can  mean  the  visual  plea 
Of  still  or  moving  imagery  1 
The  iterated  summons  loud, 

Not  wasted  on  the  attendant  crowd. 

Nor  wholly  lost  upon  the  throng 
Hurrying  tlie  busy  streets  along? 

Alas!  the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualise  the  mind. 

Decay  and  languish ; or,  as  creeds 

And  humours  cliange,  are  spurned  like  weeds:* 

The  solemn  rites,  the  awful  forms. 

Founder  amid  fanatic  storms ; 

The  priests  are  from  tlieir  altars  thrust. 

The  temples  levelled  with  the  dust: 

Yet  evermore,  through  years  renewed 
In  undisturbed  vicissitude 
Of  seasons  balancing  their  flight 
On  the  swift  wings  of  day  and  night, 

‘See  Note. 


Kind  Nature  keeps  a heavenly  door 
Wide  open  for  the  scattered  Poor. 

Where  flower-breathed  incense  to  the  skies 
Is  wafted  in  mute  harmonies ; 

And  ground  fresh  cloven  by  the  plough 
Is  fragrant  with  a humbler  vow ; 

Where  birds  and  brooks  from  leafy  dells 
Chime  forth  unwearied  canticles. 

And  vapours  magnify  and  spread 
The  glory  of  the  sun’s  bright  head ; 

Still  constant  in  her  worship,  still 
Conforming  to  the  Almighty  Will, 

Whether  men  sow  or  reap  the  fields. 

Her  admonitions  Nature  yields ; 

That  not  by  bread  alone  we  live. 

Or  what  a hand  of  flesh  can  give ; 

That  every  day  should  leave  some  part 
Free  for  a sabbath  of  the  heart ; 

So  shall  the  seventh  be  truly  blest. 

From  morn  to  eve,  with  hallowed  rest. 


THE  PRLMROSE  OF  THE  ROCK. 

A Rock  there  is  whose  homely  front 
The  passing  Traveller  slights; 

Yet  there  the  Glow-worms  hang  their  lamps; 
Like  stars,  at  various  heights; 

And  one  coy  Primrose  to  that  Rock 
The  vernal  breeze  invites. 

What  hideous  warfare  hath  been  waged, 

What  kingdoms  overthrown. 

Since  first  I spied  that  Primrose-tuft 
And  marked  it  for  my  own ; 

A lasting  link  in  Nature’s  chain 
From  highest  heaven  let  down ! 

The  Flowers,  still  faithful  to  the  stems. 

Their  fellowship  renew ; 

The  stems  are  faithful  to  the  root, 

That  worketh  out  of  view  ; 

And  to  the  rock  the  root  adheres. 

In  every  fibre  true. 

Close  clings  to  earth  the  living  rock. 

Though  threatening  still  to  fall ; 

The  earth  is  constant  to  her  sphere ; 

And  God  upholds  them  all : 

So  blooms  this  lonely  Plant,  nor  dreads 
Her  annual  funeral. 

Here  closed  the  meditative  Strain  ; 

But  air  breathed  soft  that  day. 

The  hoary  mountain-heights  were  cheered, 

The  sunny  vale  looked  gay ; 

And  to  the  Primrose  of  the  Rock 
I gave  this  after-lay. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


409 


I sang",  Let  myriads  of  bright  flowers, 

Like  Thee,  in  field  and  grove 
Revive  iinenvied,  — mightier  far 
Than  tremblings  that  reprove 
Our  vernal  tendencies  to  hope 
In  God’s  redeeming  love: 

That  love  which  changed,  for  wan  disease. 
For  sorrow  that  had  bent 
O’er  hopeless  dust,  for  withered  age, 

Their  moral  element. 

And  turned  the  thistles  of  a curse 
To  types  beneficent. 

Sin-blighted  though  we  are,  we  too. 

The  reasoning  Sons  of  Men, 

From  one  oblivious  winter  called 
Shall  rise,  and  breathe  again  ; 

And  in  eternal  summer  lose 
Our  threescore  years  and  ten. 

To  humbleness  of  heart  descends 
This  prescience  from  on  high. 

The  faith  that  elevates  the  Just, 

Before  and  when  they  die ; 

And  makes  each  soul  a separate  heaven, 

A court  for  Deity, 


THOUGHT  ON  THE  SEASONS. 

Flattered  with  promise  of  escape 
From  every  hurtful  blast. 

Spring  takes,  O sprightly  May  ! thy  shape, 
Her  loveliest  and  her  last. 

Less  fair  is  summer  riding  high 
In  fierce  solstitial  power. 

Less  fair  than  when  a lenient  sky 
Brings  on  her  parting  hour. 

When  earth  repays  with  golden  sheaves 
The  labours  of  the  plough. 

And  ripening  fruits  and  forest  leaves 
All  brighten  on  the  bough. 

What  pensive  beauty  autumn  shows. 

Before  she  hears  the  sound 
Of  winter  rushing  in,  to  close 
The  emblematic  round ! 

Such  be  our  Spring,  our  Summer  such; 

So  may  our  Autumn  blend 
With  hoary  Winter,  and  life  touch. 
Through  heaven-born  hope,  her  end  ! 

3B 


The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams 
That  wastes  so  off,  we  think,  its  tuneful  powers. 

It  neither  soothing  to  the  worm  that  gleams 
Through  dewy  grass,  nor  small  birds  hushed  in  bowers. 
Nor  unto  silent  leaves  and  drowsy  flowers, — 

That  voice  of  unpretending  harmony 

(For  who  what  is  shall  measure  by  what  seems 

To  be,  or  not  to  be. 

Or  tax  high  Heaven  with  prodigality?) 

Wants  not  a healing  influence  that  can  creep 
Into  the  human  breast,  and  mix  with  sleep 
To  regulate  the  motion  of  our  dreams 
For  kindly  issues  — as  through  every  clime 
Was  felt  near  murmuring  brooks  in  earliest  time. 

As  at  this  day,  the  rudest  swains  who  dwell 
Where  torrents  roar,  or  hear  the  tinkling  knell 
Of  water-breaks,  with  grateful  heart  could  tell. 


FIDELITY. 


A BARKING  sound  the  Shepherd  hears, 

A cry  as  of  a Dog  or  Fox ; 

He  halts  — and  searches  with  his  eyes 
Among  the  scattered  rocks : 

And  now  at  distance  can  discern 
A stirring  in  a brake  of  fern ; 

And  instantly  a dog  is  seen. 

Glancing  through  that  covert  green. 

The  dog  is  not  of  mountain  breed ; 

Its  motions,  too,  are  wild  and  shy ; 

With  something,  as  the  Shepherd  thinks. 
Unusual  in  its  cry  : 

Nor  is  there  any  one  in  sight 
All  round,  in  hollow  or  on  height; 

Nor  shout,  nor  whistle  strikes  his  ear; 

What  is  the  Creature  doing  here  ? 

It  was  a cove,  a huge  recess. 

That  keeps,  till  June,  December’s  snow  • 

A lofty  precipice  in  front, 

A silent  tarn*  below  I 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  Helvellyn, 

Remote  from  public  road  or  dwelling. 

Pathway,  or  cultivated  land; 

From  trace  of  human  foot  or  hand. 

There  sometimes  doth  a leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven’s  croak. 

In  symphony  austere; 

* Tarn  is  a mall  Mere  or  Lake,  mostly  high  up  in  the  mo'mtains. 
35 


410 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thither  the  rainbow  comes — the  cloud  — 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud ; 

And  sunbeams;  and  the  sounding  blast, 

That,  if  it  could,  would  hurry  past; 

But  that  enormous  barrier  binds  it  fast. 

Not  free  from  boding  thoughts,  a while 
The  Shepherd  stood : then  makes  his  way 
Towards  the  Dog,  o’er  rocks  and  stones. 

As  quickly  as  he  may  ; 

Nor  far  had  gone  before  he  found 
A human  skeleton  on  the  ground ; 

The  appalled  Discoverer  with  a sigh 
IBooks  round,  to  learn  the  history. 

From  those  abrupt  and  perilous  rocks 
The  Man  had  fallen,  that  place  of  fear! 

At  length  upon  the  Shepherd’s  mind 

It  breaks,  and  all  is  clear : 

lie  instantly  recalled  the  Name, 

And  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  came; 
Remembered,  too,  the  very  day 
On  which  the  Traveller  passed  this  way. 

But  hear  a wonder,  for  whose  sake 
This  lamentable  Tale  I tell ! 

A lasting  monument  of  words 
This  wonder  merits  well. 

The  Dog,  which  still  was  hovering  nigh. 
Repeating  the  same  timid  cry. 

This  Dog,  had  been  through  three  months’  space 
A dweller  in  that  savage  place. 

Yes,  proof  was  plain  that,  since  the  day 
When  this  ill-fated  Traveller  died. 

The  Dog  had  watched  about  the  spot. 

Or  by  his  Master’s  side  : 

How  nourished  here  through  such  long  time 
He  knows,  who  gave  that  love  sublime; 

And  gave  that  strength  of  feeling,  great 
Above  all  human  estimate. 


THE  GLEANER 

(SUGGESTED  BY  A PICTURE.) 

That  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes. 

Those  locks  from  summer’s  golden  skies. 

That  o’er  thy  brow  are  shed  ; 

That  cheek  — a kindling  of  the  morn. 

That  lip  — a rose-bud  from  the  thorn, 

I saw  ; — and  Fancy  sped 
To  scenes  Arcadian,  whispering,  through  soft  air, 
Of  bliss  that  grows  without  a care. 

Of  happiness  that  never  flies  — 

How  can  it  where  love  never  dies? 

Of  promise  whispering,  where  no  blight 
Can  reach  the  innocent  delight; 

Where  pity,  to  the  mind  conveyed 
In  pleasure,  is  the  darkest  shade 


That  Time,  unwrinkled  Grandsire,  flings 
From  his  smoothly-gliding  wings. 

What  mortal  form,  what  earthly  face. 

Inspired  the  pencil,  lines  to  trace. 

And  mingle  colours  that  should  breed 
Such  rapture,  nor  want  power  to  feed ; 

For  had  thy  charge  been  idle  flowers. 

Fair  Damsel,  o’er  my  captive  mind. 

To  truth  and  sober  reason  blind, 

’Mid  that  soft  air,  those  long-lost  bowers. 

The  sweet  illusion  might  have  hung,  for  hours. 

— Thanks  to  this  tell-tale  sheaf  of  corn. 

That  touchingly  bespeaks  thee  born 
Life’s  daily  tasks  with  them  to  share 
Who,  whether  from  their  lowly  bed 
They  rise,  or  rest  the  weary  head. 

Ponder  the  blessing  they  entreat 
From  Heaven,  and  feel  what  they  repeat. 
While  they  give  utterance  to  the  prayer 
That  asks  for  daily  bread. 


THE  LABOURER’S  NOON-DAY  HYMN. 

Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne 
The  voice  of  praise  at  early  morn. 

And  he  accepts  the  punctual  hymn 
Sung  as  the  light  of  day  grows  dim. 

Nor  will  he  turn  his  ear  aside 
From  holy  offerings  at  noontide : 

Then  here  reposing  let  us  raise 
A song  of  gratitude  and  praise. 

What  though  our  burthen  be  not  light 
We  need  not  toil  from  morn  to  night; 

The  respite  of  the  mid-day  hour 
Is  in  the  thankful  Creature’s  power. 

Blest  are  the  moments,  doubly  blest, 

Tliat,  drawn  from  this  one  hour  of  rest. 

Are  with  a ready  heart  bestowed 
Upon  the  service  of  our  God ! 

Why  should  we  crave  a hallowed  spot’ 

An  altar  is  in  each  man’s  cot, 

A Church  in  every  grove  that  spreads 
Its  living  roof  above  _our  heads. 

Look  up  to  Heaven ! the  industrious  Sun 
Already  half  his  race  hath  run ; 

He  cannot  halt  nor  go  astray. 

But  our  immortal  Spirits  may. 

Lord  I since  his  rising  in  the  East, 

If  we  have  faltered  or  transgressed. 

Guide,  from  thy  love’s  abundant  source. 

What  yet  remains  of  this  day’s  course : 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


411 


Help  with  thy  grace,  tlirough  life’s  short  day, 
Our  upward  and  our  downward  way ; 

And  glorify  for  us  the  west. 

When  we  shall  sink  to  final  rest. 


TO  THE  LADY , 

ON  SEEING  THE  FOUNDATION  PREPARING  FOR  THE 
ERECTION  OF CHAPEL,  WESTMORELAND. 

Blest  is  this  Lsle  — our  native  Land; 

Where  battlement  and  moated  gate 
Are  objects  only  for  the  hand 
Of  hoary  Time  to  decorate ; 

Where  shady  hamlet,  town  that  breathes 
Its  busy  smoke  in  social  wreaths. 

No  rampart’s  stern  defence  require. 

Nought  but  the  heaven-directed  Spire, 

And  steeple  Tower  (with  pealing  bells) 

Far  heard  — our  only  Citadels. 

O Lady ! from  a noble  line 
Of  Chieftains  sprung,  who  stoutly  bore 
The  spear,  yet  gave  to  works  divine 
A bounteous  help  in  days  of  yore, 

(As  records  mouldering  in  the  Dell 
Of  Nightshade*  haply  yet  may  tell) 

Thee  kindred  aspirations  moved 
To  build,  within  a Vale  beloved. 

For  Him  upon  whose  high  behests 
All  peace  depends,  all  safety  rests. 

How  fondly  will  the  woods  embrace 
This  Daughter  of  thy  pious  care. 

Lilting  her  front  with  modest  grace 
To  make  a fair  recess  more  fair; 

And  to  exalt  the  passing  hour; 

Or  soothe  it,  with  a healing  power 
Drawn  from  the  Sacrifice  fulfilled. 

Before  this  rugged  soil  was  tilled, 

Or  human  habitation  rose 
To  interrupt  the  deep  repose ! 

Well  may  the  Villagers  rejoice! 

Nor  heat,  nor  cold,  nor  weary  ways, 

Will  be  a hinderance  to  the  voice 
That  w'ould  unite  in  prayer  and  praise; 

More  duly  shall  wild  wandering  Youth 
Receive  the  curb  of  sacred  truth. 

Shall  tottering  Age,  bent  earthward,  hear 
The  Promise,  with  uplifted  ear ; 

And  all  shall  welcome  the  new  ray 
Imparted  to  their  Sabbath-day. 

* Bekangs  Ghyll  — or  the  Vale  of  Nightshade  — in  which 
stands  St.  Mary’s  Abbey,  in  Low  Furness. 


Nor  deem  the  Poet’s  hope  misplaced. 

His  fancy  cheated  — that  can  see 
A shade  upon  the  future  cast. 

Of  Time’s  pathetic  sanctity  ; 

Can  hear  the  monitory  clock 
Sound  o’er  the  lake  with  gentle  shock 
At  evening,  when  the  ground  beneath 
Is  ruffled  o’er  with  cells  of  Death  ; 

Where  happy  generations  lie. 

Here  tutored  for  Eternity. 

Lives  there  a Man  whose  sole  delights 
Are  trivial  pomp  and  city  noise. 

Hardening  a heart  that  loathes  or  slights 
What  every  natural  heart  enjoys? 

Who  never  caught  a noon-tide  dream 
From  murmur  of  a running  stream ; 

Could  strip,  for  aught  the  prospect  yields 
To  him,  their  verdure  from  the  fields; 

And  take  the  radiance  from  the  clouds 
In  which  the  sun  his  setting  shrouds. 

A Soul  so  pitiably  forlorn. 

If  such  do  on  this  earth  abide. 

May  season  apathy  with  scorn, 

IMay  turn  indifference  to  pride. 

And  still  be  not  unblest  — compared 
With  him  who  grovels,  self-debarred 
From  all  that  lies  within  the  scope 
Of  holy  faith  and  Christian  hope ; 

Yea,  strives  for  others  to  bedim 
The  glorious  Light  too  pure  for  him. 

Alas!  that  such  perverted  zeal 

Should  spread  on  Britain’s  favoured  ground ! 

That  public  order,  private  w'eal. 

Should  e’er  have  felt  or  feared  a wound 
From  champions  of  the  desperate  law 
Which  from  their  own  blind  hearts  they  draw 
Who  tempt  their  reason  to  deny 
God,  whom  their  passions  dare  defy. 

And  boast  that  they  alone  are  free 
Who  reach  this  dire  extremity ! 

But  turn  we  from  these  “ bold  bad”  men ; 
The  way,  mild  Lady ! that  hath  led 
Down  to  their  “dark  opprobrious  den,” 

Is  all  too  rough  for  Thee  to  tread. 

Softly  as  morning  vapours  glide 
Down  Rydal-cove  from  Fairfield’s  side. 
Should  move  the  tenour  of  his  song 
Who  means  to  Charity  no  wrong; 

Whose  offering  gladly  would  accord 
With  this  day’s  work,  in  thought  and  word 

Heaven  prosper  it!  may  peace,  and  love. 
And  hope,  and  consolation,  fall. 

Through  its  meek  influence,  from  above, 
And  penetrate  the  hearts  of  all ; 


412 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


All  who,  around  the  hallowed  Fane, 
Shall  sojourn  in  this  fair  domain ; 
Grateful  to  Thee,  while  service  pure. 
And  ancient  ordinance,  shall  endure, 

For  opportunity  bestowed 

To  kneel  together,  and  adore  their  God ! 


ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 


Oh  ! gather  whencesoe’er  ye  safely  may 
The  help  which  slackening  Piety  requires ; 
Nor  deem  that  he  perforce  must  go  astray 
VV'ho  treads  upon  the  footmarks  of  his  Sires. 


Our  Churches,  invariably  perhaps,  stand  east  and  west,  but 
why  is  by  few  persons  exactly  known;  nor,  that  the  degree  of 
deviation  from  due  east  often  noticeable  in  the  ancient  ones  was 
determined,  in  each  particular  case,  by  the  point  in  the  horizon, 
at  which  the  sun  rose  upon  the  day  of  the  saint  to  whom  the 
church  was  dedicated.  These  observances  of  our  Ancestors,  and 
the  causes  of  them,  are  the  subject  of  the  following  stanzas. 

When  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear 
And  feudal  rapine  clothed  with  iron  mail. 

Came  Ministers  of  peace,  intent  to  rear 
The  mother  Church  in  yon  sequestered  vale; 

Then,  to  her  Patron  Saint  a previous  rite 
Resounded  with  deep  swell  and  solemn  close. 

Through  unremitting  vigils  of  the  night. 

Till  from  his  couch  the  wished-for  Sun  uprose. 

lie  rose,  and  straight  — as  by  divine  command. 

They  who  had  waited  for  that  sign  to  trace. 

Their  work’s  foundation,  gave  with  careful  hand 
To  the  high  Altar  its  determined  place ; 

Mindful  of  Him  who  in  the  Orient  born 
There  lived,  and  on  the  cross  his  life  resigned. 

And  who,  from  out  the  regions  of  the  Morn, 

Issuing  in  pomp,  shall  come  to  judge  Mankind. 

So  taught  their  creed ; — nor  failed  the  eastern  sky, 

’Mid  these  more  awful  feelings,  to  infuse 

The  sweet  and  natural  hopes  that  shall  not  die. 

Long  as  the  Sun  his  gladsome  course  renews. 

For  us  hath  such  prelusive  vigil  ceased ; 

Yet  still  we  plant,  like  men  of  elder  days. 

Our  Christian  Altar  faithful  to  the  East, 

Whence  the  tall  window  drinks  the  morning  rays ; 

That  obvious  emblem  giving  to  the  eye 
Of  meek  devotion,  which  erewhilo  it  gave. 

That  symbol  of  the  dayspring  from  on  high. 
Triumphant  o’er  the  darkness  of  the  grave. 


THE  FORCE  OF  PRAYER*; 

OR, 

THE  FOUNDING  OF  BOLTON  PRIOUY 

A TRADITION. 

300b  for  a 6ootlee§  bene?” 

With  these  dark  W'ords  begins  my  Tale ; 

And  their  meaning  is,  whence  can  comfort  spring 
When  Prayer  is  of  no  avail ! 

2C'I;at  ^cob  for  a bootlee?  bene  ?” 

The  Falconer  to  the  Lady  said : 

And  she  made  answer  “ endless  sorrow  !” 

For  she  knew  that  her  Son  was  dead. 

She  knew  it  by  the  Falconer’s  words. 

And  from  the  look  of  the  Falconer’s  eye; 

And  from  the  love  which  was  in  her  soul 
For  her  youthful  Romilly, 

— Young  Romilly  through  Barden  woods 
Is  ranging  high  and  low; 

And  holds  a Greyhound  in  a leash. 

To  let  slip  upon  buck  or  doe. 

The  Pair  have  reached  that  fearful  chasm. 

IIow  tempting  to  bestride! 

For  Lordly  Wharf  is  there  pent  in 
With  rocks  on  either  side. 

This  Striding-place  is  called  The  Strid, 

A name  which  it  took  of  yore: 

A thousand  years  hath  it  borne  that  name» 

And  shall  a thousand  more. 

And  hither  is  young  Romilly  come. 

And  what  may  now  forbid 

That  he,  perhaps  for  the  hundredth  time. 

Shall  bound  across  The  Strid  1 

He  sprang  in  glee,  — for  what  cared  he 

That  the  River  was  strong,  and  the  rocks  were  steep ' 

— But  the  Greyhound  in  the  leash  hung  back. 

And  checked  him  in  his  leap. 

The  Boy  is  in  the  arms  of  Wharf, 

And  strangled  by  a merciless  force; 

For  never  more  was  young  Romilly  seen 
Till  he  rose  a lifeless  Corse. 

Now  there  is  stillne.ss  in  the  Vale, 

And  deep,  unspeaking  sorrow: 

Wharf  shall  be  to  pitying  hearts 
A name  more  sad  than  Yarrow. 

If  for  a Lover  the  Lady  wept, 

A solace  she  might  borrow 

From  death,  and  from  the  passion  of  death;  — 

Old  Wharf  might  heal  her  sorrow. 

♦See  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  p.  331. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


413 


She  weeps  not  for  the  wedding-day 
Which  was  to  be  to-morrow; 

Her  hope  was  a further-looking  hope, 

And  hers  is  a Motlier’s  sorrow. 

He  was  a Tree  that  stood  alone, 

And  proudly  did  its  branches  wave;. 

And  the  root  of  this  delightful  Tree 
Was  in  her  Husband’s  grave ! 

Long,  long  in  darkness  did  she  sit. 

And  her  first  words  were,  “ Let  there  be 
In  Bolton,  on  the  field  of  Wharf,. 

A stately  Priory !” 

The  stately  Priory  was  reared; 

And  Wharf,  as  he  moved  along. 

To  Matins  joined  a mournful  voice. 

Nor  failed  at  Even-song. 

And  the  Lady  prayed  in  heaviness 
That  looked  not  for  relief! 

But  slowly  did  her  succour  come, 

And  a patience  to  her  grief. 

Oh ! there  is  never  sorrow  of  heart 
That  shall  lack  a timely  end. 

If  but  to  God  we  turn,  and  ask 
Of  Him  to  be  our  Friend. 


A FACT,  AND  AN  IMAGINATION; 

OR, 

CANUTE  AND  ALFRED  ON  THE  SEA-SHORE. 
The  Danish  Conqueror  on  his  royal  chair. 

Mustering  a face  of  haughty  sovereignty. 

To  aid  a covert  purpose,  cried  — “O  ye 
Approaching  waters  of  the  deep,  that  share 
With  this  green  isle  my  fortunes,  come  not  where 
Your  Master’s  throne  is  set !”  — Absurd  decree  1 
A mandate  uttered  to  the  foaming  sea. 

Is  to  its  motion  less  than  wanton  air. 

— Then  Canute,  rising  from  the  invaded  Throne, 

Said  to  his  servile  Courtiers,  “ Poor  the  reach. 

The  undisguised  extent,  of  mortal  sway  ! 

He  only  is  a king,  and  he  alone 

Deserves  the  name  (this  truth  the  billows  preach) 

Whose  everlasting  laws,  sea,  earth,  and  heaven  obey.” 

This  just  reproof  the  prosperous  Dane 

Drew,  from  the  influx  of  the  Main, 

For  some  w'hose  rugged  northern  mouths  would  strain 
At  oriental  flattery ; 

And  Canute  (truth  more  worthy  to  be  known) 

From  that  time  forth  did  for  his  brows  disown 
The  ostentatious  symbol  of  a Crown ; 

Esteeming  earthly  royalty 
Contemptible  and  vain. 

Now  hear  what  one  of  elder  days. 

Rich  theme  of  England’s  fondest  praise. 


Her  darling  Alfred,  might  have  spoken; 

To  cheer  the  remnant  of  his  host 
When  he  was  driven  from  coast  to  coast. 
Distressed  and  harassed,  but  with  mind  unbroken: 
“ My  faithful  Followers,  lo  I the  tide  is  spent ; 
That  rose,  and  steadily  advanced  to  fill 
The  shores  and  channels,  working  Nature’s  will 
Among  the  mazy  streams  that  backward  went. 

And  in  the  sluggish  pools  where  ships  are  pent: 
And  now,  its  ta.sk  performed,  the  Flood  stands  still 
At  the  green  base  of  many  an  inland  hill. 

In  placid  beauty  and  sublime  content! 

Such  the  repose  that  Sage  and  Hero  find  ; 

Such  measured  rest  the  sedulous  and  good 
Of  humbler  name ; whose  souls  do,  like  the  flood 
Of  Ocean,  press  right  on  ; or  gently  wind,. 

Neither  to  be  diverted  nor  withstood. 

Until  they  reach  the  bounds  by  Heaven  assigned.” 


“A  little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a little  further  on 

— What  trick  of  memory  to  my  voice  hath  brought 
This  mournful  iteration  1 For  though  Time, 

The  Conqueror,  crowns  the  Conquered,  ou  this  brow 
Planting  his  favourite  silver  diadem. 

Nor  he,  nor  minister  of  his — intent 
To  run  before  him,  hath  enrolled  me  yet. 

Though  not  unmenaced,  among  those  who  lean 
Upon  a living  staff,  with  borrowed  sight. 

— O my  Antigone,  beloved  child  ! 

Should  that  day  come — but  hark  ! the  birds  salute 
The  cheerful  dawn,  brightening  for  me  the  east; 

For  me,  thy  natural  Leader,  once  again 
Impatient  to  conduct  thee,  not  as  erst 
A tottering  Infant,  with  compliant  stoop 
From  flower  to  flower  supported ; but  to  curb 
Thy  nymph-like  step  swift-bounding  o’er  the  lawn. 
Along  the  loose  rocks,  or  the  slippery  verge 
Of  foaming  torrent.  — From  thy  orisons 
Come  forth ; and,  while  the  morning  air  is  yet 
Transparent  as  the  soul  of  innocent  youth. 

Let  me,  thy  happy  Guide,  now  point  thy  way. 

And  now  precede  thee,  winding  to  and  fro. 

Till  we  by  perseverance  gain  the  top 
Of  some  smooth  ridge,  whose  brink  precipitous 
Kindles  intense  desire  for  powers  withheld 
From  this  corporeal  frame  ; whereon  who  stands, 

Is  seized  with  strong  incitement  to  push  forth 
His  arms,  as  swimmers  use,  and  plunge  — dread 
thought ! 

For  pastime  plunge  — into  the  “abrupt  abyss,” 
Where  Ravens  spread  their  plumy  vans,  at  ease ! 


And  yet  more  gladly  thee  would  1 conduct 
Through  woods  and  spacious  forests,  — to  behold 
There,  how  the  Original  of  human  art. 
Heaven-prompted  Nature  measures  and  erects 
35# 


414 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Her  temples,  fearless  for  the  stately  work, 

Though  waves  m every  breeze  its  high-arched  roof, 
And  storms  the  pillars  rock.  But  we  such  schools 
Of  reverential  awe  will  chiefly  seek 
In  the  still  summer  noon,  while  beams  of  light, 
Reposing  here,  and  in  the  aisles  beyond 
Traceably  gliding  through  the  dusk,  recall 
To  mind  the  living  presences  of  Nuns  ; 

A gentle,  pensive,  white-robed  sisterhood. 

Whose  saintly  radiance  mitigates  the  gloom 
Of  those  terrestrial  fabrics,  where  they  serve. 

To  Christ,  the  Sun  of  Righteousness,  espoused. 

Now  also  shall  the  page  of  classic  lore. 

To  these  glad  eyes  from  bondage  freed,  again 
Lie  open ; and  the  book  of  Holy  Writ, 

Again  unfolded,  passage  clear  shall  yield 
To  heights  more  glorious  still,  and  into  shades 
More  awful,  where,  advancing  hand  in  hand. 

We  may  be  taught,  O Darling  of  my  care  ! 

To  calm  the  affections,  elevate  the  soul, 

And  consecrate  our  lives  to  truth  and  love. 


SEPTEMBER,  1819. 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields 
Are  hung,  as  if  with  golden  shields. 
Bright  trophies  of  the  sun ! 

Like  a fair  sister  of  the  sky. 

Unruffled  doth  the  blue  Lake  lie. 

The  Mountains  looking  on. 

And,  sooth  to  say,  yon  vocal  Grove, 
Albeit  uninspired  by  love. 

By  love  untaught  to  ring, 

IMay  well  afford  to  mortal  ear 
An  impulse  more  profoundly  dear 
Than  music  of  the  Spring. 

For  that  from  turbulence  and  heat 
Proceeds,  from  some  uneasy  seat 
In  Nature’s  struggling  frame. 

Some  region  of  impatient  life ; 

And  jealousy,  and  quivering  strife, 
Therein  a portion  claim. 

Thi.s,  this  is  holy;  — while  I hear 
These  vespers  of  another  year. 

This  hymn  of  thanks  and  praise, 

IMy  spirit  seems  to  mount  above 
Tlie  anxieties  of  human  love. 

And  eartli’s  precarious  days. 

But  list  I — though  winter  storms  be  nigh, 
Unchecked  is  that  soft  harmony: 

There  lives  Who  can  provide 
For  all  his  creatures;  and  in  Him, 

Even  like  the  radiant  Seraphim, 

These  Choristers  confide. 


UPON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

Departing  Summer  hath  assumed 
An  aspect  tenderly  illumed. 

The  gentlest  look  of  Spring ; 

That  calls  from  yonder  leafy  shade 
Unfaded,  yet  prepared  to  fade, 

A timely  carolling. 

No  faint  and  hesitating  trill. 

Such  tribute  as  to  Winter  chill 
The  lonely  Redbreast  pays 
Clear,  loud,  and  lively  is  the  din. 

From  social  warblers  gathering  in 
Their  harvest  of  sweet  lays. 

Nor  doth  the  example  fail  to  cheer 
Me,  conscious  that  my  leaf  is  sere. 

And  yellow  on  the  bough:  — 

Fall,  rosy  garlands,  from  my  head ! 

Ye  myrtle  wreaths,  your  fragrance  shed 
Around  a younger  brow ! 

Yet  will  I temperately  rejoice; 

Wide  is  the  range,  and  free  the  choice 
Of  undiscordant  themes; 

Which,  haply,  kindred  souls  may  prize 
Not  less  than  vernal  ecstasies. 

And  passion’s  feverish  dreams. 

For  deathless  powers  to  verse  belong. 

And  they  like  Demi-gods  are  strong 
On  whom  the  muses  smile ; 

But  some  their  function  have  disclaimed. 
Best  pleased  with  what  is  aptliest  framed 
To  enervate  and  defile. 

Not  such  the  initiatory  strains 

Committed  to  the  silent  plains 

In  Britain’s  earliest  dawn 

Trembled  the  groves,  the  stars  grew  pale. 

While  all-too-daringly  the  veil 

Of  Nature  was  withdrawn  ! 

Nor  such  the  spirit-stirring  note 
When  the  live  chords  Alcaeus  smote, 
Inflamed  by  sense  of  wrong; 

Woe ! woe  to  Tyrants ! from  the  lyre 
Broke  threateningly,  in  sparkles  dire 
Of  fierce  vindictive  song. 

And  not  unhallowed  was  the  page 
By  winged  Love  inscribed,  to  assuage 
The  pangs  of  vain  pursuit ; 

Love  listening  while  the  Lesbian  Maid 
With  finest  touch  of  passion  swayed 
Her  own  jEolian  lute. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


415 


O ye,  who  patiently  explore 
The  wreck  of  Ilerculanean  lore, 
What  rapture ! could  ye  seize 
Some  Theban  fragment,  or  unroll 
One  precious,  tender-hearted  scroll 
Of  pure  Simonides. 

That  were,  indeed,  a genuine  birth 
Of  poesy ; a bursting  forth 
Of  Genius  from  the  dust: 

What  Horace  gloried  to  behold. 
What  Maro  loved,  shall  we  enfold? 
C‘>n  haughty  Time  be  just! 


THE  WISHING-GATE  DESTROYED.* 

’T  IS  gone  — with  old  belief  and  dream 
That  round  it  clung,  and  tempting  scheme 
Released  from  fear  and  doubt; 

And  the  bright  landscape  too  must  lie, 

By  this  blank  wall  from  every  eye 
Relentlessly  shut  out. 

Bear  witness  ye  who  seldom  passed 
That  opening  — but  a look  ye  cast 
Upon  the  lake  below. 

What  spirit-stirring  power  it  gained 
From  faith  which  here  was  entertained, 
Though  reason  might  say  no. 

Blest  is  that  ground,  where,  o’er  the  springs 
Of  history.  Glory  claps  her  wings. 

Fame  sheds  the  exulting  tear; 

Yet  earth  is  wide,  and  many  a nook 
Unheard  of  is,  like  this,  a book 
For  modest  meanings  dear. 

It  was  in  sooth  a happy  thought 
That  grafted,  on  so  fair  a spot. 

So  confident  a token 
Of  coming  good;  — the  charm  is, fled; 
Indulgent  centuries  spun  a thread. 

Which  one  harsh  day  has  broken. 

Alas!  for  him  who  gave  the  word; 

Could  he  no  sympathy  afford. 

Derived  from  earth  or  heaven, 

To  hearts  so  oft  by  hope  betrayed ; 

Their  very  wishes  wanted  aid 

Which  here  was  freely  given  1 

Where,  for  the  love-lorn  maiden’s  wound, 

Will  now  so  readily  be  found 
A balm  of  expectation  I 
Anxious  for  far-off  children,  where 
Shall  mothers  breathe  a like  sweet  air 
Of  home-felt  consolation? 

* See  ante,  p.  399. 

Having  been  told,  upon  what  I thought  good  authority, 
that  this  gate  had  been  destroyed,  and  the  opening,  where 
it  hung,  walled  up,  I gave  vent  immediately  to  my  feelings 
in  these  stanzas.  But  going  to  the  place  some  time  after,  I 
found,  with  much  delight,  my  old  favourite  unmolested. 


And  not  imfelt  will  prove  the  loss 
’Mid  trivial  care  and  petty  cross 
And  each  day’s  shallow  grief ; 

Though  the  most  easily  beguiled 
Were  oft  among  the  first  that  smiled 
At  their  own  fond  belief. 

If  still  the  reckless  change  we  mourn, 

A reconciling  thought  may  turn 
To  harm  that  might  lurk  here. 

Ere  judgment  prompted  from  within 
Fit  aims,  with  courage  to  begin. 

And  strength  to  persevere. 

Not  Fortune’s  slave  is  man:  our  state 
Enjoins,  while  firm  resolves  await 
On  wishes  just  and  wise. 

That  strenuous  action  follow  both, 

And  life  be  one  perpetual  growth 
Of  heaven-ward  enterprise. 

So  taught,  so  trained,  we  boldly  face 
All  accidents  of  time  and  place; 

Whatever  props  may  fail, 

Trust  in  that  sovereign  law  can  spread 
New  glory  o’er  the  mountain’s  head. 

Fresh  beauty  through  the  vale. 

That  truth  informing  mind  and  heart, 

The  simplest  cottager  may  part. 

Ungrieved  with  charm  and  spell ; 

And  yet,  lost  Wishing-gate,  to  thee 
The  voice  of  grateful  memory 
Shall  bid  a kind  farewell! 

DION.* 

(SEE  PLtJT.'VRCH.) 

1. 

Fair  is  the  Swan,  whose  majesty,  prevailing 
O’er  breezeless  water,  on  Locarno’s  lake. 

Bears  him  on  while  proudly  sailing^ 

He  leaves  behind  a moon-illumined  wake: 

Behold  ! the  mantling  spirit  of  reserve 
Fashions  his  neck  into  a goodly  curve  ; 

An  arch  thrown  back  between  luxuriant  wings 
Of  whitest  garniture,  like  fir-tree  boughs 
To  which,  on  some  unruffled  morning,  clings 
A flaky  weight  of  winter’s  purest  snows ! 

— Behold  ! — as  with  a gushing  impulse  heaves 
That  downy  prow,  and  softly  cleaves 
The,  mirror  of  the  crystal  flood. 

Vanish  inverted  hill,  and  shadowy  wood, 

[*  In  the  later  editions,  the  opening  stanza  (down  to  the 
20th  line)  has  been  removed  to  the  notes,  with  the  follow- 
ing explanation  from  the  author : — “ This  poem  began  with 
the  following  stanza  which  has  been  displaced  on  account 
of  its  detaining  the  reader  too  long  from  the  subject,  and 
as  rather  precluding,  than  preparing  for,  the  due  effect  of 
the  allusion  to  the  genius  of  Plato.”  It  is  a remarkable 
instance  of  the  comparative  sacrifice  of  a passage  of  great 
beauty  to  the  Poet’s  dutiful  regard  for  the  principles  of  his 
Art.  — H.  R.] 


416 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  pendent  rocks,  where’er,  in  gliding  state. 

Winds  the  mute  Creature  without  visible  Mate 
Or  Rival,  save  the  Queen  of  Night 
Showering  down  a silver  light. 

From  heaven,  upon  her  chosen  favourite ! 

2. 

So  pure,  so  bright,  so  fitted  to  embrace, 

Where’er  he  turned,  a natural  grace 
Of  haughtiness  without  pretence. 

And  to  unfold  a still  magnificence, 

Was  princely  Dion,  in  the  power 
And  beauty  of  his  happier  hour. 

Nor  less  the  homage  that  was  seen  to  wait 
On  Dion’s  virtues,  when  the  lunar  beam 
Of  Plato’s  genius,  from  its  lofty  sphere. 

Fell  round  him  in  the  grove  of  Academe, 

Softening  their  inbred  dignity  austere; 

That  he,  not  too  elate 
With  self-sufficing  solitude. 

But  with  majestic  lowliness  endued. 

Might  in  the  universal  bosom  reign. 

And  from  affectionate  observance  gain 
Help,  under  every  change  of  adverse  fate. 

3. 

Five  thousand  warriors  — O the  rapturous  day ! 
Each  crowned  with  flowers,  and  armed  with  spear  and 
shield. 

Or  ruder  weapon  which  their  course  might  yield. 

To  Syracuse  advance  in  bright  array. 

Who  leads  them  on  1 — The  anxious  People  see 
Long-exiled  Dion  marching  at  their  head. 

He  also  crowned  with  flowers  of  Sicily, 

And  in  a white,  far-beaming,  corslet  clad ! 

Pure  transport  undisturbed  by  doubt  or  fear 
The  Gazers  feel ; and,  rushing  to  the  plain. 

Salute  those  Strangers  as  a holy  train 
Or  blest  procession  (to  the  Immortals  dear) 

That  brought  their  precious  liberty  again. 

Lo  ! when  the  gates  are  entered,  on  each  hand, 

Down  the  long  street,  rich  goblets  filled  with  wine 
In  seemly  order  stand. 

On  tables  set,  as  if  for  rites  divine ; — 

And,  as  the  great  Deliverer  marches  by. 

He  looks  on  festal  ground  with  fruits  bestrown; 

And  flowers  are  on  his  person  thrown 
In  boundless  prodigality; 

Nor  doth  the  general  voice  abstain  from  prayer. 
Invoking  Dion’s  tutelary  care. 

As  if  a very  Deity  he  were ! 


Mourn,  hills  and  groves  of  Attica ! and  mourn 
Illyssus,  bending  o’er  thy  classic  urn ! 

Mourn,  and  lament  for  him  whose  spirit  dreads 


Your  once  sweet  memor}',  studious  walks  and  shades; 
For  him  who  to  divinity  aspired. 

Not  on  the  breath  of  popular  applause. 

But  through  dependence  on  the  sacred  laws 
Framed  in  the  schools  where  Wisdom  dwelt  retired. 
Intent  to  trace  the  ideal  path  of  riglit 
(More  fair  than  heaven’s  broad  causeway  paved  w’ith 
stars) 

Which  Dion  learned  to  measure  with  delight ; 

But  he  hath  overleaped  the  eternal  bars ; 

And,  following  guides  w’hose  craft  holds  no  consent 
With  aught  that  breathes  the  ethereal  element. 

Hath  stained  the  robes  of  civil  power  with  blood. 
Unjustly  shed,  though  for  the  public  good. 

Whence  doubts  that  came  too  late,  and  wishes  vain. 
Hollow  excuses,  and  triumpliant  pain  ; 

And  off  his  cogitations  sink  as  tow 

As,  through  the  abysses  of  a joyless  heart. 

The  heaviest  plummet  of  despair  can  go ; 

But  whence  that  sudden  check  1 that  fearful  start ! 

He  hears  an  uncouth  sound  — 

Anon  his  lifted  eyes 

Saw  at  a long-drawn  gallery^s  dusky  bound, 

A Shape  of  more  than  mortal  size 

And  hideous  aspect,  stalking  round  and  round  ! 

A woman’s  garb  the  Phantom  wore. 

And  fiercely  swept  the  marble  floor, — 

Like  Auster  whirling  lo  and  fro. 

His  force  on  Caspian  foam  to  try ; 

Or  Boreas  when  he  scours  the  snow 
That  skins  the  plains  of  Thessaly, 

Or  when  aloft  on  Mrenalus  he  stops 
His  flight,  ’mid  eddying  pine-tree  tops! 

5. 

So,  but  from  toil  less  sign  of  profit  reaping. 

The  sullen  Spectre  to  her  purpose  bowed. 

Sweeping  — vehemently  sweeping  — 

No  pause  admitted,  no  design  avowed  L 
“Avaunt,  inexplicable  Guest!  — avaunt,” 

Exclaimed  the  Chieftain  — “ Let  me  rather  see 
The  coronal  that  coiling  vipers  make ; 

The  torch  that  flames  with  many  a lurid  flake. 

And  the  long  train  of  doleful  pageantry 
Which  they  behold,  whom  vengeful  Furies  haunt ; 
Who,  while  they  struggle  from  the  scourge  to  flee. 
Move  where  the  blasted  soil  is  not  unworn. 

And,  in  their  anguish,  bear  what  other  minds  have 
borne !” 

6. 

But  Shapes  that  come  not  at  an  earthly  call. 

Will  not  depart  when  mortal  voices  bid 

Lords  of  the  visionary  Eye,  whose  lid 

Once  raised,  remains  aghast,  and  will  not  fall ! 

Ye  Gods,  thought  He,  that  servile  Implement 
Obeys  a mystical  intent! 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


417 


Vour  Minister  would  brush  away 
The  spots  that  to  my  soul  adhere  ; 

But  should  she  labour  night  and  day, 

They  will  not,  cannot  disappear; 

Wlience  angry  perturbations, — and  that  look 
Which  no  Philosophy  can  broolr ! 

7. 

Ill-fated  Chief!  there  are  whose  hopes  are  built 
Upon  the  ruins  of  thy  glorious  name  ; 

Who,  through  the  portal  of  one  moment’s  guilt. 
Pursue  thee  with  their  deadly  aim  ! 

O matchless  perfidy  ! portentous  lust 
Of  monstrous  crime  I — that  horror-striking  blade. 
Drawn  in  defiance  of  the  Gods,  hath  laid 
The  noble  Syracusan  low  in  dust! 

Shudder’d  the  walls  — the  marble  city  w’ept  — 
And  sylvan  places  heaved  a pensive  sigh  ; 

But  in  calm  peace  the  appointed  Victim  slept. 

As  he  had  fallen,  in  magnanimity  : 

Of  spirit  too  capacious  to  require 

That  Destiny  her  course  should  change ; too  just 

To  his  own  native  greatness  to  desire 

That  wretched  boon,  days  lengthened  by  mistrust. 

So  W’ere  the  hopeless  troubles,  that  involved 

The  soul  of  Dion,  instantly  dissolved. 

Released  from  life  and  cares  of  princely  state. 

He  left  this  moral  grafted  on  his  Fate, 

“ Him  only  pleasure  leads,  and  peace  attends 
Him,  only  him,  the  shield  of  Jove  defends. 

Whose  means  are  fair  and  spotless  as  his  ends.” 


PRESENTIMENTS. 

Presentiments!  they  judge  not  right 
Who  deem  that  ye  from  open  light 
Retire  in  fear  of  shame  ; 

All  heaven-horn  Instincts  shun  the  touch 
Of  vulgar  sense,  and,  being  such. 

Such  privilege  ye  claim. 

The  tear  whose  source  I could  not  guess, 
The  deep  sigh  that  seemed  fatherless, 
Were  mine  in  early  days ; 

And  now,  unforced  by  Time  to  part 
With  Fancy,  I obey  my  heart, 

And  venture  on  your  praise. 

What  though  some  busy  Foes  to  good, 

Too  potent  over  nerve  and  blood. 

Lurk  near  you,  and  combine 
To  taint  the  health  which  ye  infuse. 

This  hides  not  from  the  moral  Muse 
Your  origin  divine. 

3C 


How  oft  from  you,  derided  Powers  ! 

Comes  Faitli  that  in  auspicious  hours 
Builds  castles,  not  of  air  ; 

Bodings  unsanctionod  by  the  will 
Flow  from  your  visionary  skill. 

And  teach  us  to  beware. 

The  bosom-weight,  your  stubborn  gift. 

That  no  philosophy  can  lift. 

Shall  vanish,  if  ye  please. 

Like  morning  mist;  and,  where  it  lay. 

The  spirits  at  your  bidding  play 
In  gaiety  and  ease. 

Star-guided  Contemplations  move 
Through  space,  though  calm,  not  raised  above 
Prognostics  that  ye  rule  ; 

The  naked  Indian  of  the  Wild, 

And  haply,  too,  the  cradled  Child, 

Are  pupils  of  your  school. 

But  who  can  fathom  your  intents. 

Number  their  signs  or  instruments! 

A rainbow,  a sunbeam, 

A subtle  smell  that  Spring  unbinds. 

Dead  pause  abrupt  of  midnight  winds. 

An  echo,  or  a dream. 

The  laughter  of  the  Christmas  hearth 
With  sighs  of  self-exhausted  mirth 
Ye  feelingly  reprove  ; 

And  daily,  in  the  conscious  breast. 

Your  visitations  are  a test 
And  exercise  of  love. 

When  some  great  change  gives  boundless  scope 
To  an  exulting  Nation’s  hope. 

Oft,  startled  and  made  wise 
By  your  low-breathed  interpretings. 

The  simply-meek  foretaste  the  springs 
Of  bitter  contraries. 

Ye  daunt  the  proud  array  of  War, 

Pervade  the  lonely  Ocean  far 
As  sail  hath  been  unfurled ; 

For  Dancers  in  the  festive  hall 
What  ghastly  Partners  hath  your  call 
Fetched  from  the  shadowy  w'orld  ! 

’T  is  said,  that  warnings  ye  dispense. 
Emboldened  by  a keener  sense  ; 

That  men  have  lived  for  whom. 

With  dread  precision,  ye  made  clear 
The  hour  that  in  a distant  year 
Should  knell  them  to  the  tomb. 


418 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Unwelcome  Insight!  Yet  there  are 
Blest  times  when  mystery  is  laid  hare, 

Truth  shows  a glorious  face, 

While  on  that  Isthmus  wliich  commands 
The  councils  of  both  worlds  she  stands. 

Sage  Spirits ! by  your  grace. 

God,  who  instructs  the  Brutes  to  scent 
All  changes  of  the  element, 

Whose  wisdom  fixed  the  scale 
Of  Natures,  for  our  wants  provides 
By  higher,  sometimes  humbler,  guides, 

When  lights  of  Reason  fail. 

LINES 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  THE  COUNTESS  OF . 

NOVEMBER  5,  1834. 

Lady!  a Pen,  perhaps,  with  thy  regard. 

Among  the  Favoured,  favoured  not  the  least. 

Left,  ’mid  the  Records  of  this  Book  inscribed. 
Deliberate  traces,  registers  of  thought 
And  feeling,  suited  to  the  place  and  time 
That  gave  them  birth : — months  passed,  and  still 
this  hand. 

That  had  not  been  too  timid  to  imprint 
Words  which  the  virtues  of  thy  Lord  inspired. 

Was  yet  not  bold  enough  to  write  of  Thee. 

And  why  that  scrupulous  reserve  1 In  sooth 
The  blameless  cause  lay  in  the  Theme  itself. 

Flowers  are  there  many  that  delight  to  strive 
With  the  sharp  wind,  and  seem  to  court  the  shower. 
Yet  are  by  nature  careless  of  the  sun 
Whether  he  shine  on  them  or  not ; and  some. 
Where’er  he  moves  along  the  unclouded  sky, 

Turn  a broad  front  full  on  his  flattering  beams : 

Others  do  rather  from  their  notice  shrink. 

Loving  the  dewy  shade,  — a humble  Band, 

Modest  and  sweet,  a Progeny  of  earth. 

Congenial  with  thy  mind  and  character. 

High-born  Augusta! 

Towers,  and  stately  Groves, 

Bear  witness  for  me  ; thou,  too.  Mountain-stream  ! 
From  thy  most  secret  haunts ; and  ye  Parterres, 
Which  she  is  pleased  and  proud  to  call  her  own ; 
Witness  how  oft  upon  my  noble  Friend 
Mute  offerings,  tribute  from  an  inward  sense 
Of  admiration  and  respectful  love. 

Have  waited,  till  the  affections  could  no  more 
Endure  that  silence,  and  broke  out  in  song; 

Snatches  of  music  taken  up  and  dropt 
Like  those  self-solacing,  those  under-notes 
Trilled  by  the  redbreast,  when  autumnal  leaves 


Are  thin  upon  the  bough.  Mine,  only  mine, 

The  pleasure  was,  and  no  one  heard  the  praise, 
Checked,  in  the  moment  of  its  issue  checked ; 

And  reprehended  by  a fancied  blush 
From  the  pure  qualities  that  called  it  forth. 

Thus  Virtue  lives  debarred  from  Virtue’s  meed, 
Thus,  Lady,  is  retiredness  a veil 
That,  while  it  only  spreads  a softening  charm 
O’er  features  looked  at  by  discerning  eyes. 

Hides  half  their  beauty  from  tlie  common  gaze, 

And  thus,  even  on  the  exposed  and  breezy  hill 
Of  lofty  station,  female  goodness  walks. 

When  side  by  side  with  lunar  gentleness. 

As  in  a cloister.  Yet  the  grateful  Poor  * 

(Such  the  immunities  of  low  estate. 

Plain  Nature’s  enviable  privilege. 

Her  sacred  recompense  for  many  wants) 

Open  their  hearts  before  Thee,  pouring  out 
All  that  they  think  and  feel,  with  tears  of  joy  ; 

And  benedictions  not  unheard  in  Heaven : 

And  friend  in  the  ear  of  friend,  where  speech  is  free 
To  follow  truth,  is  eloquent  as  they. 

Then  let  the  Book  receive  in  these  prompt  lines 
A just  memorial ; and  thine  eyes  consent 
To  read  that  they,  who  mark  thy  course,  behold 
A life  declining  with  the  golden  light 
Of  summer,  in  the  season  of  sere  leaves  ; 

See  cheerfulness  undamped  by  stealing  Time ; 

See  studied  kindness  flow  with  easy  stream. 
Illustrated  with  inborn  courtesy  ; 

And  an  habitual  disregard  of  self 
Balanced  by  vigilance  for  others’  weal. 

And  shall  the  verse  not  tell  of  lighter  gifts 
With  these  ennobling  attributes  conjoined 
And  blended,  in  peculiar  harmony. 

By  Youth’s  surviving  spirit"!  What  agile  grace  ! 

A nyrnph-like  liberty,  in  nymph-like  form, 

Belield  with  wonder;  whether  floor  or  path 
Thou  tread,  or  on  the  managed  steed  art  borne. 

Fleet  as  the  shadows,  over  down  or  field. 

Driven  by  strong  winds  at  play  among  the  clouds 

Yrt  one  word  more  — one  farewell  word — a wish 
Which  came,  but  it  has  passed  into  a prayer. 

That,  as  thy  sun  in  brightness  is  declining. 

So,  at  an  hour  yet  distant  for  their  sakes 
Whose  tender  love,  here  faltering  on  the  way 
Of  a diviner  love,  will  be  forgiven,  — 

So  may  it  set  in  peace,  to  rise  again 
For  everlasting  glory  won  by  faith. 


rOEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  UEFLECTION. 


419 


POOR  ROBIN.* 

Now  when  the  primrose  makes  a splendid  show, 

And  lilies  face  the  March  winds  in  full  blow', 

And  humbler  grow  ths  as  moved  with  one  desire 
Put  on  to  welcome  spring  their  best  attire, 

Poor  Robin  is  yet  tiowerless  ; but  how  gay 
With  his  red  stalks  upon  this  sunny  day ! 

And,  as  his  tufts  of  leaves  he  spreads,  content 
With  a hard  bed  and  scanty  nourishment, 

Mixed  with  the  green,  some  shine  not  lacking  power 
To  rival  summer’s  brightest  scarlet  flower; 

And  flowers  they  well  might  seem  to  passers-by 
If  looked  at  only  with  a careless  eye  ; 

Flowers  — or  a richer  produce  (did  it  suit 
The  season)  sprinklings  of  ripe  strawberry  fruit. 

But  while  a thousand  pleasures  come  unsought, 

Why  fix  upon  his  wealth  or  want  a thought'! 

Is  the  string  touched  in  prelude  to  a lay 
Of  pretty  fancies  that  would  round  him  play 
When  all  the  world  acknowledged  elfin  sway! 

Or  does  it  suit  our  humour  to  commend 
Poor  Robin  as  a sure  and  crafty  friend. 

Whose  practice  teaches,  spite  of  names  to  show 
Bright  colours  whether  they  deceive  or  no!  — 

Nay,  we  would  simply  praise  the  free  good-will 
With  which,  though  slighted,  he,  on  naked  hill 
Or  in  warm  valley,  seeks  his  part  to  fill ; 

Cheerful  alike  if  bare  of  flowers  as  now, 

Or  when  his  tiny  gems  shall  deck  his  brow: 

Yet  more,  we  wish  that  men  by  men  despised, 

And  such  as  lift  their  foreheads  overprized, 

Should  sometimes  think,  where’er  they  chance  to  spy 
Phis  child  of  Nature’s  own  humility. 

What  recompense  is  kept  in  store  or  left 
For  all  that  seem  neglected  or  bereft: 

With  what  nice  care  equivalents  are  given, 

How  just,  how  bountiful,  the  hand  of  Heaven. 

. March,  18-10. 


TO  A REDBREAST  — (IN  SICKNESS). 

Stay,  little  cheerful  Robin  ! stay. 

And  at  my  casement  sing. 

Though  it  should  prove  a farewell  lay 
And  this  our  parting  spring. 

Though  I,  alas!  may  ne’er  enjoy 
The  promise  in  thy  song; 

A charm,  lhal  thought  can  not  destroy, 
Doth  to  thy  strain  belong. 

Methinks  that  in  my  dying  hour 
Thy  song  would  still  be  dear. 

And  with  a more  than  earthly  power 
My  passing  spirit  cheer. 

* The  small  wild  Geranium  known  by  that  name. 


Then,  little  Bird,  this  boon  confer. 
Come,  and  my  requiem  sing. 
Nor  fail  to  be  the  harbinger 
Of  everlasting  spring.  — S-  H. 


FLOATING  ISLAND.* 

Tlifse  lines  are  by  llie  Aiitlior  of  the  Address  to  the  Wind,  &,c  , 
published  heretofore  along  with  iny  I’oenis.  The  above  to  a Ked* 
breast  arc  by  a deceased  female  relative. 

IIaumonious  Powers  with  Natttre  work 
On  sky,  earth,  river,  lake  and  sea; 

Sunshine  and  cloud,  whirlwind  and  breeze, 

! All  in  one  duteous  task  agree. 

Once  did  I see  a slip  of  earth 

(By  throbbing  waves  long  undermined) 

Loosed  from  its  hold ; how,  no  one  knew. 

But  all  might  see  it  float,  obedient  to  the  wind ; 

I 

Might  see  it,  from  the  mossy  shore 
Dissevered,  float  upon  the  Lake, 

Float  with  its  crest  of  trees  adorned 

On  which  the  warbling  birds  their  pastime  take. 

Food,  shelter,  safety,  there  they  find ; 

There  berries  ripen,  flowerets  bloom ; 

There  insects  live  their  lives,  and  die; 

A peopled  world  it  is;  in  size  a tiny  room. 

And  thus  through  many  seasons’  space 
This  little  Island  may  survive; 

But  Nature,  though  we  mark  her  not, 

Will  take  away,  may  cease  to  give. 

Perchance  when  you  are  wandering  forth 
Upon  some  vacant  sunny  day. 

Without  an  object,  hope,  or  fear. 

Thither  your  eyes  may  turn— the  Isle  is  passed  away; 

Buried  beneath  the  glittering  Lake, 

Its  place  no  longer  to  be  found  ; 

Yet  the  lost  fragments  shall  remain 
To  fertilize  some  other  ground.  — D.  W. 


INSCRIPTION 

ON  THE  BANKS  OF  A ROCKY  STREAM. 

Behold  an  emblem  of  our  human  mind 

Crowded  with  thoughts  that  need  a settled  home. 

Yet,  like  to  eddying  balls  of  foam 

Within  this  whirlpool,  they  each  other  chase 

Round  and  round,  and  neither  find 

An  outlet  nor  a resting  place  I 

Stranger,  if  such  disquietude  be  thine, 

Fall  on  thy  knees  and  sue  for  help  divine. 


[*  See  Southey’s  Life  and  Correspondence,  Vol,  III., 
p.  154,  Ch.  xiv.,  for  an  account  of  the  Floating  Island  of 
1 Derwentwater,  in  a letter  from  Southey  to  Mr.  Rickman. 
l-II.  R.l 


420 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To , 

UPOX  THE  BIRTH  OF  HER  FIRST-BORN  CHILD, 
MARCH,  1833. 

‘Turn  porro  piier,  lit  saevis  projectus  ab  urulis 
Navita;  niidus  hunii  jacet,”  &c.  — Lucretius. 

Like  a shipwreck'd  Sailor  tost 
By  rough  waves  on  a perilous  coast, 

Lies  the  Babe,  in  helplessness 
And  in  tenderest  nakedness, 

Flung  by  labouring  nature  forth 
Upon  the  mercies  of  the  earth. 

Can  its  eyes  beseech  1 no  more 
Than  the  hands  are  free  to  implore : 

Voice  but  serves  for  one  brief  crj\ 

Plaint  was  if?  or  prophecy 
Of  sorrow  that  will  surely  come? 

Omen  of  man’s  grievous  doom  ! 

But,  O Mother ! by  the  close 
Duly  granted  to  thy  throes ; 

By  the  silent  thanks  now  tending 
Incense-like  to  Heaven,  descending 
Now  to  mingle  and  to  move 
With  the  gush  of  earthly  love. 

As  a debt  to  that  frail  Creature, 

Instrument  of  struggling  Nature 
For  the  blissful  calm,  the  peace 
Known  but  to  this  one  release; 

Can  the  pitying  spirit  doubt 
That  for  human-kind  springs  out 
From  the  penalty  a sense 
Of  more  than  mortal  recompense  ? 

As  a floating  summer  cloud. 

Though  of  gorgeous  drapery  proud. 

To  the  sun-burnt  traveller. 

Or  the  stooping  labourer, 

Ofttimes  makes  its  bounty  knowm 
By  its  shadow  round  him  thrown ; 

So,  by  chequerings  of  sad  cheer. 

Heavenly  guardians,  brooding  near. 

Of  their  presence  tell  — too  bright 
Haply  for  corporeal  sight! 

Ministers  of  grace  divine. 

Feelingly  their  brows  incline 
O’er  this  seeming  Castaway, 

Breathing,  in  the  light  of  day. 

Something  like  the  faintest  breath 
That  has  power  to  baffle  death  — 

Beautiful,  wdiile  very  weakness 
Captivates  like  passive  meekness ! 

And,  sweet  Mother ! under  warrant 
Of  the  universal  Parent, 

Who  repays  in  season  due 

Them  who  have,  like  thee,  been  true 


To  the  filial  chain  let  down 
From  his  everlasting  throne, 

Angels  hovering  round  thy  couch, 

With  their  softest  whispers  vouch. 

That,  whatever  griefs  may  fret. 

Cares  entangle,  sins  beset 
This  thy  first-born,  and  with  tears 
Stain  her  cheek  in  future  years. 
Heavenly  succour,  not  denied 
To  the  Babe,  whate’er  betide. 

Will  to  the  Woman  be  supplied  ! 

Mother ! blest  be  thy  calm  ease ; 

Blest  the  starry  promise.s, 

And  the  firmament  benign 
Hallowed  be  it,  where  they  shine ! 

Yes,  for  them  whose  souls  have  scope 
Ample  for  a winged  hope, 

And  can  earthward  bend  an  ear 
For  needful  listening,  pledge  is  here. 
That,  if  thy  new-born  Charge  shall  tread 
In  thy  footsteps,  and  be  led 
By  that  other  Guide,  whose  light 
Of  manly  virtues,  mildly  bright. 

Gave  him  first  the  wished-for  part 
In  thy  gentle  virgin  heart. 

Then,  amid  the  storms  of  life 
Presignified  by  that  dread  strife 
Whence  ye  have  escaped  together. 

She  may  look  for  serene  weather ; 

In  all  trials  sure  to  find 
Comfort  for  a fiiithful  mind  ; 

Kindlier  issues,  holier  rest. 

Than  even  now  await  her,  prest. 
Conscious  Nursling,  to  thy  breast*' 


THE  WARNING, 

A SEQUEL  TO  THE  FOREGOING 
MARCH,  1833. 

List,  the  winds  of  March  are  blowing; 

Her  ground-flowers  shrink,  afraid  of  showing 
Their  meek  heads  to  the  nipping  air. 

Which  ye  feel  not,  happy  pair! 

Sunk  into  a kindly  sleep 

We,  meanwhile,  our  hope  will  keep ; 

And  if  Time  leagued  with  adverse  Change 
(Too  busy  fear !)  shall  cross  its  range, 
Whatsoever  check  they  bring. 

Anxious  duty  hindering. 

To  like  hope  our  prayers  will  cling. 

Thus,  while  the  ruminating  spirit  feeds 
Upon  each  home  event  as  life  proceeds. 
Affections  pure  and  holy  in  their  source 
Gain  a fresh  impulse,  run  a livelier  course; 


POEMS  OP  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


421 


Hopes  that  within  the  Father’s  heart  prevail, 

Are  in  the  experienced  Grandsire’s  slew  to  fail^ 

And  if  the  harp  pleased  his  gay  youth,  it  rings 
To  his  grave  touch  with  no  unready  strings, 

While  thoughts  press  on,  and  feelings  overflow, 

And  quick  words  round  him  fall  like  flakes  of  snow. 

Thanks  to  the  Powers  that  yet  maintain  their  sway. 
And  have  renewed  the  tributary  La^'. 

Truths  of  the  heart  flock  in  with  eager  pace, 

And  Fancy  greets  them  with  a fond  embrace; 

Swift,  as  the  rising  sun  his  beams  extends 
She  shoots  the  tidings  forth  to  distant  friends; 

Their  gifts  she  hails  (deemed  precious,  as  they  prove 
For  the  unconscious  Babe  an  unbelated  love !) 

But  from  this  peaceful  centre  of  delight 
Vague  sympathies  have  urged  her  to  take  flight. 

She  rivals  the  fleet  Swallow,  making  rings 
In  the  smooth  Lake  where’er  he  dips  his  wings: 

— Rapt  into  upper  regions,  like  the  Bee 

That  sucks  from  mountain  heath  her  honey  fee ; 

Or,  like  the  warbling  Lark  intent  to  shroud 
His  head  in  sunbeams  or  a bowery  eloud, 

She  soars  — and  here  and  there  her  pinions  rest 
On  proud  tower.®,  like  this  humble  cottage,  blest 
With  a new  visitant,  an  infant  guest  — 

Towers  where  red  streamers  flout  the  breezy  sky 
In  pomp  foreseen  by  her  creative  eye, 

When  feasts  shall  crowd  the  Hall,  and  steeple  bells 
Glad  proclamation  make,  and  heights  and  dells 
Catch  the  blithe  music,  as  it  sinks  or  swells ; 

And  harboured  ships,  whose  pride  is  on  the  sea. 

Shall  hoist  their  topmast  flags  in  sign  of  glee. 
Honouring  the  hope  of  noble  ancestry. 

But  who,  (though  neither  reckoning  ills  assigned 
By  Nature,  nor  reviewing  in  the  mind 
The  track  that  was,  and  is,  and  must  be,  worn 
With  weary  feet  by  all  of  woman  born)  — 

Shall  note  by  such  a gift  with  joy  be  moved. 

Nor  feel  the  fulness  of  that  joy  reproved  1 
Not  He,  whose  last  faint  memory  will  command 
The  truth  that  Britain  was  Iiis  native  land; 

Whose  infant  soul  was  tutored  to  confide 
In  the  cleansed  faith  for  which  her  martyrs  died  ; 
Whose  boyish  ear  the  voice  of  her  renown 
With  rapture  thrilled  ; whose  Youth  revered  the  crown 
Of  Saxon  liberty  that  Alfred  wore, 

Alfred,  dear  Babe,  tby  great  Progenitor'. 

— Not  He,  who  from  her  mellowed  practice  drew 
His  social  sense  of  just,  and  fair,  and  true; 

And  saw,  thereafter,  on  the  soil  of  France 
Rash  Polity  begin  her  maniac  dance. 

Foundations  broken  up,  the  deeps  run  wild, 

Nor  grieved  to  see,  (himself  not  unbeguiled) — * 
Woke  from  the  dream,  the  dreamer  to  upbraid. 

And  learn  how  sanguine  expectations  fade 
When  novel  tru.=ts  by  folly  are  betrayed, — 

*Hee  “Fkench  Revolution,”  p.  188. 


To  .see  presumption,  turning  pale,  refrain 
From  further  havoc,  but  repent  in  vain, — 

Good  aims  lie  down,  and  perish  in  the  road 
Where  guilt  had  urged  them  on,  with  ceaseless  goad, 
Till  undiscriminating  Ruin  swept 
The  Land,  and  Wrong  perpetual  vigils  kept: 

With  proof  before  her  that  on  public  ends 
Domestic  virtue  vitally  depends. 

Can  such  a one,  dear  Babe  ! though  glad  and  proud 
To  welcome  Thee,  repel  the  fears  tliat  crowd 
Into  his  English  breast,  and  spare  to  quake 
Not  for  his  own,  but  for  thy  innocent  sake  1 
Too  late  — or,  should  the  providence  of  God 
Lead,  through  blind  ways  by  sin  and  sorrow  trod. 
Justice  and  peace  to  a secure  abode. 

Too  soon  — thou  com’st  into  this  breathing  world; 
Ensigns  of  mimic  outrage  are  unfurled. 

Who  shall  preserve  or  prop  the  tottering  Realm  1 
What  hand  suffice  to  govern  the  state-helm  ! 

If,  in  the  aims  of  men,  the  surest  test 

Of  good  or  bad  (whate’er  be  sought  for  or  profest) 

Lie  in  the  means  required,  or  ways  ordained. 

For  compassing  the  end.  else  never  gained  ; 

Yet  governors  and  governed  both  are  blind 
To  this  plain  truth,  or  fling  it  to  the  wind ; 

If  to  expedience  principle  must  bow ; 

Past,  future,  shrinkmg  up  beneath  the  incumbent  Now 

If  cowardly  conce.ssion  still  must  feed 

The  thirst  for  power  in  men  who  ne’er  concede; 

If  generous  Loyalty  must  stand  in  awe 
Of  subtle  Treason,  with  his  mask  of  law ; 

Or  with  bravado  insolent  and  hard. 

Provoking  punishment,  to  win  reward  ; 

If  office  help  the  factious  to  conspire. 

And  they  who  should  extinguish,  fan  the  fire  — 
Then,  will  the  sceptre  be  a straw,  the  crown 
Sit  loosely,  like  the  thistle’s  crest  of  down ; 

To  be  blown  off  at  will,  by  Power  that  spares  it 
In  cunning  patience,  from  the  head  that  wears  it. 

Lost  people,  trained  to  theoretic  feud  ; 

Lost,  above  all,  ye  labouring  multitude ! 

Bewildered  whether  ye,  by  slanderous  tongues 
Deceived,  mistake  calamities  for  wrongs ; 

And  over  fancied  usurpations  brood, 

Oft  snapping  at  revenge  in  sullen  mood; 

Or,  from  long  stress  of  real  injuries,  fly 
To  desperation  for  a remedy  : 

In  bursts  of  outrage  spread  your  judgments  wide. 

And  to  your  wrath  cry  out,  “ Be  thou  our  guide ;” 

Or,  bound  by  oaths,  come  forth  to  tread  earth's  floor 
In  marshalled  thousands,  darkening  street  and  moor 
With  the  worst  shape  mock-patience  ever  wore; 

Or,  to  the  giddy  top  of  self-esteem 
By  Flatterers  carried,  mount  into  a dream 
Of  boundless  suffrage,  at  whose  sage  behest 
Justice  shall  rule,  disorder  be  supprest. 

And  every  man  sit  down  as  Plenty’s  Guest! 


422 


WORDSWOETirS  POETICAL  WORKS 


— O for  a bridle  bitted  with  remorse 

To  stop  your  Leaders  in  their  headstrong  course ! 

Oh  may  the  Almighty  scatter  with  his  grace 
These  mists,  and  lead  you  to  a safer  place, 

By  paths  no  human  wisdom  can  foretrace  ! 

IMay  lie  pour  round  you,  from  worlds  far  above 
Man’s  feverish  passions,  his  pure  light  of  love. 

That  quietly  restores  the  natural  mien 
To  hope,  and  makes  truth  willing  to  be  seen 
Else  shall  your  blood-stained  hands  in  frenzy  reap 
Fields  gaily  sown  when  promises  were  cheap. 

^A"hy  is  the  Past  belied  with  wicked  art. 

The  Future  made  to  play  so  false  a part. 

Among  a people  famed  for  strength  of  mind. 

Foremost  in  freedom,  noblest  of  mankind  ? 

We  act  as  if  we  joyed  in  the  sad  tune 
Storms  make  in  rising,  valued  in  the  moon 
Nought  but  her  changes.  Thus,  ungrateful  Nation ! 
If  thou  persist,  and,  scorning  moderation. 

Spread  for  thyself  the  snares  of  tribulation. 

Whom,  then,  shall  meekness  guard!  What  saving 
skill 

Lie  in  forbearance,  strength  in  standing  still  ? 

— Soon  shall  the  Widow  (for  the  speed  of  Time 
Nought  equals  when  the  hours  are  winged  with  crime) 
Widow,  or  Wife,  implore  on  tremulous  knee, 

From  him  who  judged  her  Lord,  a like  decree  ; 

The  skies  will  weep  o’er  old  men  desolate: 

Ye  Little-ones!  Earth  shudders  at  your  fate. 

Outcasts  and  homeless  orphans 

But  turn,  my  soul,  and  from  the  sleeping  Pair 
Learn  thou  the  beauty  of  omniscient  care  ! 

Be  strong  in  faith,  bid  anxious  thoughts  lie  still ; 

Seek  for  the  good  and  cherish  it  — the  ill 
Oppose,  or  bear  witli  a submissive  will. 


If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain 
Revolve  in  one  sure  track; 

If  Freedom,  set,  will  rise  again. 
And  Virtue,  flown,  come  back; 
Woe  to  the  purblind  crew  who  fill 
The  heart  with  each  day’s  care; 
Nor  gain,  from  past  or  future,  skill 
To  bear,  and  to  forbear ! 


HUMANITY. 

(WRITTEN  IN  THE  YEAR  1829.) 

Kot  from  his  fellow.s  only  man  may  learn 
Rights  to  com|>are  and  duties  to  discern  : 

All  creatures  and  all  objects,  in  degree, 

Are  friends  and  patnms  of  humanity.  — MS. 

What  though  the  Accused,  upon  his  own  appeal 
To  righteous  Gods  when  Man  has  ceased  to  feel, 


Or  at  a doubting  Judge’s  stern  command. 

Before  the  Stone  of  Power  no  longer  stand  — 

To  take  his  sentence  from  the  balanced  Block, 

As,  at  his  touch,  it  rocks,  or  seems  to  rock  ;* 

Though,  in  the  depths  of  sunless  groves,  no  more 
The  Druid-priest  the  hallowed  Oak  adore ; 

Yet,  for  the  Initiate,  rocks  and  whispering  trees 
Do  still  perform  mysterious  offices ! 

And  still  in  beast  and  bird  a function  dwells. 

That,  while  we  look  and  listen,  sometimes  tells 
Upon  the  heart,  in  more  authentic  guise 
Than  Oracles,  or  winged  Auguries, 

Spake  to  the  Science  of  the  ancient  wise. 

Not  uninspired  appmar  their  simplest  ways; 

Their  voices  mount  symbolical  of  praise  — 

To  mix  W'ith  hymns  that  Spirits  make  and  hear; 

And  to  fallen  Man  their  innocence  is  dear. 

Enraptured  Art  draws  from  those  sacred  springs 
Streams  that  reflect  the  poetry  of  things  ! 

Where  Christian  Martyrs  stand  in  hues  portrayed,  . 
That,  might  a wish  avail,  would  never  fade. 

Borne  in  their  hands  the  Lily  and  the  Palm 
Shed  round  the  Altar  a celestial  calm ; 

There,  too,  behold  the  Lamb  and  guileless  Dove 
Prest  in  the  tenderness  of  virgin  love 
To  saintly  bosoms  ! — Glorious  is  the  blending 
Of  right  Affections,  climbing  or  descending 
Along  a scale  of  light  and  life,  with  cares 
Alternate ; carrying  holy  thoughts  and  prayers 
Up  to  the  sovereign  seat  of  the  Most  High ; 
Descending  to  the  worm  in  charity  ;f 
Like  those  gfxxl  Angels  whom  a dream  of  night 
Gave,  in  the  Field  of  Luz,  to  Jacob’s  sight; 

All,  while  he  slept,  treading  the  pendent  stairs 
Earthward  or  heavenward,  radiant  Messengers, 

That,  with  a perfect  will  in  one  accord 
Of  strict  obedience,  served  the  Almighty  Lord; 

And  with  untired  humility  forbore 

The  ready  service  of  tlie  wings  they  wore. 

What  a fair  World  were  ours  for  Verse  to  paint. 

If  Power  could  live  at  ease  with  self-restraint ! 
Opinion  bow  before  the  naked  sense 
Of  the  great  Vision,  — faith  in  Providence; 

Merciful  over  all  existence,  just 
To  the  least  particle  of  sentient  dust ; 

And,  fi.xing,  by  immutable  decrees. 

Seedtime  and  harvest  for  his  purposes  ! 

Then  would  be  closed  the  restless  oblique  eye 
That  looks  for  evil  like  a treacherous  spy  ; 

Disputes  would  then  relax,  like  stormy  winds 
That  into  breezes  sink  ; impetuous  minds 

♦The  Rocking-Stones,  alluded  to.  are  supposed  to  have  been 
used,  by  our  British  ancestors,  both  for  judicial  and  religious  pur- 
poses. Such  stones  are  not  uncommonly  found,  at  this  day,  both 
in  Great  Britain  and  in  Ireland. 

tThe  author  is  indebted,  here,  to  a passage  in  one  of  Mr.  Dig- 
by’s  valuable  works. 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  llEFLECTION. 


423 


By  discipline  endeavour  to  grow  meek 
As  truth  herself,  wlioin  they  profess  to  seek. 

Then  Genius,  shunning  fellowship  with  Pride, 

Would  braid  his  golden  locks  at  Wisdom’s  side  ; 

Love  ebb  and  flow  untroubled  by  caprice ; 

And  not  alone  harsh  tyranny  would  cease, 

But  unoflTending  creatures  find  release 
From  qualified  oppression,  whose  defence 
Re.sts  on  a hollow  plea  of  recompense ; 
Thought-tempered  wrongs,  for  each  humane  re.spect 
Oft  worse  to  bear,  or  deadlier  in  effect. 

Witness  those  glances  of  indignant  scorn 
From  some  high-minded  Slave,  impelled  to  spurn 
The  kindness  that  would  make  him  less  forlorn; 

Or,  if  the  soul  to  bondage  be  subdued. 

His  look  of  pitiable  gratitude  ! 

Alas  for  thee,  bright  Galaxy  of  Isles, 

Where  day  departs  in  pomp,  returns  with  smiles  — 

To  greet  the  flowers  and  fruitage  of  a land. 

As  the  sun  mounts,  by  sea-born  breezes  fanned ; 

A land  whose  azure  mountain-tops  are  seats 
For  Gods  in  council,  whose  green  vales.  Retreats 
Fit  for  the  Shades  of  Heroes,  mingling  there 
To  breathe  Elysiaa  peace  in  upper  air. 

Though  cold  as  winter,  gloomy  as  the  grave. 

Stone  walls  a Prisoner  make,  but  not  a Slave. 

Shall  Man  assume  a property  in  Man  1 
Lay  on  the  moral  Will  a withering  ban  1 
Shame  that  our  laws  at  distance  should  protect 
Enormities,  which  they  at  home  reject ! 

“ Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England”  — a proud  boa.st ! 
And  yet  a mockery  ! if,  from  coa.st  to  coast. 

Though  fettered  slave  be  none,  her  floors  and  soil 
Groan  underneath  a weight  of  slavish  toil, 

For  the  poor  Many,  measured  out  by  rules 
Fetched  with  cupidity  from  heartless  schools. 

That  to  an  Idol,  falsely  called  “ the  Wealth 
Of  Nations,”  sacrifice  a People’s  health, 

Body  and  mind  and  soul ; a thirst  so  keen 
Is  ever  urging  on  the  vast  machine 
Of  sleepless  Labour,  ’mid  whose  dizzy  wheels 
The  Power  least  prized  is  that  which  thinks  and  feels.* 

Then,  for  the  pastimes  of  this  delicate  age. 

And  all  the  heavy  or  light  vassalage 
Which  for  their  sakes  we  fasten,  as  may  suit 
Our  varying  moods,  on  human  kind  or  brute, 

'T  were  well  in  little,  as  in  great,  to  pause, 

Lest  Fancy  trifle  with  eternal  laws. 

There  are  to  whom  even  garden,  grove,  and  field. 
Perpetual  lessons  of  forbearance  yield; 

Who  would  not  lightly  violate  the  grace 
The  lowliest  flower  possesses  in  its  place; 

Nor  shorten  the  sweet  life,  too  fugitive. 

Which  nothing  less  than  Infinite  Power  could  give. 

*See  Appendix  VI,  part  2,  page  710, 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BV  A PORTRAIT  FROxM  THE  PENCIL 
OF  F.  STONE. 

Beguiled  into  forgetfulness  of  care 

Due  to  the  day’s  unfinished  task,  of  pen 

Or  book  regardless,  and  of  that  fair  scene 

In  Nature’s  prodigality  displayed 

Before  my  w'indow,  oftentimes  and  long 

I gaze  upon  a portrait  whose  mild  gleam 

Of  beauty  never  ceases  to  enrich 

The  common  light ; whose  stillness  charms  the  air, 

Or  seems  to  charm  it,  into  like  repose 

Whose  silence,  for  the  pleasure  of  the  ear. 

Surpasses  sweetest  music.  There  she  sits 
With  emblematic  purity  attired 
In  a white  vest,  white  as  her  marhle  neck 
Is,  and  the  pillar  of  the  throat  woidd  he 
But  for  the  shadow  by  the  drooping  chin 
Cast  into  that  recess  — the  tender  shade. 

The  shade  and  light,  botli  there  and  every  where. 
And  through  the  very  atmosphere  she  breathes. 
Broad,  clear,  and  toned  harmoniously,  with  skill 
That  might  from  nature  have  been  learnt  in  the  hour 
When  the  lone  Shepherd  sees  the  morning  spread 
Upon  the  mountains.  Look  at  her,  whoe’er 
Thou  be,  that  kindling  with  a poet's  soul 
Hast  loved  the  painter’s  true  Promethean  craft 
Intensely  — from  Imagination  take 
The  treasure,  what  mine  eyes  behold  see  thou. 

Even  though  the  Atlantic  Ocean  roll  between. 

A silver  line,  that  runs  from  brow  to  crown, 

And  in  the  middle  parts  the  braided  hair. 

Just  serves  to  show  how  delicate  a soil 
The  golden  harvest  grows  in ; and  those  eyes. 

Soft  and  capacious  as  a cloudless  sky 
Whose  azure  depth  their  colour  emulates. 

Must  needs  be  conversant  with  upward  looks. 

Prayer’s  voiceless  service;  but  now,  seeking  nought 

And  shunning  nought,  their  own  peculiar  life 

Of  motion  they  renounce,  and  with  the  head 

Partake  its  inclination  towards  earth 

In  humble  grace,  and  quiet  pensiveness 

Caught  at  the  point  where  it  stops  short  of  sadness. 

Offspring  of  soul-bewitching  ,4rt,  make  me 
Thy  confidant!  say,  wdience  derived  that  air 
Of  calm  abstraction!  Can  the  ruling  thought 
Be  with  some  lover  far  away,  or  one 
Crossed  by  misfortune,  or  of  doubted  faith! 

Inapt  conjecture ! Childhood  here,  a moon 
Crescent  in  simple  loveliness  serene. 

Has  but  approached  the  gates  of  womanhood. 

Not  entered  them  ; her  heart  is  yet  unpierced 
By  the  blind  Archer-god,  her  fancy  free ; 


424 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Tlie  fount  of  feeling,  if  unsought  elsewhere, 

Will  not  he  found. 

Her  right  hand,  as  it  lies 
Across  the  slender  wrist  of  the  left  arm 
Upon  her  lap  reposing,  holds — but  mark 
How  slackly,  for  the  absent  mind  permits 
No  firmer  grasp  — a little  wild-flower,  joined 
As  in  a posy,  with  a few  pale  ears 
Of  yellowing  corn,  the  same  that  overtopped 
And  in  their  common  birthplace  sheltered  it 
Till  they  were  plucked  together;  a blue  flovver 
Called  by  the  thrifty  husbandman  a weed; 

But  Ceres,  in  her  garland,  might  have  worn 
That  ornament,  unblamed.  The  floweret,  held 
In  scarcely  conscious  fingers,  was,  she  knows, 

(Her  Father  told  her  so)  in  Youth’s  gay  dawn 
Her  Mother’s  favourite ; and  the  orphan  Girl, 

In  her  own  dawn  — a dawn  less  gay  and  bright. 

Loves  it  while  there  in  solitary  peace 
She  sits,  for  that  departed  Mother’s  sake. 

— Not  from  a source  less  sacred  is  derived 
(Surely  I do  not  err)  that  pensive  air 
Of  calm  abstraction  through  the  face  diffused 
And  the  whole  person. 

Words  have  something  told 
More  than  the  pencil  can,  and  verily 
More  than  is  needed,  but  the  precious  Art 
Forgives  their  interference  — Art  divine. 

That  both  creates  and  fixes,  in  despite 

Of  Death  and  Time,  the  marvels  it  hath  wrought. 

Strange  contrasts  have  we  in  this  world  of  ours  ! 
That  posture,  and  the  look  of  filial  love 
Thinking  of  past  and  gone,  with  what  is  lefl 
Dearly  united,  might  be  swept  away 
From  this  fair  Portrait’s  fleshly  Archetype, 

Even  by  an  innocent  fancy’s  slightest  freak 
Banished,  nor  ever,  haply,  be  restore<l 
To  their  lost  place,  or  meet  in  harmony 
So  exquisite  ; but  here  do  they  abide. 

Enshrined 'for  ages.  Is  not  then  the  Art 
Godlike,  a humble  branch  of  the  divine, 

In  visible  quest  of  immortality. 

Stretched  forth  with  trembling  hope  1 In  every  realm, 
From  high  Gibraltar  to  Siberian  plains. 

Thousands,  in  each  variety  of  tongue 
That  Europe  knows,  would  echo  this  appeal ; 

One  above  all,  a IMonk  who  waits  on  God 
In  the  magnific  Convent  built  of  yore 
To  sanctify  the  Escurial  palace.*  He, 

Guiding,  from  cell  to  cell  and  room  to  room, 

A British  Painter  (eminent  for  truth 

* The  pile  of  buildings,  composing  the  palace  and  convent  of 
San  I/rrenzo,  has,  in  common  usage,  lost  its  proper  name  in  that 
of  the  Escurial,  a village  at  the  loot  of  the  hill  upon  which  the 
splendid  edifice,  built  by  I’liilip  the  Second,  stands.  It  need 
scarcely  be  added,  that  W ilkie  is  the  painter  alluded  to. 


In  character,  and  depth  of  feeling,  shown 
By  labours  that  have  touched  the  hearts  of  kings, 
And  are  endeared  to  simple  cottagers) 

Left  not  unvisited  a glorious  work. 

Our  Lord’s  Last  Supper,  beautiful  as  when  first 
The  appropriate  Picture,  fresh  from  Titian’s  hand. 
Graced  the  Refectory ; and  there,  while  both 
Stood  with  eyes  fixed  upon  that  Masterpiece, 

The  hoary  Father  in  the  Stranger’s  ear 
Breathed  out  these  words:  — “Here  daily  do  we  sit. 
Thanks  given  to  God  for  daily  bread,  and  here 
Pondering  the  mischiefs  of  these  restless  Times, 
And  thinking  of  my  Brethren,  dead,  dispersed, 

Or  changed  and  changing,  I not  seldom  gaze 
Upon  this  solemn  Company  unmoved 
By  shock  of  circumstance,  or  lap.se  of  years. 

Until  I cannot  but  believe  tliat  they  — 

They  are  in  truth  the  Substance,  we  the  Shadows.’’| 

So  spake  the  mild  Jeronymite,  bis  grief 
Melting  away  within  him  like  a dream 
Ere  he  had  ceased  to  gaze,  perhaps  to  speak : 

And  I,  grown  old,  but  in  a happier  land. 

Domestic  Portrait ! have  to  verse  consigned 
In  thy  calm  presence  those  heart-moving  words: 
Words  that  can  soothe,  more  than  they  agitate ; 
Whose  spirit,  like  the  angel  that  went  down 
Into  Bethesda’s  pool,  with  healing  virtue 
Informs  the  fountain  in  the  human  breast 
That  by  the  visitation  was  disturbed. 

But  why  this  stealing  tear?  Companion  mute 

On  thee  I look,  not  sorrowing;  fare  thee  well. 

My  song’s  Inspirer,  once  again,  farewell  I 


THE  FOREGOING  SUBJECT  RESU.MKD 
Among  a grave  fraternity  of  Monks, 

For  One,  but  surely  not  for  One  alone, 

Triumphs,  in  that  great  w'ork,  the  Painter’s  skill. 
Humbling  the  body,  to  exalt  the  soul ; 

Yet  representing,  amid  wreck  and  wrong 
And  dissolution  and  decay,  the  warm 
And  breathing  life  of  flesh,  as  if  already 
Clothed  with  impassive  majesty;  >and  graced 
With  no  mean  earnest  of  a heritage 
Assigned  to  it  in  future  worlds.  Thou,  too. 

With  thy  memorial  flower,  meek  Portraiture  ! 

From  whose  serene  companionship  I passed. 

Pursued  by  thoughts  that  haunt  me  still ; thou  also  • 
Though  but  a simple  object,  into  light 
Called  forth  by  tliose  affections  that  endear 
The  private  hearth ; though  keeping  thy  sole  seat 
In  singleness,  and  little  tried  by  time. 

Creation,  as  it  were,  of  yesterday  — 

With  a congenial  function  art  endued 
For  each  and  all  of  us,  together  joined, 

+ See  Note. 


POEMS  OF  SENTLMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


425 


In  course  of  nature,  under  a low  roof 
By  charities  and  duties  that  proceed 
OuJ  of  the  bosom  of  a w iser  vow. 

To  a like  salutary  sense  of  awe, 

Or  sacred  wonder,  growing-  with  the  power 
Of  meditation  that  attempts  to  weigli, 

In  faithful  scales,  tilings  and  their  oppo.sites. 
Can  thy  enduring  quiet  gently  raise 
A household  small  and  sensitive,  — wliose  love, 
Dependent  as  in  part  its  blessings  are 
Upon  frail  ties  dissolving  or  dissolved 
On  earth,  will  be  revived,  we  trust,  in  heaven. 


In  the  class  entitled  “ Musings,”  in  Mr.  Southey’s  Minor 
Poems,  is  one  upon  his  own  miniature  Picture,  taken  in  Child- 
hood, and  another  upon  a landscape  painted  by  Caspar  Poussin. 
It  is  possible  that  every  word  of  the  alxive  ver.ses,  though 
similar  in  subject,  might  have  been  written  had  the  author  been 
unacquainted  with  those  beautiful  efl’usions  of  poetic  senti- 
ment. But,  for  his  own  satisfaction,  he  must  bo  .allowed  thus 
publicly  to  acknowledge  the  pleasure  those  two  poems  of  his 
Friend  have  given  him,  and  the  grateful  influence  they  have 
upon  his  mind  as  often  as  he  reads  them,  or  thinks  of  them.* 

MEMORY. 

A PEN  — to  register;  a key  — 

That  winds  through  secret  wards; 

Are  well  assigned  to  Memory 
By  allegoric  Bards. 

As  aptly,  also,  might  be  given 
A Pencil  to  her  hand  ; 

That,  softening  objects,  sometimes  even 
Outstrips  the  heart’s  demand  ; 

That  smooths  foregone  distress,  the  lines 
Of  lingering  care  subdues. 

Long-vanished  happiness  refines, 

And  clothes  in  brighter  hues: 

Yet,  like  a tool  of  Fancy,  works 
Those  Spectres  to  dilate 
That  startle  Conscience,  as  she  lurks 
Within  her  lonely  seat. 

O ! that  our  lives,  which  flee  so  fast. 

In  purity  were  such. 

That  not  an  image  of  the  past 
Should  fear  that  pencil’s  touch ! 

Retirement  then  might  hourly  look 
Upon  a soothing  scene. 

Age  steal  to  his  allotted  nook. 

Contented  and  serene ; 


With  heart  as  calm  as  Lakes  that  sleep, 
In  frosty  moonlight  glistening  ; 

Or  mountain  Rivers,  wlierc  they  creep 
Along  a channel  smooth,  and  deep. 

To  their  own  far-off  murmurs  listening. 


ODE  TO  DUTY. 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 

0 Duty!  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a Light  to  guide,  a Rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove  ; 

Thou,  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 

From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free ; 

And  calm’st  the  w'eary  strife  of  frail  humanity! 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them ; who,  in  love  and  truth. 

Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  :* 

Glad  Hearts!  without  reproach  or  blot; 

Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 

Long  may  the  kindly  impulse  last ! 

But  Thou,  if  they  should  totter,  teach  them  to  stano 
fast ! 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright. 

And  happy  will  our  nature  be. 

When  love  is  an  unerring  light. 

And  joy  its  owm  security. 

And  they  a blissful  course  may  hold 
Even  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold. 

Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 

Yet  find  that  other  strength,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried ; 

No  sport  of  every  random  gust. 

Yet  being  to  myself  a guide, 

Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 

And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I deferred 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray ; 

But  thee  I now  would  serve  more  stiictly,  if  I may. 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul, 

Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 

1 supplicate  for  thy  control ; 

But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 

Me  this  unchartered  freedom  tires; 

I feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires : 

My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name, 

I long  for  a repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 


See  Note. 

3D 


t See  Note. 
36* 


426 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Stern  Lawgiver ! yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead’s  most  benignant  grace ; 

Nor  know  we  any  thing  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face : 

Flowers  laugh  before  tliee  on  their  beds; 

And  Fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads ; 

Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong ; 

And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  Thee,  are 
fresh  and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I call  thee  : I myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise. 

The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give ; 

And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live!* 


EVENING  VOLUNTARIES. 


1. 

Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose 
Day’s  grateful  warmth,  though  moist  with  falling  dews. 
Look  for  the  stars,  you  ’ll  say  that  there  are  none ; 
Ix)ok  up  a second  time,  and,  one  by  one. 

You  mark  them  twinkling  out  with  silvery  light. 
And  wonder  how  they  could  elude  the  sight. 

The  birds,  of  late  so  noisy  in  their  bowers. 
Warbled  a while  with  faint  and  fainter  powers. 

But  now  are  silent  as  the  dim-seen  flowers: 

Nor  does  the  Village  Church-clock’s  iron  tone 
The  time’s  and  season’s  influence  disown ; 

Nine  beats  distinctly  to  each  other  bound 
In  drowsy  sequence;  how  unlike  the  sound 
That,  in  rough  winter,  ofl  inflicts  a fear 
On  fireside  Listeners,  doubting  what  they  hear ! 

The  Shepherd,  bent  on  rising  with  the  sun. 

Had  closed  his  door  before  the  day  was  done. 

And  now  with  thankful  heart  to  bed  doth  creep. 

And  join  his  little  Children  in  their  sleep. 

The  Bat,  lured  forth  where  trees  the  lane  o’ershade, 
Flits  and  reflits  along  the  close  arcade; 

Far-hoard  the  Dor-hawk  chases  the  white  Moth 
With  burring  note,  which  Industry  and  Sloth 
Might  both  be  pleased  with,  for  it  suits  them  both. 
Wheels  and  the  tread  of  hoofs  are  heard  no  more 
One  Boat  there  was,  but  it  will  touch  the  shore 
With  the  next  dipping  of  its  slackened  oar; 

Faint  sound,  that,  for  the  gayest  of  the  gay 
Might  give  to  serious  thought  a moment’s  sway 
As  a last  token  of  Man’s  toilsome  day  ! 


II. 

Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  life 
That  come  but  as  a curse  to  Party-strife; 

Not  in  some  hour  when  Pleasure  with  a sigh 
Of  languor  puts  his  rosy  garland  by ; 

Not  in  the  breathing-times  of  that  poor  Slave 
Who  daily  piles  up  wealth  in  Mammon’s  cave, 

Is  Nature  felt,  or  can  be;  nor  do  words, 

Which  practised  Talent  readily  affords. 

Prove  that  her  hand  has  touched  responsive  chorus ; 
Nor  has  her  gentle  beauty  power  to  move 
With  genuine  rapture  and  with  fervent  love 
The  soul  of  Genius,  if  he  dares  to  take 
Life’s  rule  from  passion  craved  for  passion’s  sake; 
Untaught  that  meekness  is  the  cherished  bent 
Of  all  the  truly  Great  and  all  the  Innocent. 

But  who  is  innocent  I By  grace  divine. 

Not  otherwise,  O Nature!  we  are  thine. 

Through  good  and  evil  thine,  in  just  degree 
Of  rational  and  manly  sympathy. 

To  all  that  Earth  from  pensive  hearts  is  stealing. 
And  Heaven  is  now  to  gladdened  eyes  revealing. 
Add  every  charm  the  Universe  can  show 
Through  every  change  its  aspects  undergo. 

Care  may  be  respited,  but  not  repealed ; 

No  perfect  cure  grows  on  that  bounded  field. 

Vain  is  the  pleasure,  a false  calm  the  peace, 

If  He,  through  whom  alone  our  conflicts  cease, 

Our  virtuous  hopes  without  relapse  advance, 

Come  not  to  speed  the  Soul’s  deliverance ; 

To  the  distempered  Intellect  refuse 
His  gracious  help,  or  give  what  we  abuse. 


III. 

(BY  THE  SIDE  OF  RYDAL  MERE.) 

The  Linnet’s  warble,  sinking  towards  a close, 
Hints  to  the  Thrush ’t  is  time  for  their  repose ; 

The  shrill-voiced  Thrush  is  heedless,  and  again 
The  Monitor  revives  Iiis  own  sweet  strain ; 

But  both  will  soon  be  mastered,  and  tlie  copse 
Be  left  as  silent  as  the  mountain-tops. 

Ere  some  commanding  Star  dismiss  to  rest 
The  throng  of  Rooks,  that  now,  from  twig  or  nest, 
(After  a steady  flight  on  home-bound  wings. 

And  a last  game  of  mazy  hoverings 
Around  their  ancient  grove)  with  cawing  noise 
Disturb  the  liquid  music’s  equipoise. 

O Nightingale ! Who  ever  heard  thy  song 
Might  here  be  moved,  till  Fancy  grows  so  strong 
That  listening  sense  is  pardonably  cheated 
Where  wood  or  stream  by  thee  V'as  never  greeted. 
Surely,  from  fairest  spots  of  favoured  lands. 

Were  not  some  gifts  withheld  by  jealous  hands, 


• See  Note, 


POEMS  OF  SENTLMENT  AND  llEFLECTION. 


427 


This  hour  of  deepening'  darkness  here  would  be, 

As  a fresh  morning  for  new  harmony ; 

And  Lays  as  prompt  would  hail  the  dawn  of  night; 
A daion  she  has  both  beautiful  and  bright, 

When  the  East  kindles  with  the  full  moon’s  light. 

Wanderer  by  spring  with  gradual  progress  led, 

For  sway  profoundly  felt  as  widely  spread ; 

To  king,  to  peasant,  to  rough  sailor,  dear. 

And  to  the  soldier’s  trumpet-wearied  ear  ; 

IIow  welcome  wouldst  thou  be  to  this  green  Vale 
Fairer  than  Tempe  ! Yet,  sweet  Nightingale  ! 
From  the  warm  breeze  that  bears  thee  on  alight 
At  will,  and  stay  thy  migratory  flight; 

Build,  at  thy  choice,  or  sing,  by  pool  or  fount. 

Who  shall  complain,  or  call  thee  to  account"! 

The  wisest,  happiest,  of  our  kind  are  they 
That  ever  walk  content  with  Nature’s  way, 

God’s  goodness  measuring  bounty  as  it  may  ; 

For  whom  the  gravest  tlioiiglit  of  what  they  miss. 
Chastening  the  fulness  of  a present  bliss. 

Is  with  that  wholesome  office  satisfied, 

While  unrepining  sadness  is  allied 
In  thankful  bosoms  to  a modest  pride. 


IV. 

Soft  as  a cloud  is  yon  blue  Ridge  — the  mere 
Seems  firm  as  solid  crystal,  breatliless,  clear. 

And  motionless;  and,  to  the  gazer’s  eye. 

Deeper  than  Ocean,  in  the  immensity 
Of  its  vague  mountains  and  unreal  sky! 

But,  from  the  process  in  that  still  retreat. 

Turn  to  minuter  changes  at  our  feet; 

Observe  how  dewy  Twilight  has  withdrawn 
The  crowd  of  daisies  from  the  shaven  lavvn. 

And  has  restored  to  view  its  tender  green, 

That,  while  the  sun  rode  high,  was  lost  beneath  their 
dazzling  sheen. 

— An  emblem  this  of  what  the  sober  Hour 
Can  do  for  minds  disposed  to  feel  its  power  ! 

Thus  oft,  when  we  in  vain  have  wished  away 
The  petty  pleasures  of  the  garish  day. 

Meek  Eve  shuts  up  the  whole  usurping  host 
(Unbashful  dwarfs  each  glittering  at  his  post) 

And  leaves  the  disencumbered  spirit  free 
To  reassume  a staid  simplicity. 

’T  is  well  — but  what  are  helps  of  time  and  place. 
When  wisdom  stands  in  need  of  nature’s  grace; 

Why  do  good  thoughts,  invoked  or  not,  descend, 

Like  Angels  from  their  bowers,  our  virtues  to  befriend  ; 
If  yet  To-morrow,  unbelied,  may  say, 

“I  come  to  open  out,  for  fresh  display. 

The  elastic  vanities  of  yesterday !” 


V, 

The  leaves  that  ru.stled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill. 

And  sky  that  danced  among  those  leave.s,  are  still ; 
Rest  smooths  the  way  fiir  sleep;  in  field  and  bower 
Soft  shades  and  dews  have  shed  their  blended  power 
On  drooping  eyelid  and  the  closing  flower; 

Sound  is  there  none  at  which  the  faintest  heart 
Might  leap,  the  weakest  nerve  of  superstition  start; 
Save  when  the  Owlet’s  unexpected  scream 
Pierces  the  ethereal  vault;  and  ’mid  the  gleam 
Of  unsubstantial  imagery  — the  dream, 

From  the  hushed  vale’s  realities,  transferred 
To  the  still  lake,  the  imaginative  Bird 
Seems,  ’mid  inverted  mountains,  not  unheard. 

Grave  Creature  ! whether,  while  the  moon  shines  bright 
On  thy  wings  opened  wide  for  smoothest  flight. 

Thou  ait  discovered  in  a roofless  tower. 

Rising  from  what  may  once  have  been  a Lady’s  bower: 
Or  spied  where  thou  sit’st  moping  in  thy  mew 
At  the  dim  centre  of  a churchyard  yew  ; 

Or,  from  a rifted  crag  or  ivy  tod 
Deep  in  a forest,  thy  secure  abode. 

Thou  giv’.'it,  for  pastime’s  sake,  by  shriek  or  shout, 

A puzzling  notice  of  thy  whereabout; 

May  the  night  never  come,  the  day  be  seen. 

When  I shall  scorn  thy  voice  or  mock  thy  mien  ! 

In  classic  ages  men  perceived  a soul 
Of  sapience  in  thy  aspect,  headless  Owl ! 

Thee  Athens  reverenced  in  the  studious  grove; 

And,  near  the  golden  sceptre  grasped  by  Jove, 

Ills  Eagle’s  favourite  perch,  while  round  him  sate 
The  Gods  revolving  the  decrees  of  Fate, 

Thou,  too,  wert  present  at  Minerva’s  side  — 

Hark  to  that  second  larum  ! far  and  wide 

The  elements  have  heard,  and  rock  and  cave  replied. 


VI. 

The  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire, 

Flung  back  from  distant  climes  a streaming  fire. 
Whose  blaze  is  now  subdued  to  tender  gleams. 
Prelude  of  night’s  approach  with  soothing  dreams. 
Look  round;  — of  all  the  clouds  not  one  is  moving 
’T  is  the  still  hour  of  thinking,* feeling,  loving. 

Silent,  and  steadfast  as  the  vaulted  sky. 

The  boundless  plain  of  waters  seems  to  lie : — 
Comes  that  low  sound  from  breezes  rustling  o’er 
The  grass-crowned  headland  that  conceals  the  shore ! 
No : ’t  is  the  earth-voice  of  the  mighty  sea. 
Whispering  how  meek  and  gentle  he  can  be  ! 

Thou  Power  supreme  I who,  arming  to  rebuke 
Offenders,  dost  put  off  the  gracious  look, 


428 


WORDS  WORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  clothe  thyself  with  terrors  like  the  flood 
Of  ocean  roused  into  his  fiercest  mood, 

Whatever  discipline  thy  will  ordain 
For  the  brief  course  that  must  for  me  rem.ain  ; 
Teach  me  with  quick-eared  spirit  to  rejoice 
In  admonitions  of  thy  softest  voice! 

Whato’er  the  path  these  mortal  feet  m.ay  trace, 
Breathe  through  my  soul  the  blessing  of  thy  grace. 
Glad,  through  a perfect  love,  a faith  sincere 
Drawn  from  the  wisdom  tliat  begins  with  fear; 
Glad  to  expand,  and,  for  a season,  free 
From  finite  cares,  to  rest  absorbed  in  Thee ! 


YU. 

(BY  THE  SEA  SIDE.) 

The  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to  rest. 

And  the  wild  storm  hath  somewhere  found  a nest; 

Air  slumbers  — wave  with  wave  no  longer  strives. 
Only  a heaving  of  the  deep  survives, 

A tell-tale  motion!  soon  will  it  be  laid. 

And  by  the  tide  alone  the  water  swayed. 

Stealthy  withdrawings,  interminglings  mild 
Of  light  with  shade  in  beauty  reconciled  — 

Such  is  the  prospect  far  as  sight  can  range. 

The  soothing  recompense,  the  welcome  change. 
Where  now  the  ships  that  drove  before  the  blast. 
Threatened  by  angry  breakers  as  they  passed  ; 

And  by  a train  of  flying  clouds  bemocked  ; 

Or,  in  the  hollow  surge,  at  anchor  rocked 
As  on  a bed  of  Death  1 Some  lodge  in  peace, 

Saved  by  His  care  who  bade  the  tempest  cease  ; 

And  sotiio,  too  heedless  of  past  danger,  court 
Fresh  gales  to  waft  them  to  the  fiir-off  port ; 

But  near,  or  banging  sea  and  sky  between, 

Not  one  of  all  those  winged  Powers  is  seen. 

Seen  in  her  course  nor  ’mid  this  quiet  heard ; 

Yet  oh  ! how  gladly  would  the  air  be  stirred 
By  some  acknowledgment  of  thanks  and  praise. 

Soft  in  its  temper  as  those  vesper  lays 
Sung  to  the  virgin  while  accordant  oars 
Urge  the  slow  bark  along  Calabrian  shores; 

A sea-born  service  through  the  mountains  felt. 

Till  into  one  loved  vision  all  things  melt: 

Or  like  those  hymns  that  soothe  with  graver  sound 
The  gulfy  coast  of  Norway  iron-bound  ; 

And,  from  the  wide  and  open  Baltic,  rise 
With  punctual  care,  Lutherian  harmonies. 

Hush,  not  a voice  is  here!  but  why  repine. 

Now  when  the  star  of  eve  comes  forth  to  shine 
On  British  waters  with  that  look  benign] 

Ye  mariners,  that  plough  your  onward  way, 

Or  in  the  haven  rest,  or  sheltering  bay. 

May  silent  thanks  at  least  to  God  be  given 

With  a full  heart,  “ our  thoughts  are  heard  in  heaven !” 


viir. 


[The  former  of  the  two  following  Pieces  appeared,  many 
years  ago,  among  the  Autlior’s  poems,  from  which,  in  subse- 
quent editions,  it  was  excluded.  It  is  here  reprinted,  at  the 
request  of  a friend  who  W'as  present  when  the  lines  were 
thrown  off  as  an  impromptu. 

For  printing  the  latter,  some  reason  should  be  given,  as  not  a 
word  of  it  is  original : it  is  simply  a fine  stanza  of  Akenside 
connected  with  a still  finer  from  Beattie,  by  a couplet  of  Thom- 
son. This  practice,  in  which  the  author  sometimes  indulges,  of 
linking  together,  in  his  own  mind,  favourite  passages  from  dif- 
ferent authors,  seems  in  itself  unobjectionable : but,  as  the 
piihlishinff  such  compilations  might  lead  to  confusion  in  litera- 
ture, he  should  deem  himself  inexcusable  in  giving  this  speci- 
men, were  it  not  from  a hope  that  it  might  open  to  others  a 
harmless  source  of  private  gratification.] 


The  sun  has  long  been  set, 

The  stars  are  out  by  twos  and  threes. 
The  little  birds  are  piping  yet 
Among  the  bushes  and  trees; 

There ’s  a cuckoo,  and  one  or  two  thrushes. 
And  a far-off'  wind  that  rushes. 

And  a sound  of  water  that  gushes. 

And  the  Cuckoo’s  sovereign  cry 
Fills  all  the  hollow  of  the  sky. 

Who  would  “ go  parading” 

In  London,  “and  masquerading,” 

On  sucli  a night  of  June 

With  that  beautiful  soft  half-moon. 

And  all  these  innocent  blisses. 

On  such  a night  as  this  is? 


IX. 

Throned  in  the  Sun’s  descending  car 
What  Power  unseen  diffuses  far 
This  tenderness- of  mind? 

What  Genius  smiles  on  yonder  flood? 
What  God  in  whispers  from  the  wood 
Bids  every  thought  be  kind  ? 

O ever  pleasing  Solitude, 

Companion  of  the  wise  and  good. 

Thy  shades,  thy  silence,  now  be  mine. 
Thy  charms  my  only  theme  ; 

My  haunt  the  hollow  cliff  whose  Pine 
Waves  o’er  the  gloomy  stream  ; 
Whence  the  scared  Owl  on  pinions  gray 
Breaks  from  the  rustling  boughs. 

And  down  the  lone  vale  sails  away 
To  more  profound  repose  ! 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  llEFLECTIOxN. 


429 


X. 

COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEA-SHORE. 
What  mischief  cleaves  to  unsubdued  regret, 

How  fancy  sickens  by  vague  hopes  beset; 

How  oaffled  projects  on  the  spirit  prey, 

And  fruitless  wishes  eat  the  heart  away. 

The  Sailor  knows;  he  best,  whose  lot  is  cast 
On  the  relentless  sea  that  holds  him  fast  , 

On  chance  dependent,  and  the  fickle  star 
Of  power,  through  long  and  melancholy  war. 

O sad  it  is,  in  sight  of  foreign  shores. 

Daily  to  think  on  old  familiar  doors. 

Hearths  loved  in  childhood,  and  ancestral  floors; 

Or,  tossed  about  along  a waste  of  foam. 

To  ruminate  on  that  delightful  home 
Which  with  the  dear  betrothed  was  to  come; 

Or  came,  and  was,  and  is,  yet  meets  the  eye 
Never  but  in  the  world  of  memory ; 

Or  in  a dream  recalled,  whose  smoothest  range 
Is  crossed  by  knowledge,  or  by  dread,,  of  change. 

And  if  not  so,  whose  perfect  joy  makes  sleep 
A thing  too  bright  for  breathing  man  to  keep. 

Hail  to  the  virtues  which  that  perilous  life 
Extracts  from  Nature’s  elemental  strife ; 

And  welcome  glory  won  in  battles  fought 
As  bravely  as  the  foe  was  keenly  sought. 

But  to  each  gallant  Captain  and  his  crew 
A less  imperious  sympathy  is  duo. 

Such  as  my  verse  now  yields,  while  moonbeams  play 
On  the  mute  sea  in  this  unruffled  bay ; 

Such  as  will  promptly  flow  from  every  breast. 

Where  good  men  disappointed  in  the  quest 
Of  wealth  and  power  and  honours,  long  for  rest ; 

Or,  having  known  the  splendours  of  success. 

Sigh  for  the  obscurities  of  happiness. 


XI. 

The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love, 

Glories  of  evening,  as  ye  there  are  seen 
With  but  a span  of  sky  between  — 

Speak  one  of  you,  my  doubts  remove. 

Which  is  the  attendant  Page  and  which  the  Queen  1 


XII. 

TO  THE  MOON. 

(COMPOSED  BY  THE  SEA-SIDE,  — ON  THE  COAST  OF  COMEEREAND.) 

Wandereu  ! that  stoop’st  so  low’,  and  com’st  so  near 
To  human  life’s  unsettled  atmosphere; 

Who  lov’st  with  night  and  silence  to  partake. 

So  might  it  seem,  the  cares  of  them  that  wake; 

And,  through  the  cottage-lattice  softly  peeping. 

Dost  shield  from  harm  the  humblest  of  the  sleeping; 
What  pleasure  once  encompassed  those  sweet  names 
Which  yet  in  thy  behalf  the  poet  claims. 


' An  idolizing  dreamer  as  of  yore  ! — 

I slight  them  all ; and,  on  this  sea-beat  shore 
Sole  sitting,  only  can  to  thoughts  attend 
That  bid  me  hail  (heeas  the  Sailor’s  Friend; 

So  call  thee  for  heaven’s  grace  through  thee  made 
known 

' By  confidence  supplied  and  mercy  shown, 

I When  not  a twinkling  star  or  beacon’s  liglit 
j Abates  the  perils  of  a stormy  night ; 

I And  for  loss  obvious  benefits,  that  find 
I Their  way,  with  thy  pure  help,  to  heart  and  mind ; 
Both  for  the  adventurer  starting  in  life’s  prime; 

' And  veteran  ranging  round  from  clime  to  clime, 
Long-bafllcd  hope’s  slow  fever  in  his  veins. 

And  wounds  and  weakness  oft  his  labour’s  sole  remain. 

The  aspiring  mountains  and  the  winding  streams. 
Empress  of  Night ! are  gladdened  by  thy  beams ; 

A look  of  thine  the  wilderness  pervades. 

And  penetrates  the  forest’s  inmost  shades; 

Thou,  chequering  peaceably  the  minster’s  gloom, 
Guid’st  the  pale  mourner  to  the  lost  one’s  tomb; 

Canst  reach  the  prisoner  — to  his  grated  cell 
Welcome,  though  silent  and  intangible  ! — 

And  lives  there  one,  of  all  that  come  and  go 
On  the  great  waters  toiling  to  and  fro. 

One,  who  has  watched  thee  at  some  quiet  hour 
Enthroned  aloft  in  undisputed  power. 

Or  crossed  by  vapoury  streaks  and  clouds  that  move, 
Catching  the  lustre  they  in  part  reprove  — 

Nor  sometimes  felt  a fitness  in  thy  sway 
To  call  up  thoughts  that  shun  the  glare  of  day. 

And  make  the  serious  happier  than  the  gay? 

Yes,  lovely  Moon ! if  thou  so  mildly  bright 
Dost  rouse,  yet  surely  in  thy  own  despite. 

To  fiercer  mood  the  phrenzy-stricken  brain; 

Let  me  a compensating  faith  maintain ; 

Tliat  there  ^s  a sensitive,  a tender,  part 
Which  thou  canst  touch  in  every  human  heart. 

For  healing  and  composure.  — But,  as  least 
And  mightiest  billows  ever  have  confessed 
Thy  domination  ; as  the  whole  vast  sea 
Feels  through  her  lowest  depths  thy  sovereignty ;. 

So  shines  that  countenance  with  especial  grace 
On  them  who  urge  the  keel  her  plains  to  trace 
Furrowing  its  way  right  onward.  The  most  rude, 

Cut  off  from  home  and  country,  may  have  stood  — 
Even  till  long  gazing  hath  bedimmed  his  eye. 

Or  the  mute  rapture  ended  in  a sigh  — 

Touched  by  accordance  of  thy  placid  cheer. 

With  some  internal  lights  to  memory  dear. 

Or  fancies  stealing  forth  to  soothe  the  breast 
Tired  with  its  daily  share  of  earth’s  unrest, — 

Gentle  awakenings,  visitations  meek ; 

A kindly  influence  whereof  few  will  speak. 

Though  it  can  wet  with  tears  the  hardiest  cheek. 

And  when  thy  beauty  in  the  shadowy  cave 
Is  hidden,  buried  in  its  monthly  grave ;. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


iSO 


Then,  while  the  sailor,  mid  an  open  sea 

Swept  by  a favouring  wind  that  leaves  thought  free, 

Paces  the  deck  — no  star  perhaps  in  sight. 

And  nothing  save  the  moving  ship’s  own  light 
To  cheer  the  long  dark  hours  of  vacant  night  — 

Oft  with  his  musings  does  thy  image  blend, 

In  his  mind’s  eye  thy  crescent  horns  ascend. 

And  thou  art  still,  O Moon,  that  Sailor’s  Friend  ! 


xiir. 

TO  THE  MOON. 

(RYDiL.) 

Queen  of  the  stars ! — so  gentle,  so  benign. 

That  ancient  fable  did  to  thee  assign. 

When  darkness  creeping  o’er  thy  silver  brow 
Warned  thee  these  upper  regions  to  forego. 
Alternate  empire  in  the  shades  below  — 

A Bard,  who,  lately  near  the  wide-spread  sea 
Traversed  by  gleaming  ships,  looked  up  to  thee 
With  grateful  thoughts,  doth  now  thy  rising  hail 
From  the  close  confines  of  a shadowy  vale. 

Glory  of  night,  conspicuous  yet  serene. 

Nor  less  attractive  when  by  glimpses  seen 
Through  cloudy  umbrage,  well  might  that  fair  face. 
And  all  those  attributes  of  modest  grace. 

In  days  when  fancy  wrought  unchecked  by  fear, 
Down  to  tlie  green  earth  fetch  thee  from  thy  sphere. 
To  sit  in  leafy  woods  by  fountains  clear  ! 

O still  belov’d  (for  thine,  meek  Power,  are  charms 
That  fascinate  the  very  babe  in  arms. 

While  he,  uplifted  towards  thee,  laughs  outright. 
Spreading  his  little  palms  in  his  glad  mother’s  sight) 
O still  belov’d,  once  worshipped  ! Time,  that  frowns 
In  his  destructive  flight  on  earthly  crowns. 

Spares  thy  mild  splendour;  still  those  far-shot  beams 
Tremble  on  dancing  waves  and  rippling  streams 
With  stainless  touch,  as  chaste  as  when  thy  praise 
Was  sung  by  Virgin-choirs  in  festal  lays; 

And  through  dark  trials  still  dost  thou  explore 
Thy  way  for  increase  punctual  as  of  yore. 

When  teeming  Matrons  — yielding  to  rude  faith 
In  mysteries  of  birth  and  life  and  death 
And  painful  struggle  and  deliverance  — prayed 
Of  thee  to  visit  them  with  lenient  aid. 

What  though  the  rites  be  swept  aw'ay,  the  fanes 
Extinct  that  echoed  to  the  votive  strains; 

Vet  thy  mild  aspect  does  not,  cannot,  cease 
Love  to  promote  and  purity  and  peace ; 

And  Fancy,  unreproved,  even  yet  may  trace 
Faint  types  of  sufiering  in  thy  beamless  face. 


Then,  silent  Monitress ! let  us  — not  blind 
To  worlds  unthought  of  till  the  searching  mind 
Of  science  laid  them  open  to  mankind  — 


Told,  also,  how  the  voiceless  heavens  declare 
God’s  glory ; and  acknowledging  thy  share 
In  that  blest  charge;  let  us  — without  offence 
To  aught  of  highest,  holiest,  influence  — 

Receive  whatever  good  ’tis  given  thee  to  dispense. 

1 May  sage  and  simple,  catching  with  one  eye 

] The  moral  intimations  of  the  sky. 

Learn  from  thy  course,  where’er  their  own  be  taken, 
‘ To  look  on  tempests,  and  be  never  shaken  ;’ 

To  keep  with  faithful  steps  the  appointed  way 
Eclipsing  or  eclipsed,  by  night  or  day. 

And  from  example  of  thy  monthly  range 
Gently  to  brook  decline  and  fatal  change ; 
hleek,  patient,  stedfast,  and  with  loftier  scope, 

Than  thy  revival  vields,  for  gladsome  hope  ! 


XIV. 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night,  on  high 
Her  way  pursuing  among  scattered  clouds. 
Where,  ever  and  anon,  her  head  she  shrouds 
Hidden  from  view  in  dense  obscurity  ! 

But  look,  and  to  the  watchful  eye 
A brightening  edge  will  indicate  that  soon 
We  shall  behold  the  struggling  Moon 
Break  forth,  — again  to  walk  the  clear  blue  sky 


XV. 


TO  LUCCA  GIORDANO. 


Giordano,  verily  thy  pencil’s  skill 

Hath  here  portrayed  with  Nature’s  happiest  grace 

The  fair  Endymion  couched  on  Latmos  Hill ; 

And  Dian  gazing  on  the  shepherd’s  face 
In  rapture,  — yet  suspending  her  embrace. 

As  not  unconscious  with  what  power  the  thrill 
Of  her  most  timid  touch  his  sleep  would  chase. 
And  with  his  sleep,  that  beauty  calm  and  still. 

O may  this  work  have  found  its  last  retreat 
Here  in  a Mountain-bard’s  secure  abode. 

One  to  whom,  yet  a schoolboy,  Cynthia  showed 
A face  of  love  which  he  in  love  would  greet. 
Fixed,  by  her  smile,  upon  some  rocky  seat ; 

Or  lured  along  where  greenwood  paths  he  trod. 
Rydal  Modnt,  1846. 


XVI. 

Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high. 
Travelling  where  she  from  time  to  time  enshrouds 
Her  head,  and  nothing  loth  her  majesty 
Renounces,  till  among  the  scattered  clouds 
One  with  its  kindling  edge  declares  that  soon 


POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


431 


Will  reappear  before  the  uplifted  eye 
A form  as  bright,  as  beautiful  a moon, 

To  glide  in  open  prospect  through  clear  sky. 

Pity  that  such  a promise  e’er  should  prove 

False  in  the  issue,  that  yon  seeming  space 

*Jf  sky  should  be  in  truth  the  steadfast  face 

Of  a cloud  flat  and  dense,  through  which  must  move 

fBy  transit  not  unlike  man’s  frequent  doom) 

'*’ne  wanderer  lost  in  more  determined  gloom. 

XVII.  ‘ 

Where  lies  the  truth?  has  man,  in  wisdom’s  creed, 
A pitiable  doom ; for  respite  brief 
A care  more  anxious,  or  a heavier  grief? 


Is  he  ungrateful,  and  doth  little  heed 
God’s  bounty,  soon  forgotten  ; or  indeed. 

Must  man,  with  labour  born,  awake  to  sorrow 
When  flowers  rejoice,  and  larks  with  rival  speed 
Spring  from  their  nests  to  bid  the  sun  good  morrow  ? 
They  mount  for  rapture,  as  their  songs  proclaim. 
Warbled  in  hearing  both  of  earth  and  sky ; 

But  o’er  the  contrast  wherefore  heave  a sigh ! 

Like  those  aspirants  let  us  soar  — our  aim, 

Through  life’s  worst  trials,  whether  sliocks  or  snares, 
A happier,  brighter,  purer  Heaven  than  theirs.* 

184B. 


[*  See  also,  as  connected  with  the  series  of  “ Evexi.mi 
Voluntaries,”  the  “ Ode  composed  upon  an  evening  of 
extraordinary  splendour  and  beauty,”  p.  311.  — H.  11.] 


432 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  W^ORKS. 


NOTES 


TO 

POEMS  OF  SENTIMENT  AND  REFLECTION. 


Note  1,  p.  .398- 
“ Shnon  Lee." 

“ O Reader  ! had  you  in  your  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring"  &c. 

"The  same  feeling',  or  something  closely  resembling 
it,  seems  to  be  indicated  in  each  of  the  following 
quotations,  especially  in  the  exquisite  phrase  of  Shak- 
speare : 

“When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past.  — 

SilAKSPE.utE’s  Sonnets,  Ko.  XXX. 
‘Farewell,  selfe-pleasing  thoughts,  which  tpiietness  brings 
foorth.” SpE-nskr  : Epitaph  on  Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

Is  there  not  in  this  concurrence  — obviously  casual  — 
Sii.vKSPEARE  — Spenser  — Wordsworth,  proof  of  a 
trait  of  the  temperament  of  poetic  geniu.s1 

This  simple  stanza  appears  too  to  have  touched  a 
chord  in  the  heart  of  Coleridge,  who  in  one  of  his  let- 
ters thus  refers  to  it : “ To  have  formed  the  habit  of 
looking  at  every  thing,  not  for  what  it  is  relative  to 
the  purposes  and  associations  of  men  in  general,  but 
for  the  truths  which  it  is  suited  to  represent  — to  con- 
template objects  as  words  and  pregnant  symbols  — the 
advantages  of  this  are  so  many,  and  so  important,  so 
eminently  calculated  to  excite  and  evolve  the  power 
of  sound  and  connected  reasoning,  of  distinct  and  clear 
conception,  and  of  genial  feeling,  that  there  are  few 
of  Wordsworth’s  finest  passages  — and  who,  of  living 
poets,  can  lay  claim  to  half  the  number  1 — that  I repeat 
60  often  as  that  homely  quatrain, 

“O  Reader!  had  you  in  your  mind 

Such  stores  as  silent  ihoiigiit  can  bring  ; 

O gentle  Reader ! you  would  find 
A tale  in  every  tiling.” 

H.  R.] 


Note  2,  p.  403. 

"Devotional  Incitements." 

“ Alas  ! the  sanctities  combined 
By  art  to  unsensualize  the  mind 
Decay  and  languish  ; or  as  creeds 
And  humours  change,  arc  spurned  like  weeds;" 
[Tills  subject  is  finely  drawn  by  Daniel; 

“Sacred  Religion!  mother  of  form  and  fear! 

How  gorgeously  sometimes  dost  thou  sit  decked  ! 

What  pompous  vestures  do  we  make  thee  wear, 

What  stately  piles  we  prodigal  erect ! 

How  sweet  perfumed  thou  art;  how  shining  clear! 

How  solemnly  observed ; with  what  respect ! 


Another  time  all  plain,  all  quite  thread-bare; 

Thou  must  have  all  within,  and  nought  without; 

Sit  poorly  without  light,  disrobed : no  care 
Of  outward  grace,  to  amuse  tlie  poor  devout; 

Powerless,  unfollowed  ; scarce  men  can  spate 
The  necessary  riles  to  set  thee  out. 

Either  truth,  goodness,  virtue  are  not  still 
The  sell-same  which  they  are,  and  alwa5'S  one. 

But  alter  to  the  project  of  our  will ; 

Or  we  our  actions  make  them  wait  upon. 

Putting  them  in  the  livery  of  our  skill, 

And  cast  them  off  again  when  we  have  done.” 

D.tNlEL:  — ‘ Musophilus.’ — H.  R.] 

Note  3,  p.  424. 

"Lines  on  a Portrait." 

“ They  are  in  truth  the  Substance,  we  the  Shadows." 

[This  incident  is  thus  narrated  by  the  author  or  au- 
thors of  that  ‘rare'  book  ‘The  Doctor,’  with  one  of 
the  rich  comments,  which  distinguish  the  work  : 

“ When  Wilkie  was  in  the  Escurial,  looking  at  Ti- 
tian’s famous  picture  of  the  Last  Supper,  in  the  Refec- 
tory there,  an  old  Jeronimite  said  to  him,  ‘ I have  sale 
daily  in  sight  of  that  picture  for  now  nearly  three-score 
years ; during  that  time  my  companions  have  dropt  olT, 
one  after  another,  — all  who  were  my  Seniors,  all  who 
were  my  contemporaries,  and  many,  or  most  of  those 
who  were  younger  than  myself ; more  than  one  gene- 
ration has  passed  away,  and  there  the  figures  in  the 
picture  have  remained  unchanged!  I look  at  them  till 
I sometimes  think  that  they  are  the  realities,  and  we 
but  shadows  !’ 

“I  wLsh  I could  record  the  name  of  the  Monk  by  whom 
that  natural  feeling  was  so  feelingly  and  strikingly  ex- 
pressed. 

“The  shows  of  things  are  better  than  themselves.” 
says  the  author  of  the  tragedy  of  Nero,  wliose  name, 
also,  I could  wish  had  been  forthcoming;  and  the  clas- 
sical reader  will  remember  the  lines  of  Sophocles  : — 
'Ofi<3  yap  hjias  oiSfv  0)'~as  <ihXo,  irhiji' 

‘'ElSio^/  oaoirrcp  ;;  Kovtprjv  dKtuv, 

These  are  reflections  which  should  make  us  think 

“ Of  that  same  time  when  no  more  change  shall  be. 

But  steadfast  rest  of  all  things,  firmly  stayd 
Upon  the  pill.ars  of  Eternity, 

That  is  contraire  to  mutability ; 

For  all  that  moveth  doth  in  change  delight : 

But  thenceforth  all  shall  rest  eternally 
With  Him  that  is  the  God  of  Sabaoth  bight, 

O that  great  Sabaoth  God  grant  me  that  Sabbath's  sight” 
Spenser. 

“ The  Doctor,"  Vol.  111.  p.  235.  — H.  R-1 


POEMS  OF  . SENTIMENT  AND  UEELEETION. 


431 


Note  4,  p.  368. 

“ Lines  on  a Portrait." 

[The  following  is  one  of  the  poems  by  Mr.  Southey, 
wliich  are  referred  to : 

“ON  MY  OWN  MINIATURE  PICTURE 
TAKEN  AT  TWO  YEARS  OF  AGE. 

“ And  I was  once  like  this  ? that  glow'ing  cheek 
Was  mine,  those  pleasure-sparkling  eyes;  that  brow 
Smooth  as  the  level  lake,  when  not  a breeze 
Dies  o’er  the  sleeping  surface ! — Twenty  years 
Have  wrought  strange  alteration  ! Of  the  friends 
Who  once  so  dearly  prized  this  miniature. 

And  loved  it  for  its  likeness,  some  are  gone 
To  their  last  home  ; and  some  estranged  in  heart. 

Beholding  me,  with  quick  averted  glance 
Pa-ss  on  the  other  side  ! But  still  these  hues 
Remain  unaltered,  and  these  features  wear 
The  look  of  Infancy  and  Innocence. 

I search  myself  in  vain,  and  find  no  trace 
Of  what  I was;  those  lightly  arching  lines 
Dark  and  o’erhanging  now ; and  that  sw  eet  face 
Settled  in  these  strong  lineaments  1 — There  were 
Who  formed  high  hopes  and  flattering  ones  of  tliee. 

Young  Robert ! for  thine  eye  was  quick  to  speak 
Each  opening  feeling  : should  they  not  have  known, 

If  the  rich  rainbow  on  the  morning  cloud 
Reflects  its  radiant  dyes,  tlie  husbandman 
Beholds  the  ominous  glory,  and  foresees 
Impending  storms  ! — They  augured  happily. 

That  thou  didst  love  each  wild  and  wond’rous  tale 
Of  faery  fiction,  and  thine  infant  tongue 
Lisped  with  delight  the  godlike  deeds  of  Greece 
And  rising  Rome  ; therefore  they  deemed,  forsooth. 

That  thou  should’st  tread  Pjiefer.vient’s  pleasant  path. 
Ill-judging  ones!  they  let  thy  little  feet 
Stray  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  Poesy, 

And  when  thou  shouldst  have  prest  amid  the  crowd. 

There  didst  thou  love  to  linger  out  the  day. 

Loitering  beneath  the  laurel’s  barren  shade. 

SriRiT  OF  SrE.vsER!  was  the  wanderer  wrong?  — 1796.” 
Southey’s  Poetical  TVbr/rs. 

I cannot  deny  myself  the  gratification  of  introducing 
into  this  group  of  poems  suggested  by  paintings  an- 
other, also  from  the  pen  of  one  of  Mr.  Wordsworth’s 
friends  — one,  to  whom  I am  confident  he  would  de- 
light in  seeing  any  tribute  paid  in  connection  with  his 
own  writings.  I have  therefore  less  hesitation  in  in- 
serting here  the  following  lines  by  Mary  Lamb,  inclu- 
ded among  the  poems  of  her  brother,  the  late  Charles 
Lamb,  and  at  the  same  time  of  using  these  pages  to 
express  a grateful  admiration  of  an  individual  who  has 
exhibited  one  of  the  most  beautiful  examples  of  the  deli- 
cacy of  female  authorship  to  be  met  with  in  the  records 
of  English  literature.  In  a few  unambitious  poems  min- 
gled among  her  brother’s — as  indeed  her  very  existence 
seems  to  have  been  blended  with  his — and  in  that  most 
graceful  children’s  classic,  ‘ Mrs.  Leicester’s  School’, 
there  are  tokens  of  a spirit  as  lofty  in  its  purity  as  it  is 
3E 


gentle  and  unassuming.  She  is  endeared  too  by  a more 
than  sisterly  devotion,  which  paused  only  at  his  grave, 
to  one  of  the  most  winning  writers  in  the  language, 
whose  intellectual  efibrts  were  probably  best  encour- 
aged by  her  who  cheered  the  loneliness  of  his  hearth. 

‘LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  A PICTURE  OF  TWO  FE.'MALES, 

BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI. 

“ The  Lady  Blanch,  regardless  of  all  her  lovers’  fears, 

To  the  Urs’line  Convent  Imstens,  and  long  ihe  Abbess  hears. 
“O  Blanch,  my  child,  repent  ye  of  the  courtly  life  ye  lead.” 
Blanch  looked  on  a rose-bud  and  little  seemed  to  heed 
She  looked  on  the  rose-biul,  she  looked  round,  and  thought 
On  all  her  heart  had  whispered,  and  a'l  the  Nun  had  taught, 
“I  am  worshipped  by  lovers,  and  brightly  shines  my  fame 
“ All  Christendom  rcsoiindeth  the  noble  Blanch's  name. 

“Nor  shall  I quickly  wither  like  the  rose-bud  from  the  tree, 

“ My  queen-like  graces  shining  when  my  beauty’s  gone  from  me. 
“ But  when  the  sculptured  marble  is  raised  o'er  my  head, 
“And  the  matchless  Blanch  lies  lifeless  among  the  noble  dead, 
“This  saintly  lady  Abbess  hath  made  me  justly  fear, 

“It  nothing  will  avail  me  that  I were  worshipped  here.” 

M.\rv  L.imb:  Poetical  Works  of  Charles  Lamh. — II.  R.] 

Note  5,  p.  425. 

“ Ode  to  Duly." 

“ The  genial  sense  of  Youth 
[ — “ diffidence  or  veneration.  Such  virtues  are  the 
sacred  attributes  of  Youth : its  appropriate  calling  is 
not  to  distinguish  in  the  fear  of  being  deceived  or  de- 
graded, not  to  analyze  with  scrupulous  minuteness,  but 
to  accumulate  in  genial  confidence ; its  instinct,  its 
safety,  its  benefit,  its  glory,  is  to  love,  to  admire,  to 

feel,  and  to  labour.” Coleridge:  ‘The  Friend,’ 

Vol.  III.  p.  62.  — II.  R.] 

Note  6,  p.  426. 

‘‘  Ode  to  Duty. 

"And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live 
[“  A living  Teacher,  to  be  spoken  of  with  gratitude  as 
of  a benefactor,  having,  in  his  character  of  philosophi- 
cal Poet,  thought  of  morality  as  implying  in  its  es- 
sence voluntary  obedience,  and  producing  the  effect  of 
order,  transfers,  in  the  transport  of  imagination,  the 
law  of  moral  to  physical  natures,  and  having  contem- 
plated, through  the  medium  of  that  order,  all  modes 
of  existence  as  subservient  to  one  spirit,  concludes  his 
address  to  the  power  of  Duty  in  the  following  words : 
To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power! 

I call  lliee : I myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour ; 

Oh,  let  my  weakness  have  an  end ! 

Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice; 

The  confidence  of  reason  give  ! 

And  in  the  light  of  Truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live — W.  W 
Coleridge:  ‘The  Friend,’  Vol.  HI.  p.  64.  H.  R.) 

37 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


EPISTLE 

TO  SIR  GEORGE  HOWLAND  BEAUMONT,  BART. 

FROM  THE  SOUTH-WEST  COAST  OF  CUMBERLAND.— 1811. 

Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmere’s  quiet  lake, 

From  the  vale’s  peace  which  all  her  fields  partake. 
Here  on  the  bleakest  point  of  Cumbria’s  shore 
We  sojourn  stunned  by  Ocean’s  ceaseless  roar; 

While,  day  by  day,  grim  neighbour!  huge  Black  Comb 
Frowns,  deepening  visibly  his  native  gloom. 

Unless,  perchance  rejecting  in  despite 

What  on  the  plain  we  have  of  warmth  and  light. 

In  his  own  storms  he  hides  himself  from  sight. 

Rough  is  the  time ; and  thoughts,  that  would  be  free 
From  heaviness,  oft  fly,  dear  friend,  to  thee; 

Turn  from  a spot  where  neither  sheltered  road 
Nor  hedge-row  screen  invites  my  steps  abroad  ; 

Where  one  poor  plane-tree,  having  as  it  might 
Attained  a stature  twice  a tall  man’s  height. 

Hopeless  of  further  growth,  and  brown  and  sere 
Through  half  the  summer,  stands  with  top  cut  sheer. 
Like  an  unshifting  weathercock  which  proves 
How  cold  the  quarter  that  the  wind  best  loves. 

Or  like  a centinel  that,  evermore 
Darkening  the  window,  ill  defends  the  door 
Of  this  unfinished  house  — a fortress  bare. 

Where  strength  has  been  the  builder’s  only  care. 
Whose  rugged  walls  may  still  for  years  demand 
The  final  polish  of  the  plasterer’s  hand. 

— This  dwelling’s  inmate  more  than  three  weeks’  space 
And  oft  a prisoner  in  the  cheerless  place, 

I — of  whose  touch  the  fiddle  would  complain. 

Whose  breath  would  labour  at  the  flute  in  vain. 

In  music  all  unversed,  nor  blessed  with  skill 
A bridge  to  copy,  or  to  paint  a mill. 

Tired  of  rny  books,  a scanty  company ! 

And  tired  of  listening  to  the  boisterous  sea  — 

Pace  between  door  and  window  muttering  rhyme, 

.\n  old  resource  to  cheat  a froward  time ! 

Though  these  dull  hours  (mine  is  it,  or  their  shame !) 
Would  tempt  me  to  renounce  that  humble  aim. 

— But  if  there  be  a Muse  who,  free  to  take 
Her  seat  upon  Olympus,  doth  forsake 
Those  heights  (like  Phoebus  when  his  golden  locks 
He  veiled,  attendant  on  Thessalian  flocks) 

And,  in  disguise,  a milkmaid  with  her  pail 
Trips  down  the  pathways  of  some  winding  dale; 

Or,  like  a Mermaid,  warbles  on  the  shores 
To  fisliers  mending  nets  beside  their  doors; 


Or,  pilgrim-like,  on  forest  moss  reclined, 

Gives  plaintive  ditties  to  the  heedless  wind, 

Or  listens  to  its  play  among  the  boughs 
Above  her  head  and  so  forgets  her  vows  — 

If  such  a visitant  of  earth  there  be 
And  she  would  deign  this  day  to  smile  on  me 
And  aid  my  verse,  content  with  local  bounds 
Of  natural  beauty  and  life’s  daily  rounds, 

Thoughts,  chances,  sights,  or  doings,  which  we  led 
Without  reserve  to  those  whom  we  love  well- 
Then,  haply,  Beaumont ! words  in  current  clear 
Will  flow,  and  on  a welcome  page  appear 
Duly  before  thy  sight,  unless  they  perish  here. 

What  shall  I treat  of?  News  from  Mona’s  Isle? 
Such  have  we,  but  unvaried  in  its  style; 

No  tales  of  runagates  fresh  landed,  whence 
And  wherefore  fugitive  or  on  what  pretence; 

Of  feasts,  or  scandal,  eddying  like  the  wind 
INIost  restlessly  alive  when  most  confined. 

Ask  not  of  me  whose  tongue  can  best  appease 
The  mighty  tumults  of  the  House  of  Keys  ; 

The  last  year’s  cup  whose  ram  or  heifer  gained. 

What  slopes  are  planted,  or  what  mosses  drained: 

An  eye  of  fancy  only  can  I cast 

On  that  proud  pageant  now  at  hand  or  past. 

When  full  five  hundred  boats  in  trim  array. 

With  nets  and  sails  outspread  and  streamers  gay, 

And  chanted  hymns  and  stiller  voice  of  prayer. 

For  the  old  Man.x-harvest  to  the  deep  repair. 

Soon  as  the  herring-shoals  at  distance  shine 
Like  beds  of  moonlight  shifting  on  tlie  brine. 

Mona  from  our  abode  is  daily  seen. 

But  with  a wilderness  of  waves  between  ; 

And  by  conjecture  only  can  we  speak 
Of  aught  transacted  there  in  bay  or  creek ; 

No  tidings  reach  us  thence  from  town  or  field. 

Only  faint  news  her  mountain  sunbeams  yield. 

And  some  we  gather  from  the  misty  air. 

And  some  the  hovering  clouds,  our  telegraph,  declare. 
But  these  poetic  mysteries  I withhold  ; 

For  Fancy  hath  her  fits  both  hot  and  cold. 

And  should  the  colder  fit  with  you  bo  on 
When  you  might  read,  my  credit  would  be  gone. 

Let  more  substantial  themes  the  pen  engage, 

And  nearer  interests  culled  from  the  opening  stage 
Of  our  migration.  — Ere  the  welcome  dawn 
Had  from  the  east  her  silver  star  withdrawn. 


434 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 


48.') 


The  wain  stood  ready,  at  our  cottage-door, 
I'houglitfuIIy  freiglited  witli  a various  store  ; 

And  long  or  ere  the  uprising  of  the  sun 
O’er  dew-damped  dust  our  journey  was  begun, 

A needful  journey,  under  favouring  skies. 

Through  peopled  vales;  yet  something  in  the  guise 
Of  those  old  patriarchs  when  from  well  to  well 
They  roamed  through  waste  where  now  the  tented 
Arabs  dwell. 

Say  first,  to  whom  did  we  the  charge  confide. 

Who  promptly  undertook  the  wain  to  guide 
Up  many  a sharply-twining  road  and  down. 

And  over  many  a wide  hill’s  craggy  crown. 

Through  the  quick  turns  of  many  a hollow  nook. 

And  the  rough  bed  of  many  an  unbridged  brook  ? 

A blooming  lass  — who  in  her  better  hand 
Bore  a light  switch  her  sceptre  of  command 
When,  yet  a slender  girl,  she  often  led. 

Skilful  and  bold,  the  horse  and  burthened  sled* 

From  the  peat-yielding  moss  on  Gowdar’s  head. 

What  could  go  wrong  with  such  a charioteer 
For  goods  and  chattels,  or  those  infants  dear, 

A pair  who  smilingly  sate  side  by  side. 

Our  hope  confirming  that  the  salt-sea  tide. 

Whose  free  embraces  we  were  bound  to  seek. 

Would  their  lost  strength  restore  and  freshen  the  pale 
cheek  1 

Such  hope  did  either  parent  entertain 
Pacing  behind  along  the  silent  lane. 

Blithe  hopes  and  happy  musings  soon  took  flight. 

For  lo ! an  uncouth  melancholy  siglit  — 

On  a green  bank  a creature  sto(^  forlorn 
.lust  half  protruded  to  the  liglit  of  morn, 

Its  hinder  part  concealed  by  hedge-row  thorn. 

The  figure  called  to  mind  a beast  of  prey 
Stript  of  its  frightful  powers  by  slow  decay. 

And,  though  no  longer  upon  rapine  bent. 

Dim  memory  keeping  of  its  old  intent. 

We  started,  looked  again  with  anxious  eyes. 

And  in  that  griesly  object  recognise 

The  Curate’s  dog  — his  long-tried  friend,  for  they. 

As  well  we  knew,  together  had  grown  grey. 

The  master  died,  his  drooping  servant’s  grief 
Found  at  the  widow’s  feet  some  sad  relief; 

Yet  still  he  lived  in  pining  discontent. 

Sadness  which  no  indulgence  could  prevent ; 

Hence  whole  day  wanderings,  broken  nightly  sleeps 
And  lonesome  watch  that  out  of  doors  he  keeps; 

Not  oftentimes,  I trust,  as  we,  poor  brute  ! 

Espied  him  on  his  legs  sustained,  blank,  mute. 

And  of  all  visible  motion  destitute. 

So  that  the  very  heaving  of  his  breath 

Seemed  stopt,  though  by  some  other  power  than  death. 

Long  as  we  gazed  upon  the  form  and  face, 

A mild  domestic  pity  kept  its  place. 


* A local  word  for  Sledge. 


Unscared  by  thronging  fancies  of  strange  hue 
That  haunted  us  in  spite  of  what  we  knew. 

Even  now  I sometimes  think  of  him  as  lost 
In  second-sight  appearances,  or  crost 
By  spectral  shapes  of  guilt,  or  to  the  ground. 

On  which  he  stood,  by  spells  unnatural  bound, 
lake  a gaunt  shaggy  porter  forced  to  wait 
In  days  of  old  romance  at  Archimago’s  gate. 

Advancing  summer,  Nature’s  law  fulfilled. 

The  choristers  in  every  grove  had  stilled  ; 

But  we,  we  lacked  not  music  of  our  own. 

For  lightsome  Fanny  had  thus  early  thrown. 

Mid  the  gay  prattle  of  those  infant  tongues,  • 

Some  notes  prelusive,  from  the  round  of  songs 
With  which,  more  zealous  than  the  liveliest  bird 
That  in  wild  Arden’s  brakes  was  ever  heard. 

Her  work  and  her  work’s  partners  she  can  cheer. 

The  whole  day  long,  and  all  days  of  the  year. 

Thus  gladdened  from  our  own  dear  vale  we  pass 
And  soon  approach  Diana’s  looking-glass  ! 

To  Loughrigg-tarn,  round,  clear,  and  bright  as  heaven. 
Such  name  Italian  fancy  would  have  given. 

Ere  on  its  banks  the  few  grey  cabins  rose 
That  yet  disturb  not  its  concealed  repose 
More  than  the  feeblest  wind  that  idly  blows. 

Ah,  Beaumont ! when  an  opening  in  the  road 
Stopped  me  at  once  by  charm  of  what  it  showed. 

The  encircling  region  vividly  exprest 
Within  the  mirror’s  depth,  a world  at  rest  — 

Sky  streaked  with  purple,  grove  and  craggy  hield,\ 
And  the  smooth  green  of  many  a pendent  field. 

And,  quieted  and  soothed,  a torrent  small, 

A little  daring  would-be  waterfall, 

One  chimney  smoking  and  its  azure  wreath. 

Associate  all  in  the  calm  pool  beneath, 

With  here  and  there  a faint  imperfect  gleam 
Of  water-lilies  veiled  in  misty  steam  — 

W’hat  wonder  at  this  hour  of  stillness  deep, 

A shadowy  link  ’tween  wakefulness  and  sleep. 

When  Nature’s  self,  amid  such  blending  seems 
To  render  visible  her  own  soft  dreams. 

If,  mixed  with  what  appeared  of  rock,  lawn,  wood. 
Fondly  embosomed  in  the  tranquil  flood, 

A glimpse  I caught  of  that  abode,  by  thee 
Designed  to  rise  in  humble  privacy, 

A lowly  dwelling,  here  to  be  outspread. 

Like  a small  hamlet,  with  its  bashful  head 
Half  hid  in  native  trees.  Alas  ’ds  not. 

Nor  ever  was;  I sighed,  and  left  the  spot 
Unconscious  of  its  own  untoward  lot. 

And  thought  in  silence,  with  regret  too  keen. 

Of  unexperienced  joys  that  might  have  been  ; 

Of  neighbourhood  and  intermingling  arks. 

And  golden  summer  days  uniting  cheerful  hearts. 


t A word  common  in  the  country,  signifying  shelter,  as 
in  Scotland. 


436 


WORDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  AvORKS. 


But  time,  irrevocable  time  is  flown, 

And  let  us  utter  thanks  for  blessings  sown 

And  reaped  — what  hath  been,  and  what  is  our  own. 

Not  far  we  travelled  ere  a shout  of  glee, 

Startling  us  all,  dispersed  my  reverie; 

Such  shout  as  many  a sportive  echo  meeting 
Oft-times  from  Alpine  chalets  sends  a greeting. 
Whence  the  blithe  hail '!  behold  a peasant  stand 
On  high,  a kerchief  waving  in  her  hand ! 

Not  unexpectant  that  by  early  day 

Our  little  band  would  thrid  this  mountain  way, 

Before  her  cottage  on  the  bright  hill  side 
She  hath  advanced  with  hope  to  be  descried. 

Right  gladly  answering  signals  we  displayed, 

Moving  along  a tract  of  morning  shade, 

And  vocal  wishes  sent  off  like  good  will 
To  our  kind  friend  high  on  the  sunny  hill  — 

Luminous  region,  fair  as  if  the  prime 
Were  tempting  all  astir  to  look  aloft  or  climb; 

Only  the  centre  of  the  shining  cot 
With  door  left  open  makes  a gloomy  spot,  ->T 

Einblem  of  those  dark  corners  sometimes  found 
Within  the  happiest  breast  on  earthly  ground. 

Rich  prospect  left  behind  of  stream  and  vale, 

And  mountain-tops,  a barren  ridge  we  scale; 

Descend  and  reach,  in  Yewdale’s  depths,  a plain 
With  haycocks  studded,  striped  with  yellowing  grain — 
An  area  level  as  a lake  and  spread 
Under  a rock  too  steep  for  man  to  tread. 

Where  sheltered  from  the  north  and  bleak  north-west 
Aloft  the  raven  hangs  a visible  nest, 

Fearless  of  all  assaults  that  would  her  brood  molest. 
Hot  sunbeams  fill  the  steaming  vale ; but  hark. 

At  our  approach  a jealous  watch-dog’s  bark. 

Noise  that  brings  forth  no  liveried  page  of  state. 

But  the  whole  household,  that  our  coming  wait. 

With  young  and  old  warm  greetings  we  exchange. 
And  jocund  smiles,  and  toward  the  lowly  grange 
Press  forward  by  the  teasing  dogs  unscared. 

Entering,  we  find  the  morning  meal  prepared : 

So  down  we  sit,  though  not  till  each  had  cast 
Pleased  looks  around  the  delicate  repast  — 

Rich  cream,  and  snow-white  eggs  fresh  from  the  nest. 
With  amber  honey  from  the  mountain’s  breast; 
Strawberries  from  lane  or  woodland,  offering  wild 
Of  children’s  industry,  in  hillocks  piled  ; 

Cakes  for  the  nonce,  and  butter  fit  to  lie 
Upon  a lordly  dish;  frank  hospitality 
Where  simple  art  with  bounteous  nature  vied, 

And  cottage  comfort  shunned  not  seemly  pride. 

Kind  Hostess!  Handmaid  also  of  the  feast. 

If  thou  be  lovelier  than  the  kindling  east. 

Words  by  tby  presence  unrestrained  may  speak 
Of  a perpetual  dawn  from  brow  and  cheek 
Instinct  with  light  whose  sweetest  promise  lies. 

Never  retiring,  in  thy  large  dark  eyes. 


Dark  but  to  every  gentle  feeling  true. 

As  if  their  lustre  flowed  from  ether’s  purest  blue 

Let  me  not  ask  what  tears  may  have  been  wept 
By  those  bright  eyes,  what  weary  vigils  kept. 

Beside  that  hearth  what  sighs  may  have  been  heaved 
For  wounds  inflicted,  nor  what  toil  relieved 
By  fortitude  and  patience,  and  the  grace 
Of  heaven  in  pity  visiting  the  place. 

Not  unadvisedly  those  secret  springs 
I leave  unsearcbed:  enough  that  memory  clings, 
Here  as  elsewhere,  to  notices  that  make 
Their  own  significance  for  hearts  awake. 

To  rural  incidents,  whose  genial  powers 
Filled  with  delight  three  summer  morning  hours. 

More  could  my  pen  report  of  grave  or  gay 
That  through  our  gipsy  travel  cheered  the  way ; 

But,  bursting  forth  above  the  waves,  the  sun 
Laughs  at  my  pains,  and  seems  to  say,  “ Be  done.” 
Yet,  Beaumont,  thou  wilt  not,  I trust,  reprove 
This  humble  offering  made  by  Truth  to  Love, 

Nor  chide  the  muse  that  stooped  to  break  a spell 
Which  might  have  else  been  on  me  yet ; — 

Farewell. 


UPON  PERUSING  THE  FOREGOING  EPISTLE  THIRTY  YEARS 
AFTER  ITS  COMPOSITION. 

Soon  did  the  Almighty  giver  of  all  rest 
Take  those  dear  young  ones  to  a fearless  nest ; 

And  in  Death’s  arms  has  long  reposed  the  friend 
For  whom  this  simple  register  was  penned. 

Thanks  to  the  moth  that  spared  it  for  our  eyes ; 

And  strangers  even  the  slighted  scroll  may  prize. 
Moved  by  the  touch  of  kindred  sympathies. 

For  — save  the  calm,  repentance  sheds  o’er  strife 
Raised  by  remembrances  of  misused  life. 

The  light  from  past  endeavours  purely  willed 
And  by  Heaven’s  favour  happily  fulfilled  ; 

Save  hope  that  we,  yet  bound  to  earth,  may  share 
The  joys  of  the  departed  — what  so  fair 
As  blameless  pleasure,  not  without  some  tears. 
Reviewed  through  Love’s  transparent  veil  of  years? 

jVbfg.  — Loughrigg  Tarn,  alluded  to  in  the  foregoing 
Epistle,  resembles,  though  much  smaller  in  compass,  the 
Lake  Nemi,  or  Speculum  Diance  as  it  is  often  called,  not 
only  in  its  clear  waters  and  circular  form,  and  the  beauty 
immediately  surrounding  it,  but  also  as  being  overlooked 
by  the  eminence  of  Langdale  Pikes  as  Lake  Nemi  is  by 
that  of  Monte  Calvo.  Since  this  Epistle  was  written 
Loughrigg  Tarn  has  lost  much  of  its  beauty  by  the  felling 
of  many  natural  clumps  of  wood,  relics  of  the  old  forest, 
particularly  upon  the  farm  called  “The  Oaks,”  from  the 
abundance  of  that  tree  which  grew  there. 

It  is  to  be  regretted,  upon  public  grounds,  that  Sir 
George  Beaumont  did  not  carry  into  effect  his  intention  of 
constructing  here  a Summer  Retreat  in  the  style  I have 
described ; as  his  taste  would  have  set  an  example  how 


MISCELLANEOUS  I’OEMS. 


437 


buildings,  with  all  the  accommodations  modern  society 
requires,  might  be  introduced  even  into  the  most  secluded 
parts  ol'  this  country  without  injuring  their  native  cha- 
racter. The  design  was  not  abandoned  from  failure  of  incli- 
nation on  his  part,  but  in  consequence  of  local  untoward- 
ness which  need  not  be  particularised. 


PRELUDE, 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  VOUIME  ENTITLED  “ POEMS  CHIEFLY  OF  E.4RLY 
AND  L.Vrt:  YEARS  ” 

In  desultory  walk  tlirough  orchard  grounds, 

Or  some  deep  chestnut  grove,  oft  have  I paused 
The  while  a Thrush,  urged  rather  than  restrained 
By  gusts  of  vernal  storm,  attuned  his  song 
To  his  own  genial  instincts ; and  was  heard 
(Though  not  without  some  plaintive  tones  between) 

To  utter,  above  showers  of  blossom  swept 
From  tossing  boughs,  the  promise  of  a calm. 

Which  the  unsheltered  traveller  might  receive 
With  thankful  spirit.  The  descant,  and  the  wind 
That  seemed  to  play  with  it  in  love  or  scorn. 
Encouraged  and  endeared  the  strain  of  words 
That  haply  flowed  from  me,  by  fits  of  silence 
Impelled  to  livelier  pace.  But  now,  my  Book! 
Charged  with  tho.se  lays,  and  others  of  like  mood. 

Or  loftier  pitch  if  higher  rose  the  theme. 

Go,  single  — yet  aspiring  to  be  joined 
With  thy  forerunners  tliat  through  many  a year 
Have  faitlifully  prepared  each  Ollier’s  way  — 

Go  forth  upon  a mission  best  fulfilled 
When  and  wherever,  in  this  changeful  world. 

Power  hath  been  given  to  please  for  higher  ends 
Than  pleasure  only ; gladdening  to  prepare 
For  wholesome  sadness,  troubling  to  refine. 

Calming  to  raise;  and  by  a sapient  art 
Difi’used  through  all  the  mysteries  of  our  being. 
Softening  the  toils  and  pains  that  have  not  ceased 
To  cast  their  shadows  on  our  mother  earth 
Since  the  primeval  doom.  Such  is  the  grace 
Which,  though  unsued  for,  fails  not  to  descend 
With  heavenly  inspiration;  such  the  aim 
That  Reason  dictates;  and,  as  even  the  wish 
Has  virtue  in  it,  why  should  hope  to  me 
Be  wanting  that  sometimes,  where  fancied  ills 
Harass  the  mind  and  strip  from  off  the  bowers 
Of  private  life  their  natural  pleasantness, 

A voice  — devoted  to  the  love  whose  seeds 
Are  sown  in  every  human  breast,  to  beauty 
Lodged  within  compass  of  the  humblest  sight. 

To  cheerful  intercourse  with  wood  and  field. 

And  sympathy  with  man’s  substantial  griefs  — 

Will  not  be  heard  in  vain  I And  in  those  days 
When  unforeseen  distress  spreads  far  and  wide 
Among  a people  mournfully  cast  down, 

Or  into  anger  roused  by  venal  words 
In  recklessness  flung  out  to  overturn 
The  judgment,  and  divert  the  general  heart 


From  mutual  good  — some  strain  of  thine,  my  Book! 

Caught  at  propitious  intervals,  may  win 

Listeners  who  not  unwillingly  admit 

Kindly  emotion  tending  to  console 

And  reconcile;  and  both  with  young  and  old 

Exalt  the  sense  of  thoughtful  gratitude 

For  benefits  that  still  survive,  by  faith 

In  progress,  under  laws  divine,  maintained. 

Rydal  Modnt,  March  2G.  1812. 


TO  A CHILD. 

WRITTEN  IN  HER  ALBUM. 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts: 

Of  humblest  friends,  bright  creature ! scorn  not  one; 
The  daisy,  by  the  shadow  that  it  casts. 

Protects  the  lingering  dew-drop  from  the  sun. 


ODE 

ON  THE  INSTALL.\TION 

OF 

ms  ROYAL  HIGHNESS  PRINCE  ALBERT 

AS 

CHANCELLOR  OF  THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CAMBRIDGE, 
JULY,  1847. 

BY  W I L L I A .VI  WORDS  W ORTH, 
rOET  ladreate. 


For  thirst  of  power  that  Heaven  disowns. 
For  temples,  towers,  and  thrones 
Too  long  insulted  by  the  spoiler’s  shock. 

Indignant  Europe  cast 
Her  stormy  foe  at  last 
To  reap  the  whirlwind  on  a Libyan  rock. 

War  is  passion’s  basest  game, 

Madly  played  to  win  a name : 

Up  starts  some  tyrant,  Heaven  and  Earth  to  dare , 
The  servile  million  bow; 

But  will  the  lightning  glance  aside  and  spare 
The  despot’s  laurelled  brow  ? 

War  is  mercy,  glory,  fame. 

Waged  in  Freedom’s  holy  cause. 

Freedom  such  as  man  may  claim 
Under  God’s  restraining  laws. 

Such  is  Albion’s  fame  and  glory. 

Let  rescued  Europe  tell  the  story. 

But  lo!  what  sudden  cloud  has  darkened  all 
The  land  as  with  a funeral  pall  ] 

37* 


438 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  Rose  of  England  sulfers  blight ; 

The  Flower  has  drooped,  the  Isle’s  delight ; 
Flower  and  bud  together  fall ; 

A nation’s  hopes  lie  crushed  in  Claremont’s  desolate 
Hall. 

Time  a chequered  mantle  wears  — 

Earth  awakes  from  wintr  sleep: 

Again  the  tree  a blossom  bears; 

Cease,  Britannia,  cease  to  weep ! 

Hark  to  the  peals  on  this  bright  May  morn  ! 

They  tell  that  your  future  Queen  is  born. 

A guardian  angel  fluttered 
Above  the  babe,  unseen ; 

One  word  he  softly  uttered, 

It  named  the  future  Queen  ; 

And  a joyful  cry  through  the  island  rang, 

As  bold  and  clear  as  the  trumpet’s  clang. 

As  bland  as  the  reed  of  peace : 

“ Victoria  be  her  name  !” 

For  righteous  triumphs  are  the  base 
Whereon  Britannia  rests  her  peaceful  fame. 

Time  in  his  mantle’s  sunniest  fold 
Uplifted  on  his  arms  the  child, 

And  while  the  fearless  infant  smiled 
Her  happier  destiny  foretold. — 

“ Infancy,  by  wisdom  mild 
Trained  to  health  and  artless  beauty 
Youth,  by  pleasure  unbeguiled 
From  the  lore  of  lofly  duty  : 

Womanhood,  in  pure  renown 
Seated  on  her  lineal  throne  : 

Leaves  of  myrtle  in  her  crown. 

Fresh  with  lustre  all  their  own. 

Love,  the  treasure  worth  possessing 
More  than  all  the  world 'beside. 

This  shall  be  her  choicest  blessing. 

Oft  to  royal  hearts  denied.” 

That  eve,  the  Star  of  Brunswick  shone 
With  stedfast  ray  benign 
On  Gotha’s  ducal  roof,  and  on 
The  softly  flowing  Leine, 

Nor  failed  to  gild  the  spires  of  Bonn, 

And  glittered  on  the  Rliine 
Old  Camus  too,  on  that  prophetic  night 
Was  conscious  of  tlie  ray ; 

And  his  willows  whispered  in  its  light 
Not  to  the  zephyr’s  sway. 

But  with  a Delphic  life,  in  sight 
Of  this  auspicious  day  — 


This  day,  when  Granta  hails  her  chosen  Lord, 
And,  proud  of  her  award. 

Confiding  in  that  Star  serene. 

Welcomes  the  consort  of  a happy  Queen. 

Prince,  in  these  collegiate  bowers. 

Where  science,  leagued  with  holier  truth. 
Guards  the  sacred  heart  of  youth, 

_ Solemn  monitors  are  our’s. 

These  reverend  aisles,  these  hallowed  towers 
Raised  by  many  a hand  august. 

Are  haunted  by  majestic  powers. 

The  memories  of  the  wise  and  just. 

Who,  faithful  to  a pious  trust. 

Here,  in  the  Founder’s  spirit,  sought 
To  mould  and  stamp  the  ore  of  thought 
In  that  bold  form  and  impress  high 
That  best  betoken  patriot  loyalty. 

Not  in  vain  those  sages  taught: 

True  disciples,  good  as  great. 

Have  pondered  here  their  country’s  weal. 
Weighed  the  Future  by  the  Past, 

Learnt  how  social  frames  may  last. 

And  how  a land  may  rule  its  fate 
By  constancy  inviolate. 

Though  worlds  to  their  foundations  reel. 

The  sport  of  faction’s  hate  or  godless  zeal. 

Albert,  in  thy  race  we  cherish 
A nation’s  strength  that  will  not  perish 
W’hile  England’s  sceptred  line. 

True  to  the  King  of  kings  is  found, 

Like  that  wise  ancestor  of  thine 
Who  threw  the  Saxon  shield  o’er  Luther’s  life 
When  first  above  the  yells  of  bigot  strife 
The  trumpet  of  the  Living  Word 
Assumed  a voice  of  deep  portentous  sound. 

From  gladdened  Elbe  to  startled  Tiber  heard. 
What  shield  more  sublime 
E’er  was  blazoned  or  sung  I 
And  the  Prince  whom  we  greet 
From  its  Hero  is  sprung. 

Resound,  resound  the  strain 
That  hails  him  for  our  own ! 

Again,  again,  and  yet  again. 

For  the  Church,  the  Siate,  the  Throne  ! 

And  that  Presence  fair  and  bright. 

Ever  blest  wherever  seen. 

Who  deigns  to  grace  our  festal  rite  — 

The  pride  of  the  Islands,  Victoria  the  Qcee.\! 


TRANSLATION 


OP 

PART  OF  THE  FIRST  BOOK  OF  THE  iENEID 


TO  THE  EDITORS  OF  THE  PHILOLOGICAL  MUSEUM. 

Yoor  letter  reminding  me  of  an  expectation  I some  time  since 
held  out  to  you  of  allowing  some  specimens  of  my  translation 
from  the  AEneid  to  be  printed  in  the  Philological  Museum,  was  not 
very  acceptable ; for  I had  abandoned  the  thought  of  ever  sending  into 
the  world  any  part  of  thitt  e.vpcriment,— for  it  was' nothing  more,— an 
experiment  begun  for  amusement,  and  I now  think  a less  fortunate 
one  than  when  I first  named  it  to  you.  Having  heen  displeased  in 
modern  translations  with  the  additions  of  incongruous  matter,  I 
began  to  translate  with  « resolve  to  keep  clear  of  that  fault,  by 
adding  nothing;  but  I became  convinced  that  a spirited  translation 
can  scarcely  be  accomplished  in  the  English  language  without  ad- 
mitting a principle  of  compensation.  On  this  point,  however,  1 do 
not  wish  to  insist,  and  merely  send  the  following  passage,  taken  at 
random,  from  a wish  to  comply  with  your  request.  — W.  VV. 


But  Cytherea,  studious  to  invent 

Arts  yet  untried,  upon  new  counsels  bent, 

Resolves  that  Cupid,  changed  in  form  and  face 
To  young  Ascanius,  should  assume  his  place; 

Present  the  maddening  gifts,  and  kindle  heat 
Of  passion  at  the  bosom’s  inmost  seat. 

She  dreads  the  treacherous  house,  the  double  tongue; 
She  burns,  she  frets  — by  Juno’s  rancour  stung- 
The  calm  of  night  is  powerless  to  remove 
Tiiese  cares,  and  thus  she  speaks  to  winged  Love. 

O son,  my  strength,  my  power ! who  dost  despise 
(What  save  thyself,  none  dares  through  earth  and  skies,) 
The  giant-quelling  bolts  of  Jove,  I flee, 

O son,  a suppliant  to  thy  deity  ! 

What  perils  meet  iEueas  in  his  course. 

How  Juno’s  hate  with  unrelenting  force 
Pursues  thy  brother  — this  to  thee  is  known; 

And  oft-times  hast  thou  made  my  griefs  thine  own. 
Him  now  the  generous  Dido  by  soft  chains 
Of  bland  entreaty  at  her  court  detains; 

Junonian  hospitalities  prepare 
Such  apt  occasion  that  I dread  a snare. 

Hence,  ere  some  hostile  god  can  intervene 
Would  I,  by  previous  w’iles,  inflame  the  queen 
With  passion  for  Aeneas,  such  strong  love 
Tliat  at  my  beck,  mine  only,  she  shall  move. 

Hear,  and  assist,  — the  father’s  mandate  calls 
His  young  Ascanius  to  the  Tyrian  walls. 


[*  This  translation  is  taken  from  “The  Pkilologieal 
Museum,”  Vol.  I.,  p.  382,  Cambridge,  1832,  edited  by  the 
Rev.  Julius  Charles  Hare,  now  Archdeacon  of  Lewes. 
It  was  a contribution  to  that  periodical,  in  which  it  ap- 
peared  with  the  above  prefatory  note.  — H.  R.] 


He  comes,  my  dear  delight,  — and  costliest  things 
Preserv’d  from  fire  and  flood  for  presents  brings; 
Him  will  I take,  and  in  close  covert  keep. 

Mid  groves  Idalian,  lulled  to  gentle  sleep. 

Or  on  Cytherea’s  far-sequestered  steep, 

That  he  may  neither  know  what  hope  is  mine. 

Nor  by  his  presence  traverse  the  design. 

Do  thou,  but  for  a single  night’s  brief  space. 
Dissemble ; be  that  boy  in  form  and  face ! 

And  when  enraptured  Dido  shall  receive 
Thee  to  her  arms,  and  kisses  interweave 
Witli  many  a fond  embrace,  while  joy  runs  high, 
And  goblets  crown  the  proud  festivity, 

Instil  thy  subtle  poison,  and  inspire 
At  every  touch  an  unsuspected  fire. 

Love,  at  the  word,  before  his  mother’s  sight 
Puts  off  his  wings,  and  walks  with  proud  delight. 
Like  young  lulus;  but  the  gentlest  dews 
Of  slumber  Venus  sheds,  to  circumfuse 
The  true  Ascanius,  steep’d  in  placid  rest ; 

Then  wafts  him,  cherished  on  her  careful  breast. 
Through  upper  air  to  an  Idalian  glade. 

Where  he  on  soft  amaracus  is  laid. 

With  breathing  flowers  embraced,  and  fragrant  shad 
But  Cupid  following  cheerily  his  guide 
Achates,  with  the  gifts  to  Carthage  hied ; 

And,  as  the  hall  he  entered,  there,  between 
The  sharers  of  her  golden  couch,  was  seen 
Reclin’d  in  festal  pomp  the  Tyrian  queen. 

The  Trojans  too  (^Eneas  at  their  head) 

On  couches  lie,  with  purple  overspread  ; 

Meantime  in  canisters  is  heaped  the  bread. 

Pellucid  water  for  the  hands  is  borne. 

And  napkins  of  smooth  texture,  finely  shorn. 

Within  are  filly  handmaids,  who  prepare. 

As  they  in  order  stand  the  dainty  fare ; 

And  fume  the  household  deities  with  store 
Of  odorous  incense;  while  a hundred  more 
Match’d  with  an  equal  number  of  like  age, 

But  each  of  manly  sex,  a docile  page. 

Marshal  the  banquet,  giving  with  due  grace 
To  cup  or  viand  its  appointed  place. 

The  Tyrians  rushing  in,  an  eager  band. 

Their  painted  couches  seek,  obedient  to  command. 
They  look  with  wonder  on  the  gifts  — they  gaze 
Upon  lulus,  dazzled  with  the  rays 
That  from  his  ardent  countenance  are  flung. 

And  charmed  to  hear  his  simulating  tongue; 


439 


440 


WORDSWORTH'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  pass  unpraised,  the  robe  and  veil  divine, 

Round  wliich  the  yellow  flowers  and  wandering  foliage 
twine. 

But  chieflv  Dido,  to  the  coming  ill 
Devoted,  strives  in  vain  her  vast  desires  to  fill : 

She  views  tne  gifts ; upon  the  child  then  turns 
Insatiable  looks,  and  gazing  burns. 

To  ease  a fatijer’s  cheated  love  he  hung 
Upon  yEneas,  and  around  him  clung; 

Then  seeks  the  queen  ; with  her  his  arts  he  tries; 

She  fastens  on  the  boy  enamour'd  eyes, 

Clasps  in  her  arms,  nor  weens  (O  lot  unblest!) 

How  great  a god,  incumbent  o'er  her  breast. 

Would  fill  it  with  his  spirit.  He  to  please 
His  Acidaliari  mother,  by  degrees 
Blots  out  Sichreus,  studious  to  remove 
The  dead,  by  influx  of  a living  love. 

By  stealthy  entrance  of  a perilous  guest 
Troubling  a heart  lliat  had  been  long  at  rest. 

Now  when  the  viands  were  withdrawn,  and  ceased 
The  first  division  of  the  splendid  feast. 

While  round  a vacant  board  the  chiefs  recline. 

Huge  goblets  are  brought  forth;  they  crown  the  wine, 
Voices  of  gladness  roll  the  walls  around  ; 

Those  gladsome  voices  from  the  courts  rebound ; 

From  gilded  rafters  many  a blazing  liglit 
Depends,  and  torches  overcome  tlie  night. 

The  minutes  fly  — till  at  the  queen’s  command, 

A bowl  of  stale  is  offered  to  her  hand ; 

Then  she,  as  Belus  wont,  and  all  the  line 
From  Belus,  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  wine ; 

Silence  ensued.  “ O Jupiter,  whose  care 
Is  hospitable  dealing,  grant  my  prayer! 

Productive  day  be  this  of  lasting  joy 


To  Tyrians,  and  these  exiles  driven  from  Troy  ; 

A day  to  future  generations  dear ! 

Let  Bacchus,  donor  of  soul-quickening  cheer. 

Be  present,  kindly  Juno,  be  thou  near; 

And  Tyrians,  may  your  choicest  favours  wait 
Upon  this  hour  the  bond  to  celebrate !” 

She  spake  and  shed  an  offering  on  the  board  ; 

Then  sipp’d  the  bowl  whence  she  the  wine  had  pour’d 
And  gave  to  Bitias,  urging  the  prompt  lord; 

He  raised  the  bowl,  and  took  a long  deep  draught. 
Then  every  chief  in  turn  the  beverage  quaff’d. 

Graced  with  redundant  hair,  lopas  sings 
The  lore  of  Atlas,  to  resounding  strings, 

Tlie  labours  of  the  sun,  the  lunar  wanderings; 

Whence  human  kind  and  brute ; what  natural  powers 
Engender  lightning,  whence  are  falling  showers'! 

He  chaunts  Arcturus,  — that  fraternal  twain 
The  glittering  Bears,  — the  Pleiads  fraught  with  rain  ; 
— Why  suns  in  winter,  shunning  heaven’s  steep  heights 
Post  sea-ward, — what  impedes  the  tardy  nights. 

The  learned  song  from  Tyrian  hearers  draws 
Loud  shouts,  — the  Trojans  echo  tlie  applause. 

— But  lengthening  out  the  night  with  converse  new, 
Large  draughts  of  love  unhappy  Dido  drew ; 

Of  Priam  ask’d,  of  Hector  — o’er  and  o’er  — 

What  arms  the  son  of  bright  Aurora  wore  ; — 

What  steeds  the  car  of  Diomed  could  boast; 

Among  the  leaders  of  the  Grecian  host 
How  look’d  Achilles,  their  dread  paramount  — 

“But  nay,  — the  fatal  wiles,  O guest,  recount. 

Retrace  the  Grecian  cunning  from  its  source. 

Your  own  grief  and  your  friends  — your  wandering 
course ; 

For  now,  till  this  seventh  summer  have  ye  ranged 
The  sea,  or  trod  the  earth,  to  peace  estranged.” 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER. 


MODERNIZED.* 


THE  PRIORESS’  TALE. 

"Call  up  him  who  left  half  told 
The  story  of  Cambuscaii  bold." 

In  the  following  Poem  no  further  deviation  from  the  original  has 
been  made  than  was  necessary  for  the  fluent  reading  and  instant 
understanding  of  the  Author;  so  much,  however,  is  the  language 
altered  since  Chaucer’s  time,  especially  in  pronunciation,  that  much 
was  to  be  removed,  and  its  place  supplied  with  as  little  incongruity 
as  possible.  The  ancient  accent  has  been  retained  in  a few  con- 
junctions, as  olso  and  ahcdy.  from  a conviction  that  such  sprinklings 
of  antiquity  would  be  admitted,  by  persons  of  taste,  to  have  a 
graceful  accordance  with  the  subject.  The  fierce  bigotry  of  the 
Prioress  forms  a fine  back-ground  for  her  tender-hearted  sympathies 
with  the  Mother  and  Child ; and  the  mode  in  which  the  story  is 
told  amply  atones  for  the  extravagance  of  the  miracle. 


“O  Lord,  our  Lord  ! how  wondrously,”  (quoth  she) 
“ Thy  name  in  this  large  world  is  spread  abroad  ! 
J'or  not  alone  by  men  of  dignity 
Thy  worship  is  performed  and  precious  laud ; 

But  by  the  mouths  of  children,  gracious  God  ! 

Thy  goodness  is  set  forth;  they  when  they  lie 
Upon  the  breast  thy  name  do  glorify 

Wherefore  in  praise,  the  worthiest  that  I may, 

Jesu ! of  thee,  and  the  white  Lily-flower 
Which  did  thee  bear,  and  is  a Maid  for  aye, 

To  tell  a story  I will  use  my  piower ; 

Not  that  I may  increase  her  honour’s  dower. 

For  she  herself  is  honour,  and  the  root 
Of  goodness,  next  her  Son,  our  soul’s  best  boot. 

O Mother  Maid  ! O Maid  aud  Mother  free ! 

O bush  unburnt!  burning  in  Moses’  sight! 

That  down  didst  ravish  from  the  Deity, 

Through  humbleness,  the  spirit  that  did  alight 
Upon  thy  heart,  whence,  through  that  glory’s  might. 
Conceived  was  the  Father’s  sapience. 

Help  me  to  tell  it  in  thy  reverence ! 


[*  In  a letter  to  the  Editor,  dated  “ Rydal  Mount,  Janu- 
ary 13th,  1841,”  Wordsworth  said:  So  great  is  my  ad- 

miration of  Chaucer’s  genius,  and  so  profound  my  reverence 
for  him  as  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  Providence,  for 
spreading  the  light  of  literature  through  his  native  land, 
that  notwithstanding  the  defects  and  faults  in  this  publica- 
tion, I am  glad  of  it,  as  a means  for  making  many  ac- 
quainted with  the  original,  who  would  otherwise  be 
ignorant  of  every  thing  about  him  but  his  name.”  — The 
volume  entitled  ” The  Poems  of  Geofrey  Chaucer  Modern- 
ized," was  published  in  London,  in  1841.  It  is  made  up 
of  the  contributions  of  Wordsworth,  Miss  Barrett,  Leigh 
Hunt,  R.  H.  Horne,  and  others. — II.  R.] 

SF 


Lady  ! thy  goodness,  thy  magnificence, 

Tliy  virtue,  and  thy  great  humility. 

Surpass  all  science  and  all  utterance; 

For  sometimes.  Lady ! ere  men  pray  to  thee 
'I'hou  goest  before  in  thy  benignity. 

The  light  to  us  vouchsafing  of  thy  prayer. 

To  be  our  guide  unto  thy  Son  so  dear. 

My  knowledge  is  so  weak,  O blissful  Queen ! 

To  tell  abroad  thy  mighty  worthiness. 

That  I the  weight  of  it  may  not  sustain ; 

But  as  a child  of  twelvemonths  old  or  less. 

That  laboureth  his  language  to  express. 

Even  so  fare  I ; and  therefore,  I thee  pray. 

Guide  thou  my  song  wliich  I of  thee  shall  say. 

There  was  in  Asia,  in  a mighty  town, 

’Mong  Christian  folk,  a street  where  Jews  might  be. 
Assigned  to  them  and  given  them  for  their  own 
By  a great  lord,  for  gain  and  usury. 

Hateful  to  Christ  and  to  his  company  ; 

And  through  this  street  who  list  might  ride  and  wend 
Free  was  it,  and  unbarred  at  either  end. 

A little  school  of  Christian  people  stood 
Down  at  the  farther  end,  in  which  there  were 
A nest  of  children  come  of  Christian  blood. 

That  learned  in  that  school  from  year  to  year 
Such  sort  of  doctrine  as  men  used  there. 

That  is  to  say,  to  sing  and  read  also. 

As  little  children  in  their  childliood  do. 

Among  these  children  was  a widow’s  son, 

A little  scholar,  scarcely  seven  years  old. 

Who  day  by  day  unto  this  scliool  hath  gone. 

And  eke,  wlien  he  the  image  did  behold 
Of  Jesu’s  Mother,  as  he  had  been  told. 

This  child  was  wont  to  kneel  adown  and  say 
Ave  Marie,  as  he  goeth  by  the  way. 

This  widow  thus  her  little  son  hath  taught 
Our  blissful  Lady,  Jesu’s  Mother  dear. 

To  worship  aye,  and  he  forgat  it  not ; 

For  simple  infant  hath  a ready  ear. 

Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  youth:  and  hence. 

Calling  to  mind  this  matter  when  I may. 

Saint  Nicholas  in  rny  presence  standeth  aye. 

For  he  so  young  to  Christ  did  reverence. 

This  little  child,  while  in  the  school  he  sate 
His  primer  conning  with  an  earnest  cheer, 


441 


442 


WOKDS WORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  whilst  the  rest  their  anthem-book  repeat 
The  Alma  Redemptoris  did  he  hear; 

And  as  he  durst  he  drew  him  near  and  near, 

And  hearkened  to  the  words  and  to  the  note, 

Till  the  first  verse  he  learned  it  all  by  rote. 

This  Latin  knew  he  nothing  what  it  said. 

For  he  too  tender  was  of  age  to  know  ; 

But  to  his  comrade  he  repaired,  and  prayed 
That  he  the  meaning  of  this  song  would  show. 

And  unto  him  declare  why  men  sing  so; 

This  oftentimes,  that  he  might  be  at  ease. 

This  child  did  him  beseech  on  his  bare  knees. 

His  schoolfellow,  who  elder  was  than  he. 

Answered  him  thus:  — ‘This  song,  I have  heard  say. 
Was  fashioned  for  our  blissful  Lady  free ; 

Her  to  salute,  and  also  her  to  pray 
To  be  our  help  upon  our  dying  day  : 

If  there  is  more  in  this,  I know  it  not; 

Song  do  I learn, — small  grammar  I have  got.’ 

‘And  is  this  song  fashioned  in  reverence 
Of  Jesu’s  Mother?’  said  this  innocent; 

‘Now,  certes,  I will  use  my  diligence 
To  con  it  all  ere  Christmas  tide  be  spent; 

Although  I for  my  primer  shall  be  shent, 

And  shall  be  beaten  three  times  in  an  hour. 

Our  Lady  I will  praise  with  all  my  power.’ 

His  schoolfellow,  whom  he  had  so  besought. 

As  they  went  homeward  taught  him  privily 
And  then  he  sang  it  well  and  fearlessly. 

From  word  to  word  according  to  the  note 
Twice  in  a day  it  passed  through  his  throat ; 
Homeward  and  schoolward  whensoe’er  he  went. 

On  Jesu’s  Mother  fixed  was  his  intent. 

Through  all  the  Jewry  (this  before  said  I) 

This  little  child,  as  he  came  to  and  fro. 

Full  merrily  then  would  he  sing  and  cry, 

O Alma  Redemptoris  ! high  and  low  : 

The  sweetness  of  Christ’s  Mother  pierced  so 
His  heart,  that  her  to  praise,  to  her  to  pray. 

He  cannot  stop  his  singing  by  the  way. 

The  Serpent,  Satan,  our  first  foe,  that  hath 

His  wasp’s  nest  in  Jew’s  heart,  upswelled  — ‘ O woe, 

O Hebrew  people !’  said  he  in  his  wrath, 

‘ Is  it  an  honest  thing ! Shall  this  be  so? 

That  such  a boy  where’er  he  lists  shall  go 
In  your  despite,  and  sing  his  hymns  and  saws, 

Which  is  against  the  reverence  of  our  laws  !’ 

From  that  day  forward  have  the  Jews  conspired 
Out  of  the  world  this  innocent  to  chase  ; 

And  to  this  end  a homicide  they  hired. 

That  in  an  alley  had  a privy  place. 

And,  as  the  child  ’gan  to  the  school  to  pace. 

This  cruel  Jew  him  seized,  and  held  him  fast 
And  cut  his  throat  and  in  a pit  him  cast, 


I say  that  him  into  a pit  they  threw, 

A loathsome  pit,  whence  noisome  scents  exhale ; 

O cursed  folk  ! away,  ye  Herods  new ! 

What  may  your  ill  intentions  you  avail  ? 

Murder  will  out;  certes  it  will  not  fail; 

Know,  that  the  honour  of  high  God  may  spread. 

The  blood  cries  out  on  your  accursed  deed. 

O Martyr  ’stablished  in  virginity! 

Now  may’st  thou  sing  for  aye  before  the  throne. 
Following  the  Lamb  celestial,”  quoth  she, 

“Of  which  the  great  Evangelist,  Saint  John, 

In  Patmos  wrote,  who  saith  of  them  that  go 
Before  the  Lamb  singing  continually. 

That  never  fleshly  woman  they  did  know. 

Now  this  poor  widow  waiteth  all  that  night 
After  her  little  child,  and  he  came  not; 

For  which,  by  earliest  glimpse  of  morning  light. 
With  face  all  pale  with  dread  and  busy  thought. 

She  at  the  school  and  elsewhere  him  hath  sought, 
Until  thus  far  she  learned,  that  he  had  been 
In  the  Jews’  street,  and  there  he  last  was  seen. 

With  mother’s  pity  in  her  breast  enclosed 
She  goeth,  as  she  were  half  out  of  her  mind. 

To  every  place  wherein  she  hatli  supposed 
By  likelihood  her  little  son  to  find ; 

And  ever  on  Christ’s  Mother  meek  and  kind 
She  cried,  till  to  the  Jewry  she  was  brought. 

And  him  among  the  accursed  Jews  she  sought. 

She  asketh,  and  she  piteously  doth  pray 
To  every  Jew  that  dwelleth  in  that  place 
To  tell  her  if  her  child  had  passed  that  way ; 

They  all  said  — Nay  ; but  Jesu  of  his  grace 
Gave  to  her  thought,  that  in  a little  space 
She  for  her  son  in  that  same  spot  did  cry 
Where  he  was  cast  into  a pit  hard  by. 

O thou  great  God  that  dost  perform  thy  laud 
By  mouths  of  innocents,  lo!  here  thy  might; 

This  gem  of  chastity,  this  emerald, 

And  eke  of  martyrdom  this  ruby  bright. 

There,  where  with  mangled  throat  he  lay  upright, 

The  Alma  Redemptoris  ’gan  to  sing 

So  loud,  that  with  his  voice  the  place  did  ring. 

The  Christian  folk  that  through  the  Jewry  went 
Come  to  the  spot  in  wonder  at  the  thing; 

And  hastily  they  for  the  Provost  sent ; 

Immediately  he  came,  not  tarrying. 

And  praiseth  Christ  that  is  our  heavenly  King, 

And  eke  his  mother,  honour  of  mankind : 

Which  done,  he  bade  that  they  the  Jews  should  bind. 

This  child  with  piteous  lamentation  then 
Was  taken  up,  singing  his  song  alway ; 

And  with  procession  great  and  pomp  of  men 
To  the  next  Abbey  him  they  bare  away ; 

His  mother  swooning  by  the  body  lay ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  CHAUCER. 


1-13 


.^nd  scarcely  could  the  people  that  were  near 
Remove  this  second  Rachel  from  the  bier. 

Torment  and  shameful  death  to  every  one 
This  Provost  doth  for  those  bad  Jews  prepare 
That  of  this  murder  wist,  and  that  anon  : 

Such  wickedness  his  judgment  cannot  spare; 

Who  will  do  evil,  evil  shall  he  bear; 

Them  therefore  with  wild  horses  did  he  draw, 

And  after  that  he  hung  them  by  the  law. 

Upon  his  bier  this  innocent  dotli  lie 
Before  the  altar  while  the  Mass  doth  last: 

The  Abbot  with  his  convent’s  company 
Then  sped  themselves  to  bury  him  full  fast; 

And,  when  they  holy  water  on  him  cast. 

Yet  spake  this  child  when  sprinkled  was  the  water. 
And  sang,  O Alma  Rcdemploris  Mater! 


And  after  that  they  rose,  and  took  their  way. 

And  lifted  up  this  martyr  from  the  bier. 

And  in  a tomb  of  precious  marble  clear 
Enclosed  his  uncorrupted  body  sweet. — 
Where’er  he  be,  God  grant  us  him  to  meet ! 

Young  Hew  of  Lincoln  ! in  like  .sort  laid  low 
By  cursed  Jews  — thing  well  and  widely  known. 
For  it  was  done  a little  wlnle  ago — 

Pray  also  thou  for  us,  while  here  we  tarry 
Weak  sinful  folk,  that  God,  with  pitying  eye, 

In  mercy  would  his  mercy  multi])ly 
On  us,  for  reverence  of  his  Mother  Mary !” 


THE  CUCKOO  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 


This  Abbot,  for  he  was  a holy  man. 

As  all  Monks  are,  or  surely  ought  to  be. 

In  supplication  to  the  child  began 

Thus  saying,  ‘ O dear  child  ! I summon  thee 

In  virtue  of  the  holy  Trinity 

Tell  me  the  cause  why  thou  dost  sing  this  hymn. 

Since  that  thy  throat  is  cut  as  it  doth  seem.’ 

‘ My  throat  is  cut  unto  the  bone,  I trow,’ 

Said  this  young  child,  ‘and  by  the  law  of  kind 
I should  liave  died,  yea  many  hours  ago; 

But  Jesus  Christ,  as  in  the  books  ye  find. 

Will  that  his  glory  last,  and  be  in  mind  ; 

And,  for  tlie  worship  of  his  Mother  dear. 

Yet  may  I sing,  O Alma  ! loud  and  clear. 

‘This  well  of  mercy,  Jesu’s  Mother  sweet. 

After  my  knowledge  I have  loved  alwily; 

And  in  the  hour  wlien  I my  death  did  meet 
To  me  she  came,  and  tlms  to  me  did  say, 

“Thou  in  thy  dying  sing  this  holy  lay,” 

As  ye  have  heard  ; and  soon  as  I had  sung 
Methought  she  laid  a grain  upon  my  tongue. 


I The  god  of  Love,  — ah  benedicite  ! 

How  mighty  and  how  great  a lord  is  he! 

For  he  of  low  hearts  can  make  high,  of  high 
^ He  can  make  low,  and  unto  death  bring  nigh  ; 
j And  hard  hearts  he  can  make  them  kind  and  free. 

Within  a little  time,  as  hath  been  found, 

I He  can  make  sick  folk  whole  and  fresh  and  sound: 
Tliem  who  are  whole  in  body  and  in  mind. 

He  can  make  sick,  — bind  can  he  and  unbind 
All  that  he  will  have  bound,  or  have  unbound. 


To  tell  his  might  my  wit  may  not  suffice; 
Foolish  men  he  can  make  them  out  of  wise;  — 
For  he  may  do  all  tliat  he  will  devise; 

Loose  livers  he  can  make  abate  their  vice. 

And  proud  hearts  can  make  tremble  in  a trice. 


In  brief,  the  whole  of  what  he  will,  he  may; 
Against  him  dare  not  any  wight  say  nay; 

I To  liumble  or  afflict  whome’er  he  will, 
j To  gladden  or  to  grieve,  he  hath  like  skill ; 

But  most  his  might  he  slieds  on  the  eve  of  May. 


‘ Wherefore  I sing,  nor  can  from  song  refrain, 

In  honour  of  that  blissful  Maiden  free. 

Till  from  my  tongue  ofl’-taken  is  the  grain ; 

And  after  that  thus  said  slie  unto  me; 

“My  little  child,  then  will  I come  for  thee 
Soon  as  the  grain  from  off  thy  tongue  they  take : 
Be  not  dismayed,  I will  not  thee  forsake!”’ 

This  holy  Monk,  this  Abbot — him  mean  I, 

Touched  then  his  tongue,  and  took  away  the  grain; 
And  he  gave  up  the  ghost  full  peacefully; 

And,  when  the  Abbot  liad  this  wonder  seen. 

His  salt  tears  trickled  down  like  showers  of  rain; 
And  on  his  face  he  dropped  upon  the  ground. 

And  still  he  lay  as  if  he  had  been  bound. 

Eke  the  whole  convent  on  the  pavement  lay. 
Weeping  and  praising  Jesu’s  Mother  dear ; 


For  every  true  heart,  gentle  heart  and  free. 

That  with  him  is,  or  thinketh  so  to  be, 

Now  against  May  shall  have  some  stirring  — whether 
To  joy,  or  be  it  to  some  mourning  ; never 
At  other  time,  methinks,  in  like  degree. 

For  now  when  they  may  hear  the  wild  birds’  song. 
And  see  the  budding  leaves  the  branches  throng, 

Tliis  unto  their  rememberance  doth  bring 
All  kinds  of  pleasure  mixed  with  sorrowing; 

And  longing  of  sweet  thoughts  that  ever  long. 

And  of  that  longing  heaviness  doth  come. 

Whence  oft  great  sickness  grows  of  heart  and  home  ; 
Sick  are  they  all  for  lack  of  their  desire ; 

And  thus  in  May  their  hearts  are  set  on  fire. 

So  that  they  burn  forth  in  great  martyrdom. 


444 


WORDSWOETirS  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  sooth,  I speak  from  feeling,  what  though  now 
Old  am  I,  and  to  genial  pleasure  slow ; > 

Yet  have  I felt  of  sickness  through  the  May,  j 

Both  hot  and  cold,  and  heart-aches  every  day, — 

How  hard,  alas ! to  bear,  I only  know. 

Such  shaking  doth  the  fever  in  me  keep 
Through  all  this  May  that  I have  little  sleep; 

And  also  ’tis  not  likely  unto  me, 

Tliat  any  living  heart  should  sleepy  be 
In  which  Love’s  dart  its  fiery  point  doth  steep. 

But  tossing  lately  on  a sleepless  bed, 

I of  a token  thought  which  Lovers  heed ; 

How  among  them  it  was  a common  tale. 

That  it  was  good  to  hear  the  Nightingale, 

Ere  the  vile  Cuckoo’s  note  be  uttered. 

And  then  I thought  anon  as  it  was  day, 

I gladly  would  go  somewhere  to  essay 
If  I perchance  a Nightingale  might  hear. 

For  yet  had  I heard  none,  of  all  that  year. 

And  it  was  then  the  third  night  of  the  May, 

And  soon  as  I a glimpse  of  day  espied, 

No  longer  would  I in  my  bed  abide. 

But  straightway  to  a wood  that  was  hard  by. 

Forth  did  I go,  alone  and  fearlessly. 

And  held  the  pathway  down  by  a brook-side; 

Till  to  a lawn  I came  all  white  and  green, 

I in  so  fair  a one  had  never  been. 

The  ground  was  green,  with  daisy  powdered  over; 

Tall  were  the  flowers,  the  grove  a lofly  cover. 

All  green  and  white  ; and  nothing  else  was  seen. 

There  sate  I down  among  the  fair  fresh  flowers. 

And  saw  the  birds  come  tripping  from  their  bowers. 
Where  they  had  rested  them  all  night ; and  they. 

Who  were  so  joyful  at  the  light  of  day. 

Began  to  honour  May  with  all  their  powers. 

Well  did  they  know  that  service  all  by  rote. 

And  there  was  many  and  many  a lovely  note. 

Some,  singing  loud,  as  if  they  had  complained ; 

Some  with  their  notes  another  manner  feigned 
And  some  did  sing  all  out  with  the  full  throat. 

They  pruned  themselves,  and  made  themselves  right 

gay’ 

Dancing  and  leaping  light  upon  the  spray ; 

And  ever  two  and  two  together  were. 

The  same  as  they  had  chosen  for  the  year, 

Upon  Saint  Valentine’s  returning  day. 

Meanwhile  the  stream,  whose  bank  I sate  upon. 

Was  making  such  a noise  as  it  ran  on 
Accordant  to  the  sweet  birds’  harmony ; 

Methought  that  it  was  the  best  melody 
Which  ever  to  man’s  car  a passage  won. 


' And  for  delight,  but  how  I never  wot, 

! I in  a slumber  and  a swoon  was  caught, 
j Not  all  asleep  and  yet  not  waking  wholly  ; 

And  as  I lay,  the  Cuckoo,  bird  unholy. 

Broke  silence,  or  I heard  him  in  my  thought. 

And  that  was  right  upon  a tree  fast  by. 

And  who  was  then  ill  satisfied  but  1 1 
Now,  God,  quoth  I,  that  died  upon  the  rood. 

From  thee  and  thy  base  throat,  keep  all  that’s  good, 
Full  little  joy  have  I now  of  thy  cry. 

And,  as  I with  the  Cuckoo  thus  ’gan  chide, 

In  the  next  bush  that  was  me  fast  beside, 

I beard  the  lusty  Nightingale  so  sing. 

That  her  clear  voice  made  a loud  rioting. 

Echoing  thorough  all  the  green  Wood  wide. 

Ah  1 good  sweet  Nightingale ! for  my  heart’s  cheer. 
Hence  hast  thou  stay’d  a little  while  too  long; 

For  we  have  had  the  sorry  Cuckoo  here. 

And  she  hath  been  before  thee  with  her  song; 

Evil  light  on  her ! she  hath  done  me  wrong. 

But  hear  you  now  a wondrous  thing,  I pray ; 

As  long  as  in  that  swooning-fit  I lay, 

Methought  I wist  right  well  what  these  birds  meant, 
And  had  good  knowing  both  of  their  intent. 

And  of  their  speech,  and  all  that  they  would  say. 

The  Nightingale  thus  in  my  hearing  spake  : — 

Good  Cuckoo,  seek  some  other  bush  or  brake. 

And,  prithee,  let  us  that  can  sing  dwell  here; 

For  every  wight  eschews  thy  song  to  hear. 

Such  uncouth  singing  verily  dost  thou  make. 

What ! quoth  she  then,  what  is’t  that  ails  thee  now  J 
It  seems  to  me  I sing  as  well  as  thou  ; 

For  mine’s  a song  that  is  both  true  and  plain,  — 
Although  I cannot  quaver  so  in  vain 
As  thou  dost  in  thy  throat,  I wot  not  how. 

All  men  may  understanding  have  of  me. 

But,  Nightingale,  so  may  they  not  of  thee; 

For  thou  hast  many  a foolish  and  quaint  cry  ; — 
Thou  say’st  Osee,  Osee,  then  how  may  I 
Have  knowledge,  I thee  pray,  what  this  may  be  1 

Ah,  fool ! quoth  she,  wist  thou  not  what  it  is  I 
Oft  as  I say  Osee,  Osee,  I wis. 

Then  mean  I,  that  I should  be  wondrous  fain 
That  shamefully  they  one  and  all  were  slain. 
Whoever  against  Love  mean  aught  amiss. 

And  also  would  I that  they  all  were  dead. 

Who  do  not  think  in  love  Iheir  life  to  lead; 

For  who  is  loth  the  God  of  Love  to  obey, 

Is  only  fit  to  die,  I dare  well  say. 

And  for  that  cause  Osee  I cry ; take  heed  ! 


SELECTIONS  EIIOM  CHAUCER. 


445 


Ay,  quoth  the  Cuckoo,  that  is  a <juaint  law, 

That  all  must  love  or  die;  but  I withdraw, 

And  take  my  leave  of  all  such  company. 

For  mine  intent  it  iieitlier  is  to  die, 

Nor  ever  while  I live  Love's  yoke  to  draw. 

For  lovers  of  all  folk  that  be  alive. 

The  most  disquiet  have  and  least  do  thrive  ; 

Most  feeling  have  of  sorrow,  woe  and  care. 

And  the  least  welfare  cometh  to  their  share; 

What  need  is  there  against  the  truth  to  strive? 

What ! quoth  she,  thou  art  all  out  of  thy  mind. 

That  in  thy  churlishness  a cause  canst  find 
To  speak  of  Love’s  true  servants  in  this  mood  ; 

For  in  this  world  no  service  is  so  good 
To  every  wight  that  gentle  is  of  kind. 

For  thereof  comes  all  goodness  and  all  worth ; 

All  gentiless  and  honour  thence  come  forth; 

Thence  worship  comes,  content  and  true  heart’s 
pleasure. 

And  full-assured  trust,  joy  without  measure, 

And  jollity,  fresh  cheerfulness,  and  mirth  ; 

And  bounty,  lowliness,  and  courtesy. 

And  seemliness,  and  faithful  company. 

And  dread  of  shame  that  will  not  do  amiss; 

For  he  that  faithfully  Love’s  servant  is. 

Rather  than  be  disgraced,  would  choose  to  die. 

And  that  the  very  truth  it  is  which  I 
Now  say — in  such  belief  I’ll  live  and  die; 

And  Cuckoo,  do  thou  so,  by  my  advice. 

Then,  quoth  she,  let  me  never  hope  for  bliss. 

If  with  that  counsel  I do  e’er  comply. 

Good  Nightingale!  thou  spoakest  wondrous  fair. 

Yet  for  all  that,  the  truth  is  found  elsewhere ; 

For  Love  in  young  folk  is  but  rage,  I wis; 

And  Love  in  old  folk  a great  dotage  is ; 

Who  most  it  useth,  him  ’twill  most  impair. 

For  thereof  come  all  contraries  to  gladness; 

Thence  sickness  comes,  and  overwhelming  sadness. 
Mistrust  and  jealousy,  despite,  debate, 

Dislionour,  shame,  envy  importunate. 

Pride,  anger,  mischief,  poverty,  and  madness. 

Loving  is  aye  an  office  of  despair. 

And  one  thing  is  therein  which  is  not  fair 
For  whoso  gets  of  love  a little  bliss. 

Unless  it  alway  stay  with  him  I wis, 
lie  may  full  soon  go  with  an  old  man’s  hair. 

And,  therefore.  Nightingale!  do  thou  keep  nigh. 

For  trust  me  well,  in  spite  of  thy  quaint  cry. 

If  long  time  from  thy  mate  thou  be,  or  far. 

Thou  ’It  be  as  others  that  forsaken  are  ; 

Then  shalt  thou  raise  a clamour  as  do  I. 


Fie,  quoth  she,  on  thy  name.  Bird  ill  beseen ! 

The  God  of  Love  afllict  thee  with  all  teen. 

For  tliou  art  worse  than  mad  a thousand  fold  ; 

For  many  a one  hath  virtues  manifold, 
i Who  had  been  nought,  if  Love  had  never  been. 

For  evermore  his  servants  Love  amendeth. 

And  he  from  every  blemish  them  defendeth ; 

And  maketh  them  to  burn,  as  in  a fire. 

In  loyalty,  and  worshipful  desire. 

And,  when  it  likes  him,  joy  enough  them  sendeth. 

Thou  Nightingale  ! the  Cuckoo  said,  be  still, 

For  Love  no  reason  hath  but  his  own  will ; — 

For  to  th’  untrue  he  oft  gives  ease  and  joy  ; 

True  lovers  doth  so  bitterly  annoy, 

He  lets  them  perish  tlirough  that  grievous  ill. 

With  such  a master  would  I never  be ; * 

For  he,  in  sooth,  is  blind,  and  may  not  see. 

And  knows  not  when  he  hurts  and  when  he  heals: 
Within  this  court  full  seldom  Truth  avails. 

So  diver.se  in  his  wilfulness  is  he. 

Then  of  the  Nightingale  did  I take  note. 

How  from  her  inmost  heart  a sigh  she  brought. 

And  said,  Alas ! that  ever  I was  born, 

Not  one  word  have  I now,  I am  so  forlorn, — 

And  witli  that  word  she  into  tears  burst  out. 

Alas,  alas ! my  very  heart  will  break. 

Quoth  she,  to  hear  this  churlish  bird  thus  speak 
Of  Love,  and  of  his  holy  services ; 

Now,  God  of  Love!  thou  help  me  in  some  wise. 

That  vengeance  on  this  Cuckoo  I may  wreak. 

And  so  methought  I started  up  anon. 

And  to  the  brook  I ran  and  got  a stone. 

Which  at  the  Cuckoo  hardily  I cast. 

And  he  for  dread  did  fly  away  full  fast; 

And  glad,  in  sooth,  was  I,  when  he  was  gone. 

And  as  he  flew,  the  Cuckoo,  ever  and  aye. 

Kept  crying,  “Farewell ! — farewell.  Popinjay  !” 

As  if  in  scornful  mockery  of  me ; 

And  on  I hunted  him  from  tree  to  tree. 

Till  he  was  far,  all  out  of  sight,  away. 

Then  straightway  came  the  Nightingale  to  me. 

And  said.  Forsooth,  my  friend,  do  I thank  thee. 

That  thou  wert  near  to  rescue  me ; and  now. 

Unto  the  God  of  Love  I make  a vow. 

That  all  this  May  I will  thy  songstress  be. 

Well  satisfied,  I thanked  her,  and  she  said. 

With  this  mishap  no  longer  be  dismayed. 

Though  thou  the  Cuckoo  heard,  ere  thou  heard’st  me; 
Yet  if  I live  it  shall  amended  be. 

When  next  May  comes,  if  I am  not  afraid. 


* From  a manuscript  in  the  Bodleian,  as  are  also  stanzas 
44  and  45,  which  are  necessary  to  complete  the  sense. 

38 


446 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  one  thing  will  I counsel  thee  also, 

Tiie  Cuckoo  trust  not  thou,  nor  his  Love’s  saw  ; 
All  that  she  said  is  an  outrageous  lie. 

Nay,  nothing  shall  me  bring  thereto,  quoth  I, 

For  Love,  and  it  hath  done  me  mighty  woe. 

Yea,  hath  it?  use,  quoth  she,  this  medicine; 

This  May-time,  every  day  before  thou  dine. 

Go  look  on  the  fresh  daisy ; then  say  I, 

Although  for  pain  thou  may’st  be  like  to  die. 
Thou  wilt  be  eased,  and  less  wilt  droop  and  pine. 

And  mind  always  that  thou  be  good  and  true, 
And  I will  sing  one  song  of  many  new, 

For  love  of  thee,  as  loud  as  I may  cry ; 

And  then  did  she  begin  this  song  full  high, 

• Beshrew  all  them  that  are  in  love  untrue.’ 

And  soon  as  she  had  sung  it  to  the  end, 

Now  farewell,  quoth  she,  for  I hence  must  wend ; 
And,  God  of  Love,  that  can  right  well  and  may, 
Send  unto  thee  as  mickle  joy  this  day, 

As  ever  he  to  Lover  yet  did  send. 

Thus  takes  the  Nightingale  her  leave  of  me; 

I pray  to  God  with  her  always  to  be. 

And  joy  of  love  to  send  her  evermore  ; 

And  shield  us  from  the  Cuckoo  and  her  lore. 

For  there  is  not  so  false  a bird  as  she 

Forth  then  she  flew,  the  gentle  Nightingale, 

'To  all  the  birds  that  lodged  within  that  dale. 

And  gathered  each  and  all  into  one  place; 

And  them  besought  to  hear  her  doleful  case. 

And  tlius  it  was  that  she  began  her  tale. 

The  Cuckoo  — ’tis  not  well  that  I should  hide 
How  she  and  I did  each  the  other  chide. 

And  without  ceasing,  since  it  was  daylight; 

And  now  I pray  you  all  to  do  me  right 
Of  that  false  bird  whom  love  can  not  abide. 

Then  spake  one  bird,  and  full  assent  all  gave  ; 
Tills  matter  asketh  counsel  good  as  grave. 

For  birds  we  are  — all  here  together  brought; 
And,  in  good  sooth,  the  Cuckoo  here  is  not; 

And  therefore  we  a Parliament  will  have. 

And  thereat  shall  the  Eagle  be  our  lord. 

And  other  peers  whose  names  are  on  record  ; 

A summons  to  the  Cuckoo  shall  be  sent. 

And  judgment  tliere  be  given;  or  that  intent 
Failing,  we  finally  shall  make  accord. 

And  all  tliis  shall  be  done,  without  a nay. 

The  morrow  after  Saint  Valentine’s  day. 

Under  a maple  tliat  is  well  beseen, 

Before  the  chamber-window  of  the  Queen, 

At  Woodstock,  on  the  meadow  green  and  gay. 


She  thanked  them;  and  then  her  leave  she  took. 
And  flew  into  a hawthorn  by  that  brook ; 

And  there  she  sate  and  sung  — upon  that  tree  — 
“For  term  of  life  Love  shall  have  hold  of  me”  — 
So  loudly  that  I with  that  song  awoke. 

Unlearned  book  and  rude,  as  well  I know. 

For  beauty  thou  hast  none,  nor  eloquence, 

I Who  did  on  thee  the  hardine.ss  bestow 
To  appear  before  my  lady?  but  a sense 
Thou  surely  hast  of  her  benevolence. 

Whereof  her  hourly  bearing  proof  doth  give ; 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Alas,  poor  book  ! for  thy  unworthiness, 

To  show  to  her  some  pleasant  meanings  writ 
In  winning  words,  since  through  her  gentiless. 
Thee  she  accepts  as  for  her  service  fit ! 

Oh  ! it  repents  me  I have  neither  wit 
Nor  leisure  unto  thee  more  worth  to  give; 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

Beseech  her  meekly  with  all  lowliness. 

Though  I be  far  from  her  I reverence. 

To  tliink  upon  my  truth  and  stedfastness. 

And  to  abridge  my  sorrow’s  violence. 

Caused  by  the  wish,  as  knows  your  sapience, 

She  of  her  liking  proof  to  me  would  give ; 

For  of  all  good  she  is  the  best  alive. 

l’e.woy. 

Pleasure’s  Aurora,  day  of  gladsomeness! 

Luna  by  night,  with  heavenly  influence 
Illumined  ! root  of  beauty  and  goodnesse. 

Write,  and  allay,  by  your  beneficence. 

My  sighs  breathed  forth  in  silence,  — comfort  give  ! 
Since  of  all  good,  you  are  the  best  alive. 

EXPLICIT. 


TROILUS  AND  CRESIDA. 

Next  morning  Troilus  began  to  clear 
Ills  eyes  from  sleep,  at  the  first  break  of  day, 

And  unto  Pandarus,  his  own  brother  dear, 

For  love  of  God,  full  piteously  did  say. 

We  must  tire  palace  see  of  Cresida; 

For  since  we  yet  may  have  no  other  feast, 

Let  us  behold  her  palace  at  the  least ! 

And  therewithal  to  cover  his  intent 
A cause  he  found  into  the  town  to  go. 

And  they  right  forth  to  Cresid’s  Palace  went; 

But,  Lord,  tills  simple  Troilus  was  woe. 

Him  thought  his  sorrowful  heart  would  break  in  two; 
For  when  he  saw  her  doors  fast  bolted  all, 

I Well  nigh  for  sorrow  down  he  ’gan  to  fall. 


SELECTIONS  FEOM  CIIAUCEE. 


447 


Therewith  when  this  true  lover  ’gan  behold, 

How  shut  was  every  window  of  the  place, 

Like  frost  he  thought  his  heart  was  icy  cold ; 

For  which,  witli  changed,  pale,  and  deadly  face. 
Without  word  uttered  forth  he  ’gan  to  pace : 

And  on  his  purpose  bent  so  fast  to  ride, 

That  no  wight  his  continuance  espied. 

Then  said  he  thus,  — O palace  desolate ! 

O house  of  houses,  once  so  richly  dight ! 

O palace  empty  and  disconsolate ! 

Thou  lamp  of  which  extinguished  is  the  light; 

O palace  whilom  day  tliat  now  art  night, 

Thou  ought’st  to  fall  and  I to  die ; since  she 
Is  gone  who  held  us  both  in  sovereignty. 

O,  of  all  houses  once  the  crowned  boast ! 

Palace  illumined  with  the  sun  of  bliss ; 

O ring  of  which  the  ruby  now  is  lost, 

0 cause  of  woe,  that  cause  has  been  of  bliss: 
Yet,  since  I may  no  better,  would  I kiss 
Thy  cold  doors;  but  I dare  not  for  this  rout; 
Farewell,  tliou  shrine  of  which  the  Saint  is  out ! 

Therewith  he  cast  on  Pandarus  an  eye, 

With  changed  face,  and  piteous  to  behold ; 

And  when  he  might  his  time  aright  espy, 

Aye  as  ne  rode,  to  Pandarus  lie  told 
Both  his  new  sorrow  and  his  joys  of  old. 

So  piteously,  and  with  so  dead  a hue. 

That  every  wight  miglit  on  his  sorrow  rue. 

Forth  from  the  spot  he  rideth  up  and  down. 

And  everything  to  his  rememberance 
Came  as  he  rode  by  places  of  the  town 
Where  he  had  felt  such  perfect  pleasure  once. 
Lo,  yonder  saw  I mine  own  lady  dance. 

And  in  that  temple  she  with  her  bright  eyes, . 
My  lady  dear,  first  bound  me  captive-wise. 

And  yonder  with  joy-smitten  heart  have  I 
Heard  my  own  Cresid’s  laugh ; and  once  at  play 

1 yonder  saw  her  eke  full  blissfully; 

And  yonder  once  she  unto  me  ’gan  say  — 

Now,  my  sweet  Troilus,  love  me  well,  I pray! 
And  there  so  graciously  did  me  behold, 

That  hers  unto  the  death  my  heart  I hold. 

And  at  the  corner  of  that  self-same  house 
Heard  I my  most  beloved  lady  dear. 

So  womanly,  with  voice  melodious 
Singing  so  well,  so  goodly,  and  so  clear. 

That  in  my  soul  methinks  I yet  do  hear 
The  blissful  sound ; and  in  that  very  place 
My  lady  first  me  took  unto  her  grace. 

O blissful  God  of  Love!  then  thus  he  cried. 
When  1 the  process  have  in  memory. 

How  thou  hast  wearied  me  on  every  side. 

Men  thence  a book  might  make,  a history 


What  need  to  seek  a conquest  over  me. 

Since  I am  wholly  at  thy  willl  what  joy 
Hast  thou  thy  own  liege  subjects  to  destroy! 

Dread  Lord  ! so  fearful  when  provoked,  thine  ire  • 
Well  hast  thou  wreaked  on  me  by  pain  and  grief; 
Now  mercy.  Lord  I thou  know’st  well  I desire 
Thy  grace  above  all  pleasures  first  and  chief ; 

And  live  and  die  I will  in  thy  belief; 

For  which  I ask  for  guerdon  but  one  boon. 

That  Cresida  again  thou  send  me  soon. 

Constrain  her  heart  as  quickly  to  return, 

^ As  thou  dost  mine  with  longing  her  to  see. 

Then  know  I well  that  she  would  not  sojourn. 
Now,  blissful  Lord,  so  cruel  do  not  be 
Unto  the  blood  of  Troy,  I pray  of  tliee,  • 

As  Juno  was  unto  the  Theban  blood. 

From  whence  to  Thebes  came  griefs  in  multitude. 

And  after  this  he  to  the  gate  did  go 
Whence  Cresid  rode,  as  if  in  haste  she  was; 

And  up  and  down  there  went,  and  to  and  fro. 

And  to  himself  full  oft  he  said,  Alas! 

From  hence  my  hope,  and  solace  forth  did  pass. 

0 would  the  blissful  God  now  for  his  joy, 

1 might  her  see  again  coming  to  Troy  ! 

And  up  to  yonder  hill  was  I her  guide; 

Alas,  and  there  1 took  of  her  my  leave ; 

Yonder  I saw  her  to  her  father  ride. 

For  very  grief  of  which  my  heart  shall  cleave;  — 
And  hither  home  I came  when  it  was  eve; 

And  here  I dwell  an  outcast  from  all  joy. 

And  shall,  unless  I see  her  soon  in  Troy. 

And  of  himself  did  he  imagine  oft, 

That  he  was  blighted,  pale,  and  waxen  less 
Than  he  was  wont ; and  that  in  whispers  soft 
Men  said.  What  may  it  be,  can  no  one  guess 
Why  Troilus  hath  all  this  heaviness! 

All  which  he  of  himself  conceited  wholly 
Out  of  his  weakness  and  his  melancholy. 

Another  time  he  took  into  his  head. 

That  every  wight,  who  in  the  way  passed  by, 

Had  of  him  ruth,  and  fancied  that  they  said, 

I am  right  sorry  Troilus  will  die : 

And  thus  a day  or  two  drove  wearily  ; 

As  ye  have  heard  ; such  life  ’gan  he  to  lead 
As  one  that  standeth  betwixt  hope  and  dread. 

For  which  it  pleased  him  in  his  songs  to  show 
The  occasion  of  his  woe,  as  best  he  might; 

And  made  a fitting  song,  of  words- but  few. 
Somewhat  his  woeful  heart  to  make  more  light; 
And  vvhen  he  was  removed  from  all  men’s  sight. 
With  a soft  night  voice,  he  of  his  lady  dear. 

That  absent  was,  ’gan  sing  as  ye  may  hear. 


448 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


0 star,  of  which  I lost  have  all  the  light, 

With  a sore  heart  well  ought  I to  bewail, 

That  ever  dark  in  torment,  night  by  night. 

Toward  my  death  with  wind  I steer  my  sail ; 

Far  which  upon  the  tenth  night  if  thou  fail 
With  thy  bright  beams  to  guide  me  but  one  hour 
My  ship  and  me  Charybdis  will  devour. 

As  soon  as  he  this  song  had  thus  sung  through. 

He  fell  again  into  his  sorrows  old  ; 

And  every  night  as  was  his  wont  to  do, 

Troilus  stood  the  bright  moon  to  behold ; 

And  all  his  trouble  to  the  moon  he  told. 

And  said ; I wis,  when  thou  art  horn’d  anew, 

1 shall  be  glad  if  all  the  world  be  true. 

Thy  horns  were  old  as  now  upon  that  morrow. 
When  hence  did  journey  my  bright  lady  dear. 

That  cause  is  of  my  torment  and  my  sorrow  ; 

For  which,  oh,  gentle  Luna,  bright  andjclear. 

For  love  of  God,  run  fast  above  thy  sphere ; 

For  when  thy  horns  begin  once  more  to  spring, 
Then  shall  she  come,  that  with  her  bliss  may  bring. 

The  day  is  more,  and  longer  every  night 
Than  they  were  wont  to  be  — for  he  thought  so ; 
And  that  the  sun  did  take  his  course  not  right, 

By  longer  way  than  he  was  wont  to  go ; 


And  said,  I am  in  constant  dread  I trow. 

That  Phaeton  his  son  is  yet  alive, 

Ilis  too  fond  father’s  car  amiss  to  drive. 

Upon  the  walls  fast  also  would  he  walk. 

To  the  end  that  he  the  Grecian  host  might  see ; 
And  ever  thus  he  to  himself  would  talk : — 

Lo ! yonder  is  my  own  bright  lady  free ; 

Or  yonder  is  it  that  the  tents  must  be ; 

And  thence  does  come  this  air  which  is  so  sweet, 
That  in  my  soul  I feel  tlie  joy  of  it. 

And  certainly  this  wind  that  more  and  more 
By  moments  thus  increaseth  in  my  face. 

Is  of  my  lady’s  sighs  heavy  and  sore ; 

I prove  it  thus;  for  in  no  other  space 
Of  all  this  town,  save  only  in  this  place. 

Feel  I a wind,  that  soundelh  so  like  pain ; 

It  saith,  Alas,  why  severed  are  we  twain  1 

A weary  while  in  pain  he  tosseth  thus. 

Till  fully  past  and  gone  was  the  ninth  night ; 
And  ever  at  his  side  stood  Pandarus, 

Who  busily  made  use  of  all  his  might 
To  comfort  him,  and  make  his  heart  more  light; 
Giving  him  always  hope,  that  she  the  morrow 
Of  the  tenth  day  will  come,  and  end  his  sorrow. 


INSCRIPTIONS 


I. 

IN  THE  GROUNDS  OF  COLEORTON,  THE  SEAT  OF  SIR 
GEORGE  BEAUMONT,  BART.  LEICESTERSHIRE. 

The  embowering  Rose,  the  Acacia,  and  the  Pine, 

Will  not  unwillingly  their  place  resign; 

If  but  the  Cedar  thrive  that  near  them  stands. 

Planted  by  Beaumont’s  and  by  Wordsworth’s  hands. 
One  wooed  the  silent  Art  with  studious  pains,  — 
These  Groves  have  heard  the  Other’s  pensive  strains ; 
Devoted  thus,  their  spirits  did  unite 
By  interchange  of  knowledge  and  delight. 

May  Nature’s  kindliest  powers  sustain  the  Tree, 

And  Love  protect  it  from  all  injury  ! 

And  when  its  potent  branches,  wide  out-thrown, 
Darken  the  brow  of  this  memorial  Stone, 

Here  may  some  Painter  sit  in  future  days. 

Some  future  Poet  meditate  his  lays ; 

Not  mindless  of  that  distant  age  renowned 
When  Inspiration  hovered  o’er  this  ground, 

The  haunt  of  him  who  sang  how  spear  and  shield 
In  civil  conflict  met  on  Bosworth  Field ; 

And  of  that  famous  Youth,  full  soon  removed 
From  earth,  perhaps  by  Shakspeare’s  self  approved, 
Fletcher’s  Associate,  Jonson’s  Friend  beloved. 


II. 

IN  A GARDEN  OF  THE  SAME. 

Oft  is  the  Medal  faithful  to  its  trust 

When  Temples,  Columns,  Towers,  are  laid  in  dust; 

And ’t  is  a common  ordinance  of  fate 

That  things  obscure  and  small  outlive  the  great: 

Hence,  when  yon  Mansion  and  the  flowery  trim 

Of  this  fair  Garden,  and  its  alleys  dim, 

And  all  its  stately  trees,  are  passed  away. 

This  little  Niche,  unconscious  of  decay. 

Perchance  may  still  survive.  — And  be  it  known 
That  it  was  scooped  within  the  living  stone,  — 

Not  by  the  sluggish  and  ungrateful  pains 
Of  labourer  plodding  for  his  daily  gains. 

But  by  an  industry  that  wrought  in  love ; 

With  help  from  female  hands,  that  proudly  strove 
To  aid  the  work,  what  time  these  walks  and  bowers 
Were  shaped  to  cheer  dark  winter’s  lonely  hours. 
3G 


III. 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  REQUEST  OF  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT 
BART.  AND  IN  HIS  NAME,  FOR  AN  URN,  PLACED  BY 
HIM  AT  THE  TERMINATION  OF  A NEWLY-PLANTED 
AVENUE,  IN  THE  SAME  GROUNDS. 

Ye  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn, 

Shoot  forth  with  lively  power  at  Spring’s  return ; 

And  be  not  slow  a stately  growth  to  rear 
Of  Pillars,  branching  off  from  year  to  year. 

Till  they  have  learned  to  frame  a darksome  Aisle  ; — 

That  may  recall  to  mind  that  awful  Pile 

Where  Reynolds,  ’mid  our  Country’s  noblest  Dead, 

In  the  last  sanctity  of  fame  is  laid. 

— There,  though  by  right  the  excelling  Painter  sleep 
Where  Death  and  Glory  a joint  sabbath  keep. 

Yet  not  the  less  his  Spirit  would  hold  dear 
Self-hidden  praise,  and  Friendship’s  private  tear: 
Hence,  on  my  patrimonial  Grounds,  have  I 
Raised  this  frail  tribute  to  his  memory ; 

From  youth  a zealous  follower  of  the  Art 
That  he  professed,  attached  to  him  in  heart; 

Admiring,  loving,  and  with  grief  and  pride 
Feeling  what  England  lost  when  Reynolds  died. 


IV. 

FOR  A SEAT  IN  THE  GROVES  OF  COLEORTON 

Beneath  yon  eastern  Ridge,  the  craggy  Bound, 
Rugged  and  high,  of  Charnwood’s  forest  ground, 
Stand  yet,  but.  Stranger ! hidden  from  thy  view. 

The  ivied  Ruins  of  forlorn  Grace  Dieu  ; 

Erst  a religious  house,  which  day  and  night 
With  hymns  resounded,  and  the  chanted  rite  : 

And  when  those  rites  had  ceased,  the  Spot  gave  birth 
To  honourable  I\Ien  of  various  w’orth : 

There,  on  the  margin  of  a Streamlet  wild. 

Did  Francis  Beaumont  sport,  an  eager  Child 
There,  under  shadow  of  the  neighbouring  rocks. 

Sang  youthful  tales  of  shepherds  and  their  flocks ; 
Unconscious  prelude  to  heroic  themes. 

Heart-breaking  tears,  and  melancholy  dreams 
Of  slighted  love,  and  scorn,  and  jealous  rage. 

With  which  his  genius  shook  the  buskined  Stage. 
Communities  are  lost,  and  Empires  die. 

And  things  of  holy  use  unhallowed  lie  ; 

They  perish  ; — but  the  Intellect  can  raise, 

From  airy  words  alone,  a Pile  that  ne’er  decays 

38# 


450 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


V. 

WRITTEN  WITH  A PENCIL  UPON  A STONE  IN  THE 
WALL  OF  THE  HOUSE  (AN  OUT-HOUSE)  ON  THE 
ISLAND  AT  GRASMERE. 

Rude  is  this  Edifice,  and  Thou  hast  seen 
Buildings,  albeit  rude,  that  have  maintained 
Proportions  more  harmonious,  and  approached 
To  somewhat  of  a closer  fellowship 
With  the  ideal  grace.  Yet,  as  it  is. 

Do  take  it  in  good  part : — alas ! the  poor 
Vitruvius  of  our  village  had  no  help 
From  the  great  City  ; never,  on  the  leaves 
Of  red  Morocco  folio  saw  displayed 
The  skeletons  and  pre-existing  ghosts 
Of  Beauties  yet  unborn,  the  rustic  Box, 

Snug  Cot,  with  Coach-house,  Shed,  and  Hermitage. 
Thou  see’st  a homely  Pile,  yet  to  these  walls 
The  heifer  comes  in  the  snow-storm,  and  here 
The  new-dropped  lamb  finds  shelter  from  the  wind. 
And  hither  does  one  Poet  sometimes  row 
His  Pinnace,  a small  vagrant  Barge,  up-piled 
With  plenteous  store  of  heath  and  withered  fern, 

(A  lading  which  he  with  his  sickle  cuts. 

Among  the  mountains)  and  beneath  this  roof 
He  makes  his  summer  couch,  and  here  at  noon 
Spreads  out  his  limbs,  while,  yet  unshorn,  the  Sheep, 
Panting  beneath  the  burthen  of  their  wool. 

Lie  round  him,  even  as  if  they  were  a part 
Of  his  own  Household : nor,  while  from  his  bed 
He  through  that  door-place  looks  toward  the  lake 
And  to  the  stirring  breezes,  does  he  want 
Creations  lovely  as  the  work  of  sleep. 

Fair  sights  — and  visions  of  romantic  joy  ! 


VI. 

WRITTEN  WITH  A SLATE-PENCIL  ON  A STONE,  ON  THE 
SIDE  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN  OF  BLACK  COMB.» 

Stay,  bold  Adventurer ; rest  awhile  thy  limbs 
On  this  commodious  Seat ! for  much  remains 
Of  hard  ascent  before  thou  reach  the  top 
Of  this  huge  Eminence,  — from  blackness  named. 
And,  to  far-travelled  storms  of  sea  and  land, 

A favourite  spot  of  tournament  and  war ! 

But  thee  may  no  such  boisterous  visitants 
Molest ; may  gentle  breezes  fan  thy  brow ; 

And  neither  cloud  conceal,  nor  misty  air 
Bedim,  the  grand  terraqueous  spectacle. 

From  centre  to  circumference,  unveiled  ! 

Know,  if  thou  grudge  not  to  prolong  thy  rest. 

That  on  tlie  summit  whitlier  thou  art  bound, 

A geographic  Labourer  pitched  his  tent. 

With  books  supplied  and  instruments  of  art, 

‘See  page  165. 


To  measure  height  and  distance;  lonely  task. 

Week  after  week  pursued ! — To  him  was  given 

Full  many  a glimpse  (but  sparingly  bestowed 

On  timid  man)  of  Nature’s  processes 

Upon  the  exalted  hills.  He  made  report 

That  once,  while  there  he  plied  his  studious  work 

Within  that  canvas  Dwelling,  suddenly 

The  many-coloured  map  before  his  eyes 

Became  invisible : for  all  around 

Had  darkness  fallen  — unthreatened,  unproclaimed  — 

As  if  the  golden  day  itself  had  been 

Extinguished  in  a moment ; total  gloom. 

In  which  he  sate  alone,  with  unclosed  eyes. 

Upon  the  blinded  mountain’s  silent  top ! 


VII. 

WRITTEN  WITH  A SLATE-PENCIL  UPON  A STONE,  THE 
LARGEST  OF  A HEAP  LYING  NEAR  A DESERTED 
QUARRY,  UPON  ONE  OF  THE  ISLANDS  AT  RYDAL. 

Stranger  ! this  hillock  of  mis-shapen  stones 
Is  not  a Ruin  of  the  ancient  time. 

Nor,  as  perchance  thou  rashly  deem’st,  the  Cairn 
Of  some  old  British  Chief:  ’t  is  nothing  more 
Than  the  rude  embryo  of  a little  Dome 
Or  Pleasure-house,  once  destined  to  be  built 
Among  the  birch-trees  of  this  rocky  isle. 

But,  as  it  chanced.  Sir  William  having  learned 
That  from  the  shore  a full-grown  man  might  wade. 
And  make  himself  a freeman  of  this  spot 
At  any  hour  he  chose,  the  Knight  forthwith 
Desisted,  and  the  quarry  and  the  mound 
Are  monuments  of  his  unfinished  task.  — 

The  block  on  which  these  lines  are  traced,  perhaps. 
Was  once  selected  as  the  corner-stone 
Of  the  intended  Pile,  which  would  have  been 
Some  quaint  odd  plaything  of  elaborate  skill. 

So  that,  I guess,  the  linnet  and  the  thrush. 

And  other  little  builders  who  dwell  here. 

Had  wondered  at  the  work.  But  blame  him  not, 

For  old  Sir  William  was  a gentle  Knight, 

Bred  in  this  vale,  to  which  he  appertained 
With  all  his  ancestry.  Then  peace  to  him. 

And  for  the  outrage  which  he  had  devised 

Entire  forgiveness ! — But  if  thou  art  one 

On  fire  with  thy  impatience  to  become 

An  inmate  of  these  mountains,  — if,  disturbed 

By  beautiful  conceptions,  thou  hast  hewn 

Out  of  the  quiet  rock  the  elements 

Of  thy  trim  Mansion  destined  soon  to  blaze 

In  snow-white  splendour,  — think  again,  and,  taught' 

By  old  Sir  William  and  his  quarry,  leave 

Thy  fragments  to  the  bramble  and  the  rose ; 

There  let  the  vernal  Slow-worm  sun  himself. 

And  let  the  Redbreast  hop  from  stone  to  stone. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 


451 


VIII. 

INSCRIPTIONS 

SUPPOSED  TO  BE  FOUND  IN  AND  NEAR  A 
HERMIT’S  CELL. 

1. 

Hopes  what  are  they  I — Beads  of  morning 
Strung  on  slender  blades  of  grass; 

Or  a spider’s  web  adorning 
In  a strait  and  treacherous  pass. 

What  are  fears  but  voices  airyl 
Whispering  harm  where  harm  is  not; 
And  deluding  the  unwary 
Till  the  fatal  bolt  is  shot! 

What  is  glory  1 — in  the  socket 
See  how  dying  tapers  fare! 

What  is  pride?  — a whizzing  rocket 
That  would  emulate  a star. 

What  is  friendship?  — do  not  trust  her, 
Nor  the  vows  \^ich  she  has  made; 
Diamonds  dart  their  brightest  lustre 
From  a palsy-shaken  head. 

What  is  truth?  — a staff  rejected; 

Duty? — an  unwelcome  clog; 

Joy  ? — a moon  by  fits  reflected 
In  a swamp  or  watery  bog; 

Bright,  as  if  through  ether  steering. 

To  the  Traveller’s  eye  it  shone: 

He  hath  hailed  it  re-appearing  — 

And  as  quickly  it  is  gone; 

Gone,  as  if  for  ever  hidden. 

Or  mis-shapen  to  the  sight. 

And  by  sullen  weeds  forbidden 
To  resume  its  native  light. 

What  is  youth  ? — a dancing  billow, 
(Winds  behind,  and  rocks  before!) 

Age  ? — a drooping,  tottering  willow 
On  a flat  and  lazy  shore. 

What  is  peace  ? — when  pain  is  over 
And  love  ceases  to  rebel. 

Let  the  last  faint  sigh  discover 
That  precedes  the  passing  knell! 


2. 

INSCRIBED  UPON  A ROCK. 

Pause,  Traveller ! whosoe’er  thou  be 
Whom  chance  may  lead  to  this  retreat. 
Where  silence  yields  reluctantly 
Even  to  the  fleecy  straggler’s  bleat ; 


Give  voice  to  what  my  hand  shall  trace, 
And  fear  not  lest  an  idle  sound 
Of  words  unsuited  to  the  place 
Disturb  its  solitude  profound. 

I saw  this  rock,  while  vernal  air 
Blew  softly  o’er  the  russet  heath. 

Uphold  a Monument  as  fair 
As  Church  or  Abbey  furnisheth. 

Unsullied  did  it  meet  the  day. 

Like  marble  white,  like  ether  pure; 

As  if,  beneath,  some  hero  lay. 

Honoured  with  costliest  sepulture. 

My  fancy  kindled  as  I gazed; 

And,  ever  as  the  sun  shone  forth. 

The  flattered  structure  glistened,  blazed, 
And  seemed  the  proudest  thing  on  earth. 

But  Frost  had  reared  the  gorgeous  Pile 
Unsound  as  those  wdiich  fortune  builds ; 
To  undermine  with  secret  guile. 

Sapped  by  the  very  beam  that  gilds. 

And,  while  I gazed,  with  sudden  shock 
Fell  the  whole  Fabric  to  the  ground ; 
And  naked  left  this  dripping  Rock, 

With  shapeless  ruin  spread  around  ! 


3. 

Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant. 

Bubbles  gliding  under  ice. 

Bodied  forth  and  evanescent. 

No  one  knows  by  what  device? 

Such  are  thoughts ! — A wind-swept  meadow 
Mimicking  a troubled  sea: 

Such  is  life;  and  death  a shadow 
From  the  rock  eternity ! 


4. 

NEAR  THE  SPRING  OF  THE  HERMITAGE. 
Troubled  long  with  warring  notions 
Long  impatient  of  thy  rod, 

I resign  my  soul’s  emotions 
Unto  Thee,  mysterious  God! 

What  avails  the  kindly  shelter 
Yielded  by  this  craggy  rent. 

If  my  spirit  toss  and  welter 
On  the  waves  of  discontent? 

Parching  Summer  hath  no  warrant 
To  consume  this  crystal  Well; 

Rains,  that  make  each  hill  a torrent 
Neither  sully  it  nor  swell. 


452 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Thus,  dishonouring  not  her  station, 
Would  my  life  present  to  Thee, 
Gracious  God,  the  pure  oblation 
Of  divine  Tranquillity ' 


5. 

Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest. 
Deceitfully  goes  forth  the  Morn ; 

Not  seldom  Evening  in  the  west 
Sinks  smilingly  forsworn. 

The  smoothest  seas  will  sometimes  prove. 
To  the  confiding  Bark,  untrue; 

And,  if  she  trust  the  stars  above. 

They  can  be  treacherous  too. 

The  umbrageous  Oak,  in  pomp  outspread. 
Full  oft,  when  storms  the  welkin  rend. 
Draws  lightning  down  upon  the  head 
It  promised  to  defend. 

But  Tnou  art  true,  incarnate  Lord, 

Who  didst  vouchsafe  for  man  to  die; 

Thy  smile  is  sure,  thy  plighted  word 
No  change  can  falsify ! 

I bent  before  thy  gracious  throne. 

And  asked  for  peace  on  suppliant  knee ; 
And  peace  w'as  given,  — nor  peace  alone. 
But  faith  sublimed  to  ecstasy  ! 


IX. 

FOR  THE  SPOT  WHERE  THE  HERMITAGE  STOOD  ON 
ST.  HERBERT’S  ISLAND,  DERWENT- WATER. 

If  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  Friend 
Hast  been  so  happy  that  thou  knowest  what  thoughts 
Will  sometimes  in  the  happiness  of  love 
Make  the  heart  sink,  then  wilt  thou  reverence 
This  quiet  spot ; and.  Stranger  ! not  unmoved 
Wilt  thou  behold  this  shapeless  heap  of  stones. 

The  desolate  ruins  of  St.  Herbert’s  Cell. 

Here  stood  his  threshold ; here  was  spread  the  roof 
That  sheltered  him,  a self-secluded  Man, 

After  long  exercise  in  social  cares 
And  offices  humane,  intent  to  adore 
The  Deity,  with  undistracted  mind. 

And  meditate  on  everlasting  things. 

In  utter  solitude.  — But  he  had  left 
A Fellow-labourer,  whom  the  good  Man  loved 
4s  his  own  soul.  And,  when  with  eye  upraised 


To  heaven  he  knelt  before  the  crucifix. 

While  o’er  the  Lake  the  cataract  of  Lodore 
Pealed  to  his  orisons,  and  when  he  paced 
Along  the  beach  of  this  small  isle  and  thought 
Of  his  Companion,  he  would  pray  that  both 
(Now  that  their  earthly  duties  were  fulfilled) 
Might  die  in  the  same  moment.  Nor  in  vain 
So  prayed  he  : — as  our  Chronicles  report. 
Though  here  the  Hermit  numbered  his  last  day. 
Far  from  St.  Cuthbert  his  beloved  Friend, 

Those  holy  Men  both  died  in  the  same  hour. 


X 

INSCRIPTION 

INTENDED  FOR  A STONE  IN  THE  GROUNDS  OP 
RYDAL  MOUNT. 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a Tree 
At  Wordsworth’s  suit  been  spared  ; 

And  from  the  Builder’s  Land  this  Stone, 

For  some  rude  beauty  of  its  own. 

Was  rescued  by  the  Bard: 

So  let  it  rest,  — and  time  will  come 
When  here  the  tender-hearted 
May  heave  a gentle  sigh  for  him. 

As  one  of  the  departed. 


XL 

The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  Heights 
By  Roman  Perseverance,  are  destroyed. 

Or  hidden  under  ground,  like  sleeping  worms. 

How  venture  then  to  hope  that  Time  will  spare 
This  humble  Walk  1 Yet  on  the  mountain’s  side 
A Poet’s  hand  first  shaped  it ; and  the  steps 
Of  that  same  Bard,  repeated  to  and  fro 
At  morn,  at  noon,  and  under  moonlight  skies. 

Through  the  vicissitudes  of  many  a year. 

Forbade  the  weeds  to  creep  o’er  its  gray  line. 

No  longer,  scattering  to  the  heedless  winds 
The  vocal  raptures  of  fresh  poesy. 

Shall  he  frequent  these  precincts ; locked  no  more 
In  earnest  converse  with  beloved  Friends, 

Here  will  he  gather  stores  of  ready  bliss. 

As  from  the  beds  and  borders  of  a garden 

Choice  flowers  are  gathered  ! But,  if  Power  may  spring 

Out  of  a farewell  yearning  favoured  more 

Than  kindred  wishes  mated  suitably 

With  vain  regrets,  the  Exile  would  consign 

This  Walk,  his  loved  possession,  to  the  care 

Of  those  pure  Minds  that  reverence  the  Muse. 


POEMS 


REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 


THE  OLD  CUMBERLAND  BEGGAR. 

The  class  of  Beggars,  to  which  the  old  Man  here  described 
^elongs,  will  probably  soon  be  extinct.  It  consisted  of  poor,  and, 
mostly,  old  and  infirm  persons,  who  confined  themselves  to  a 
stated  round  in  their  neighbourhood,  and  had  certain  fixed  days, 
on  which,  at  different  houses,  they  regularly  received  alms, 
sometimes  in  money,  but  mostly  in  provisions. 

I SAW  an  aged  Beggar  in  my  walk; 

And  he  was  seated,  by  the  highway  side, 

On  a low  structure  of  rude  ina.sonry 

Built  at  the  foot  of  a huge  hill,  that  they 

Who  lead  their  horses  down  the  steep  rough  road 

May  thence  remount  at  ease.  The  aged  Man 

Had  placed  his  staff  across  the  broad  smooth  stone 

That  overlays  the  pile ; and,  from  a bag 

All  white  with  flour,  the  dole  of  village  dames. 

He  drew  his  sera  ps  and  fragments,  one  by  one  ; 

And  scanned  them  with  a fixed  and  serious  look 
Of  idle  computation.  In  the  sun. 

Upon  the  second  step  of  that  small  pile, 

Surrounded  by  those  wild  unpeopled  hills, 

He  sat,  and  ate  his  food  in  solitude ; 

And  ever,  scattered  from  his  palsied  hand. 

That,  still  attempting  to  prevent  the  waste. 

Was  baffled  still,  the  crumbs  in  little  showers 
Fell  on  the  ground ; and  the  small  mountain  birds, 

Not  venturing  yet  to  peck  their  destined  meal. 
Approached  within  the  length  of  half  his  staff 

Him  from  my  childhood  have  I known ; and  then 
He  was  so  old,  he  seems  not  older  now  ; 

He  travels  on,  a solitary  Man, 

So  helpless  in  appearance,  that  for  him 

The  sauntering  Horseman-traveller  does  not  throw 

With  careless  hand  his  alms  upon  the  ground. 

But  stops,  — that  he  may  safely  lodge  the  coin 
Within  the  old  Man’s  hat ; nor  quits  him  so. 

But  still,  when  he  has  given  his  horse  the  rein. 
Watches  the  aged  Beggar  with  a look 
Sidelong  — and  half-reverted.  She  who  tends 
The  Toll-gate,  when  in  summer  at  her  door 
She  turns  her  wheel,  if  on  the  road  she  sees 
The  aged  Beggar  coming,  quits  her  work. 

And  lifts  the  latch  for  him  that  he  may  pass. 


The  Post-boy,  when  his  rattling  wheels  o’ertake 
The  aged  Beggar  in  the  woody  lane. 

Shouts  to  him  from  behind ; and,  if  thus  warned 
The  old  Man  does  not  change  his  course,  the  Boy 
Turns  with  less  noisy  wheels  to  the  roadside. 

And  passes  gently  by  — without  a curse 
Upon  his  lips,  or  anger  at  his  heart. 

He  travels  on,  a solitary  Man; 

His  age  has  no  companion.  On  the  ground 
His  eyes  are  turned,  and,  as  he  moves  along. 

They  move  along  the  ground ; and,  evermore. 
Instead  of  common  and  habitual  sight 
Of  fields  with  rural  works,  of  hill  and  dale. 

And  the  blue  sky,  one  little  span  of  earth 
Is  all  his  prospect.  Thus,  from  day  to  day. 
Bow-bent,  his  eyes  for  ever  on  the  ground. 

He  plies  his  weary  journey  ; seeing  still. 

And  seldom  knowing  that  he  sees,  some  straw. 
Some  scattered  leaf,  or  marks  whicli,  in  one  track. 
The  nails  of  cart  or  chariot-wheel  have  left 
Impressed  on  the  white  road,  — in  the  same  line. 
At  distance  still  the  same.  Poor  Traveller! 

His  staff  trails  with  him ; scarcely  do  his  feet 
Disturb  the  summer  dust ; he  is  so  still 
In  look  and  motion,  that  the  cottage  curs. 

Ere  he  have  passed  the  door,  will  turn  awa}'. 
Weary  of  barking  at  him.  Boys  and  Girls, 

Tiie  vacant  and  the  busy.  Maids  and  Youths, 

And  Urchins  newly  breeched  — all  pass  him  by : 
Him  even  the  slow-paced  Waggon  leaves  behind. 

But  deem  not  this  Man  useless.  — Statesmen ! ye 
Who  are  so  restless  in  your  wisdom,  ye 
Who  have  a broom  still  ready  in  your  hands 
To  rid  the  world  of  nuisances;  ye  proud, 
Heart-swoln,  while  in  your  pride  ve  contemplate 
Your  talents,  power,  and  wisdom,  deem  him  not 
A burthen  of  the  earth.  ’T  is  Nature’s  law 
That  none,  the  meanest  of  created  things, 

Of  forms  created  the  most  vile  and  brute. 

The  dullest  or  most  noxious,  should  exist 
Divorced  from  good  — a spirit  and  pulse  of  good, 

A life  and  soul,  to  every  mode  of  being 
Inseparably  linked.  Wliile  thus  he  creeps 
From  door  to  door,  the  Villagers  in  him 
Behold  a record  which  together  binds 


454 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Past  deeds  and  offices  of  charity, 

Else  unremembered,  and  so  keeps  alive 
The  kindly  mood  in  hearts  which  lapse  of  years. 
And  that  half-wisdom  half-experience  gives. 

Make  slow  to  feel,  and  by  sure  steps  resign 
To  selfishness  and  cold  oblivious  cares. 

Among  the  farms  and  solitary  huts, 

Hamlets  and  thinly-scattered  villages. 

Where’er  the  aged  Beggar  takes  his  rounds. 

The  mild  necessity  of  use  compels 
To  acts  of  love ; and  habit  does  the  work 
Of  reason ; yet  prepares  that  afler-joy 
Which  reason  cherishes.  And  thus  the  soul. 

By  that  sweet  taste  of  pleasure  unpursued. 

Doth  find  herself  insensibly  disposed 
To  virtue  and  true  goodness.  Some  there  are. 

By  their  good  works  exalted,  lofty  minds 

And  meditative,  authors  of  delight 

A.nd  happiness,  which  to  the  end  of  time 

Will  live,  and  spread,  and  kindle : even  such  minds 

In  childhood,  from  this  solitary  Being, 

Or  from  like  Wanderer,  haply  have  received 
(A  thing  more  precious  far  than  all  that  books 
Or  the  solicitudes  of  love  can  do !) 

That  first  mild  touch  of  sympathy  and  thought. 

In  which  they  found  their  kindred  with  a world 
Where  want  and  sorrow  were.  The  easy  Man 
Who  sits  at  his  own  door,  — and,  like  the  pear 
That  overhangs  his  head  from  the  green  wall. 
Feeds  in  the  sunshine ; the  robust  and  young. 

The  prosperous  and  unthinking,  they  who  live 
Sheltered,  and  flourish  in  a little  grove 
Of  their  own  kindred  ; — all  behold  in  him 
A silent  monitor,  which  on  their  minds 
Must  needs  impress  a transitory  thought 
Of  self-congratulation,  to  the  heart 
Of  each  recalling  his  peculiar  boons, 

Ilis  charters  and  exemptions ; and,  perchance 
Though  he  to  no  one  give  the  fortitude 
And  circumspection  needful  to  preserve 
His  present  blessings,  and  to  husband  up 
The  respite  of  the  season,  he,  at  least. 

And ’t  is  no  vulgar  service,  makes  them  felt. 

Yet  further. Many,  I believe,  there  are 

Who  live  a life  of  virtuous  decency. 

Men  who  can  hear  the  Decalogue  and  feel 
No  self-reproach ; who  of  the  moral  law 
Established  in  the  land  where  they  abide 
Are  strict  observers  ; and  not  negligent. 

In  acts  of  love  to  those  with  whom  they  dwell. 
Their  kindred,  and  the  cliildren  of  their  blood. 
Praise  be  to  such,  and  to  their  slumbers  peace ! 

— But  of  the  poor  man  ask,  the  abject  poor ; 

Go,  and  demand  of  him,  if  there  be  here 


In  this  cold  abstinence  from  evil  deeds. 

And  these  inevitable  charities. 

Wherewith  to  satisfy  the  human  soul  1 

No  — Man  is  dear  to  Man ; the  poorest  poor 

Long  for  some  moments  in  a weary  life 

When  they  can  know  and  feel  that  they  have  been, 

Themselves,  the  fathers  and  the  dealers-out 

Of  some  small  blessings ; have  been  kind  to  such 

As  needed  kindness,  for  this  single  cause. 

That  we  have  all  of  us  one  human  heart. 

— Such  pleasure  is  to  one  kind  Being  known. 

My  Neighbour,  when  with  punctual  care,  each  week 
Duly  as  Friday  comes,  though  pressed  herself 
By  her  own  wants,  she  from  her  store  of  meal 
Takes  one  unsparing  handful  for  the  scrip 
Of  this  old  Mendicant,  and,  from  her  door 
Returning  with  exhilarated  heart. 

Sits  by  her  fire,  and  builds  her  hope  in  heaven. 

Tlien  let  him  pass,  a blessing  on  his  head ! 

And  while  in  that  vast  solitude  to  which 
The  tide  of  things  has  borne  him,  he  appears 
To  breathe  and  live  but  for  himself  alone. 

Unblamed,  uninjured,  let  him  bear  about 
The  good  which  the  benignant  law  of  Heaven 
Has  hung  around  him  : and,  while  life  is  his. 

Still  let  him  prompt  the  unlettered  Villagers 
To  tender  offices  and  pensive  thoughts. 

— Then  let  him  pass,  a blessing  on  his  head  ! 

And,  long  as  he  can  wander,  let  him  breathe 
The  freshness  of  the  valleys;  let  his  blood 
Struggle  with  frosty  air  and  winter  snows  ; 

And  let  the  chartered  wind  that  sweeps  the  heath 
Beat  his  gray  locks  against  bis  withered  face. 
Reverence  the  hope  whose  vital  anxiousness 
Gives  the  last  human  interest  to  his  heart. 

May  never  House,  misnamed  of  Industry, 

Make  him  a captive ! for  that  pent-up  din. 

Those  life-consuming  sounds  that  clog  the  air, 

Be  his  the  natural  silence  of  old  age  ! 

Let  him  be  free  of  mountain  solitudes; 

And  have  around  him,  whether  heard  or  not. 

The  pleasant  melody  of  woodland  birds. 

Few  are  his  pleasures:  if  his  eyes  have  now 
Been  doomed  so  long  to  settle  on  the  earth 
That  not  without  some  effort  they  behold 
Tlie  countenance  of  the  horizontal  sun. 

Rising  or  setting,  let  the  light  at  least 
Find  a free  entrance  to  their  languid  orbs. 

And  let  him,  where  and  when  he  will,  sit  down 
Beneath  the  trees,  or  by  the  grassy  bank 
Of  highway  side,  and  with  the  little  birds 
Share  his  chance-gathered  meal ; and,  finally, 

As  in  the  eye  of  Nature  he  has  lived. 

So  in  the  eye  of  Nature  let  him  die ! 


POEMS  KEFEIIRTNO  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 


455 


THE  FARMER  OF  TILSBURY  VALE. 

’Tis  not  for  the  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined, 

The  squeanrish  in  taste,  and  the  narrow  of  mind, 

And  the  small  critic  wielding  his  delicate  pen. 

That  I sing  of  old  Adam,  the  pride  of  old  men. 

He  dwells  in  the  centre  of  London’s  wide  Town  ; 

His  staff  is  a sceptre  — his  gray  hairs  a crown  ; 

Erect  as  a sunflower  he  stands,  and  the  streak 
Of  the  unfaded  rose  still  enlivens  his  cheek. 

’Mid  the  dews,  in  the  sunshine  of  morn,  — ’mid  the  joy 
Of  the  fields,  he  collected  that  bloom,  when  a Boy ; 
There  fashioned  that  countenance,  which,  in  spite  of  a 
stain 

That  his  life  hath  received,  to  the  last  will  remain. 

A Farmer  he  was ; and  his  house  far  and  near 
Was  the  boast  of  the  Country  for  excellent  cheer : 
How  oft  have  I heard  in  sweet  Tilsbury  Vale 
Of  the  silver-rimmed  horn  whence  lie  dealt  his 
mild  ale ! 

Yet  Adam  was  far  as  the  farthest  from  ruin. 

His  fields  seemed  to  know  what  their  Master  was 
doing ; 

And  turnips,  and  corn-land,  and  meadow,  and  lea, 

All  caught  the  infection  — as  generous  as  he. 

Yet  Adam  prized  little  the  feast  and  the  bowl, — 

The  fields  better  suited  the  ease  of  his  Soul ; 

He  strayed  through  the  fields  like  an  indolent  Wight, 
The  quiet  of  nature  was  Adam’s  delight. 

For  Adam  was  simple  in  thought,  and  the  Poor, 
Familiar  with  him,  made  an  inn  of  his  door: 

He  gave  them  the  best  that  he  had  ; or,  to  say 
What  less  may  mislead  you,  they  took  it  away. 

Thus  thirty  smooth  years  did  he  thrive  on  his  farm : 
The  Genius  of  Plenty  preserved  him  from  harm : 

At  length,  what  to  most  is  a season  of  sorrow. 

His  means  are  run  out, — he  must  beg,  or  must  borrow. 

To  the  neighbours  he  went, — all  were  free  with  their 
money ; 

For  his  hive  had  so  long  been  replenished  with  honey. 
That  they  dreamt  not  of  dearth  ; — He  continued  his 
rounds. 

Knocked  here — and  knocked  there,  pounds  still  add- 
ing to  pounds. 

He  paid  what  he  could  with  this  ill-gotten  pelf, 

And  something,  it  might  be,  reserved  for  himself: 
Then,  (what  is  too  true)  without  hinting  a word. 
Turned  his  back  on  the  Country — and  off  like  a Bird. 

You  lift  up  your  eyes!  — but  I guess  that  you  frame 
A judgment  too  harsh  of  the  sin  and  the  shame ; 

In  him  it  was  scarcely  a business  of  art, 

Fr^  this  he  did  all  in  the  ease  of  his  heart. 


To  London  — a sad  emigration  I ween  — 

With  his  gray  hairs  he  went  from  the  brook  and  the 
green ; 

And  there,  with  small  wealth  but  his  legs  and  his  hand.s, 
As  lonely  he  stood  as  a Crow  on  the  sands. 

All  trades,  as  need  was,  did  old  Adam  assume,  — 
Served  as  Stable-boy,  Errand-boy,  Porter,  and  Groom ; 
But  nature  is  gracious,  necessity  kind. 

And,  in  spite  of  the  shame  that  may  lurk  in  his  mind. 

He  seems  ten  birthdays  younger,  is  green  and  is  stout ; 
Twice  as  fast  as  before  does  his  blood  run  about ; 

You  would  say  that  each  hair  of  his  beard  was  alive. 
And  his  fingers  are  busy  as  bees  in  a hive. 

For  he ’s  not  like  an  Old  Man  that  leisurely  goes 
About  work  that  he  knows,  in  a track  that  he  knows; 
But  often  his  mind  is  compelled  to  demur. 

And  you  guess  that  the  more  then  his  body  must  stir. 

In  the  throng  of  the  Town  like  a Stranger  is  he. 

Like  one  whose  own  Country 's  far  over  the  sea ; 

And  Nature,  while  through  the  great  City  he  hies. 
Full  ten  times  a day  takes  his  heart  by  surprise. 

This  gives  him  the  fancy  of  one  that  is  young, 

More  of  soul  in  his  face  than  of  words  on  his  tongue ; 
Like  a Maiden  of  twenty  he  trembles  and  sighs. 

And  tears  of  fifteen  will  come  into  his  eyes. 

What’s  a tempest  to  him,  or  the  dry  parching  heats'! 
Yet  he  watches  the  clouds  that  pass  over  the  streets; 
With  a look  of  such  earnestness  often  will  stand. 

You  might  think  he ’d  twelve  Reapers  at  work  in  the 
Strand. 

Where  proud  Covent-garden,  in  desolate  hours 
Of  snow  and  hoar-frost,  spreads  her  fruit  and  her 
flowers. 

Old  Adam  will  smile  at  the  pains  that  have  made 
Poor  winter  look  fine  in  such  strange  masquerad  i. 

’Mid  coaches  and  chariots,  a Waggon  of  straw. 

Like  a magnet,  the  heart  of  old  Adam  can  draw ; 

With  a thousand  soft  pictures  his  memory  will  teem, 
And  his  hearing  is  touched  with  the  sounds  of  a dream. 

Up  the  Haymarket  hill  he  oft  whistles  his  way. 
Thrusts  his  hands  in  the  Waggon,  and  smells  at 
the  hay ; 

He  thinks  of  the  fields  he  so  often  hath  mown, 

And  is  happy  as  if  the  rich  freight  were  his  own. 

But  chiefly  to  Smithfield  he  loves  to  repair,  — 

If  you  pass  by  at  morning,  you  ’ll  meet  with  him  there : 
The  breath  of  the  Cows  you  may  see  him  inhale. 

And  his  heart  all  the  while  is  in  Tilsbury  Vale. 

Now  farewell.  Old  Adam ! when  low  thou  art  laid. 
May  one  blade  of  grass  spring  up  over  thy  head ; 

And  I hope  that  thy  grave,  wheresoever  it  be. 

Will  hear  the  wind  sigh  through  the  leaves  of  a tree 


456 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


THE  SMALL  CELANDINE, 

There  is  a Flower,  the  Lesser  Celandine, 

That  shrinks,  like  many  more,  from  cold  and  rain ; 
And,  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine. 

Bright  as  the  sun  itself,  ’t  is  out  again  ! 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  stvarm, 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distressed, 

Oft  have  I seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm. 

In  close  self-shelter,  like  a Thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I passed 
And  recognised  it,  though  an  altered  Form, 

Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  Blast, 

And  buffeted  at  will  by  Rain  and  Storm. 

I stopped,  and  said  with  inly-muttered  voice, 

“ It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold : 

This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 

But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 

It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay  ; 

Stiff  in  its  members,  withered,  changed  of  hue.” 
And,  in  my  spleen,  I smiled  that  it  was  gray. 

To  be  a Prodigal’s  Favourite  — then,  worse  truth, 

A Miser’s  Pensioner  — behold  our  lot ! 

O Man,  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  lake  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 


THE  TWO  THIEVES ; 

OR,  THE  LAST  STAGE  OF  AVARICE. 

O NOW  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine. 

And  the  skill  which  he  learned  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tyne ! 

Then  the  Muses  might  deal  with  me  just  as  they 
chose. 

For  I ’d  take  my  last  leave  both  of  verse  and  of  prose. 

What  feats  would  I work  wdth  my  magical  hand  ! 
Book-learning  and  books  should  be  banished  the  land  : 
And,  for  hunger  and  thirst,  and  such  troublesome  calls. 
Every  Ale-house  should  tlien  have  a feast  on  its  w^alls. 

The  Traveller  would  hang  his  wet  clothes  on  a chair ; 
Let  them  smoke,  let  them  burn,  not  a straw  w'ould  he 
care ! 

For  the  Prodigal  Son,  Joseph’s  Dream  and  his  Sheaves, 
Oh,  what  would  they  be  to  my  tale  of  two  Thieves? 

The  One,  yet  unbreeched,  is  not  three  birthdays  old. 
His  Grandsire  that  age  more  than  thirty  times  told ; 
There  are  ninety  good  seasons  of  fair  and  foul  weather 
Between  them,  and  both  go  a-stealing  together. 


With  chips  is  the  Carpenter  strewing  his  floor? 

Is  a cart-load  of  turf  at  an  old  Woman’s  door  1 
Old  Daniel  his  hand  to  the  treasure  will  slide  ! 

And  his  Grandson ’s  as  busy  at  work  by  his  side. 

Old  Daniel  begins,  he  stops  short  — and  his  eye. 
Through  the  lost  look  of  dotage,  is  cunning  and  sly. 
’Tis  a look  which  at  this  time  is  hardly  his  own. 

But  tells  a plain  tale  of  the  days  that  are  flown. 

He  once  had  a heart  which  was  moved  by  the  wires 
Of  manifold  pleasures  and  many  desires : 

And  what  if  he  cherished  his  purse?  ’Twas  no  more 
Than  treading  a path  trod  by  thousands  before. 

’T  was  a path  trod  by  thousands ; but  Daniel  is  one 
Who  went  something  farther  than  others  have  gone, 
And  now  with  old  Daniel  you  see  how  it  fares ; 

You  see  to  what  end  he  has  brought  his  gray  hairs. 

The  pair  sally  forth  hand  in  hand  : ere  the  sun 
Has  peered  o’er  the  beeches,  their  work  is  begun : 
And  yet,  into  whatever  sin  they  may  fall. 

This  Child  but  half  knows  it,  and  that  not  at  all. 

They  hunt  through  the  streets  with  deliberate  tread. 
And  each,  in  his  turn,  is  both  leader  and  led  ; 

And,  wherever  they  carry  their  plots  and  their  wiles, 
Every  face  in  the  village  is  dimpled  with  smiles. 

Neither  checked  by  the  rich  nor  the  needy,  they  roam 
The  gray-headed  Sire  has  a daughter  at  home. 

Who  will  gladly  repair  all  the  damage  that’s  done; 
And  three,  were  it  asked,  would  be  rendered  for  one. 

Old  Man ! whom  so  oft  I with  pity  have  eyed, 

I love  thee,  and  love  the  sweet  Boy  at  thy  side : 
Long  yet  may’st  thou  live  ! for  a teacher  we  see 
That  lifts  up  the  veil  of  our  nature  in  thee. 


ANIMAL  TRANQUILLITY  AND  DECAY 
A SKETCH. 

The  little  hedgerow  birds. 

That  peck  along  the  road,  regard  him  not. 
lie  travels  on,  and  in  his  face,  his  step. 

His  gait,  is  one  expression  ; every  limb. 

His  look  and  bending  figure,  all  bespeak 
A man  who  does  not  move  with  pain,  but  moves 
With  thought.  — He  is  insensibly  subdued 
To  settled  quiet : he  is  one  by  whom 
All  effort  seems  forgotten  ; one  to  whom 
Long  patience  hath  such  mild  composure  given, 
That  patience  now  doth  seem  a thing  of  which 
He  hath  no  need.  He  is  by  nature  led 
To  peace  so  perfect,  that  the  youi.g  behold 
With  envy,  what  the  Old  Man  hardly  feels. 


POEMS  REFERRING  TO  THE  PERIOD  OF  OLD  AGE. 


457 


I KNOW  an  aged  man  constrained  to  dwell 
In  a large  house  of  public  charity, 

Where  he  abides,  as  in  a prisoner’s  cell. 

With  numbers  near,  alas  ! no  company. 

When  he  could  creep  about,  at  will,  though  poor 
And  forced  to  live  on  alms,  this  old  man  fed 
A redbreast,  one  that  to  his  cottage  door 
Came  not,  but  in  a lane  partook  liis  bread. 

There  at  the  root  of  one  particular  tree, 

An  easy  seat  this  worn-out  labourer  found. 

While  robin  pecked  the  crumbs  upon  his  knee 
Laid  one  by  one,  or  scattered  on  the  ground. 

Dear  intercourse  was  theirs,  day  after  day ; 

What  signs  of  mutual  gladness  when  they  met ! 
Think  of  their  common  peace,  their  simple  play, 
The  parting  moment  and  its  fond  regret. 

Months  passed  in  love  that  failed  not  to  fulfil. 

In  spite  of  seasons’  change,  its  own  demand, 

By  fluttering  pinions  here  and  busy  bill ; 

There  by  caresses  from  a tremulous  hand. 

Thus  in  the  chosen  spot  a tie  so  strong 
Was  formed  between  the  solitary  pair. 

That  when  his  fate  had  housed  him  mid  a throng 
The  captive  shunned 'all  converse  proffered  there. 


Wife,  children,  kindred,  they  were  dead  and  gone. 
But  if  no  evil  hap  his  wishes  crossed. 

One  living  stay  was  left,  and  on  that  one 
Some  recompense  for  all  that  ho  had  lost. 

Oh  that  the  good  old  man  had  power  to  prove 
By  message  sent  through  air,  or  visible  token 
That  still  he  loves  the  bird,  and  still  must  love; 
That  friendship  lasts  though  fellowship  is  broken  ! 

iai6. 


SONNET. 

(to  an  octogenarian.) 

Affections  lose  their  object ; Time  brings  forth 
' No  successors;  and,  lodged  in  memory. 

If  love  exist  no  longer,  it  must  die, — 

I Wanting  accustomed  food,  must  pass  from  earth, 

Or  never  hope  to  reach  a second  birth. 

This  sad  belief,  the  happiest  that  is  left 
To  thousands,  share  not  thou  ; howe’er  berefl. 
Scorned,  or  neglected,  fear  not  such  a dearth. 
Though  poor  and  destitute  of  friends  thou  art. 
Perhaps  the  sole  survivor  of  thy  race. 

One  to  whom  Heaven  assigns  that  mournful  part 
The  utmost  solitude  of  age  to  face. 

Still  shall  be  left  some  corner  of  the  heart 
Where  love  for  living  thing  can  find  a place. 

1848. 


NOTE. 


“TAe  Farmer  of  Tilsbwry  Vale,"  (p.  455.) 

With  this  picture,  which  was  taken  from  real  life, 


compEm  the  imaginative  one  of  “ The  Reverie  of  Poor 
Susan,  p.  169;  and  see  (to  make  up  the  deficiencies 
of  this  class)  “ The  Excursion,”  passim. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS 


EPITAPHS 

TRANSLATED  FROM  CHIABRERA. 

1. 

Perhaps  some  needful  service  of  the  State 
Drew  Titus  from  the  depth  of  studious  bowers, 

And  doomed  him  to  contend  in  faithless  courts, 

Where  gold  determines  between  right  and  wrong. 

Yet  did  at  length  his  loyalty  of  heart, 

Ai  d his  pure  native  genius,  lead  him  back 
I'i  Wait  upon  tlie  bright  and  gracious  Muses, 

Whom  he  had  early  loved.  And  not  in  vain 
Such  course  he  held ! Bologna’s  learned  scliools 
Were  gladdened  by  the  Sage’s  voice,  and  hung 
With  fondness  on  those  sweet  Nestorian  strains. 

There  pleasure  crowned  his  days  ; and  all  his  thoughts 
A roseate  fragrance  breathed.* — O human  life, 

That  never  art  secure  from  dolorous  change ! 

Behold  a high  injunction  suddenly 
To  Arno’s  side  conducts  him,  and  he  charmed 
A Tuscan  audience : but  full  soon  was  called 
To  the  perpetual  silence  of  the  grave. 

Mourn,  Italy,  the  loss  of  him  who  stood  • 

A Champion  steadfast  and  invincible, 

To  quell  the  rage  of  literary  War  ! 

2. 

O Thou  who  movest  onward  with  a mind 
Intent  upon  thy  way,  pause,  though  in  haste ! 

’T  will  be  no  fruitless  moment.  I was  born 
Within  Savona’s  walls,  of  gentle  blood. 

On  Tiber’s  banks  my  youth  was  dedicate 
To  sacred  studies;  and  the  Roman  Shepherd 
Gave  to  my  charge  Urbino’s  numerous  Flock. 

Much  did  I watch,  much  laboured,  nor  had  power 
To  escape  from  many  and  strange  indignities ; 

Was  smitten  by  the  great  ones  of  the  World, 

But  did  not  fall ; for  Virtue  braves  all  shocks, 

* Ivi  vivea  giocondo  e i suoi  pensieri 
Erano  tutti  rose. 

The  Translator  had  not  skill  to  come  nearer  to  his  original. 


Upon  herself  resting  immoveably. 

Me  did  a kindlier  fortune  then  invite 
To  serve  the  glorious  Henry,  King  of  France, 

And  in  his  hands  I saw  a high  reward 
Stretched  out  for  my  acceptance  — but  Death  came. 
Now,  Reader,  learn  from  this  my  fate  — how  false, 
How  treacherous  to  her  promise,  is  the  World, 

And  trust  in  God  — to  whose  eternal  doom 
Must  bend  the  sceptred  Potentates  of  Earth. 


3. 

There  never  breathed  a man  who,  when  his  life 
Was  closing,  might  not  of  that  life  relate 
Toils  long  and  hard.  — The  Warrior  will  report 
Of  wounds,  and  bright  swords  flashing  in  the  field. 
And  blast  of  trumpets.  He  who  hath  been  doomed 
To  bow  his  forehead  in  the  courts  of  kings, 

Will  tell  of  fraud  and  never-ceasing  hate. 

Envy  and  heart-inquietude,  derived 
From  intricate  cabals  of  treacherous  friends. 

I,  who  on  Shipboard  lived  from  earliest  youth. 
Could  represent  the  countenance  horrible 
Of  the  vexed  waters,  and  the  indignant  rage 
Of  Auster  and  Bootes.  Forty  years 
Over  the  well-steered  Galleys  did  I rule : — 

From  huge  Pelorus  to  the  Atlantic  pillars. 

Rises  no  mountain  to  mine  eyes  unknown  ; 

And  the  broad  gulfs  I traversed  ofl  — and  — oft : 

Of  every  cloud  which  in  the  Heavens  might  stir 
I knew  the  force ; and  hence  the  rough  sea’s  pride 
Availed  not  to  my  Vessel’s  overthrow. 

What  noble  pomp  and  frequent  have  not  I 
On  regal  decks  beheld  ! yet  in  the  end 
I learnt  that  one  poor  moment  can  suffice 
To  equalise  the  lofty  and  the  low. 

We  sail  the  sea  of  life  — a Calm  One  finds, 

And  One  a Tempest  — and,  the  voyage  o’er, 

Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all. 

If  more  of  my  condition  ye  would  know, 

Savona  was  my  birth-place,  and  I sprang 
Of  noble  parents : sixty  years  and  three 
Lived  I then  yielded  to  a slow  disease. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 


459 


Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy 
Was  I,  Roberto  Dati,  and  I took 
In  Malta  the  white  symbol  of  the  Cross. 

Nor  in  life’s  vigorous  season  did  I shun 
Hazard  or  toil ; among  the  Sands  was  seen 
Of  Libya,  and  not  seldom,  on  the  Banks 
Of  wide  Hungarian  Danube,  ’t  was  my  lot 
To  hear  the  sanguinary  trumpet  sounded. 

So  lived  I,  and  repined  not  at  such  fate ; 

This  only  grieves  me,  for  it  seems  a wrong. 
That  stripped  of  arms  I to  my  end  am  brought 
On  the  soft  down  of  my  paternal  home. 

Yet  haply  Arno  shall  be  spared  all  cause 
To  blush  for  me.  Thou,  loiter  not  nor  halt 
In  thy  appointed  way,  and  bear  in  mind 
How  fleeting  and  how  frail  is  human  life! 


5. 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  He 
On  whom  the  duty  fell  (for  at  that  time 
The  Father  sojourned  in  a distant  Land) 

Deposit  in  the  hollow  of  this  Tomb 
A Brother’s  Child,  most  tenderly  beloved ! 
Francesco  was  the  name  the  Youth  had  borne, 
PozzoBONNELLi  his  illustrious  House ; 

And,  when  beneath  this  stone  the  Corse  was  laid. 
The  eyes  of  all  Savona  streamed  with  tears. 
Alas!  the  twentieth  April  of  his  life 
Had  scarcely  flowered : and  at  this  early  time. 

By  genuine  virtue  he  inspired  a hope 
That  greatly  cheered  his  Country  : to  his  Kin 
He  promised  comfort;  and  the  flattering  thoughts 
His  Friends  had  in  their  fondness  entertained,* 

He  suffered  not  to  languish  or  decay. 

Now  is  there  not  good  reason  to  break  forth 
Into  a passionate  lament  1 — O Soul ! 

Short  while  a Pilgrim  in  our  nether  world. 

Do  thou  enjoy  the  calm  empyreal  air ; 

And  round  this  earthly  tomb  let  roses  rise, 

An  everlasting  spring  ! in  memory 

Of  that  delightful  fragrance  which  was  once 

From  thy  mild  manners,  quietly  exhaled. 


6. 

Pause,  courteous  Spirit  I — Balbi  supplicates 
That  Thou,  with  no  reluctant  voice,  for  him 
Here  laid  in  mortal  darkness,  wouldst  prefer 
A prayer  to  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 


* Tn  justice  to  the  Author,  I subjoin  the  original : — 

e degli  amici 

Non  lasciava  languire  i bei  pensieri. 


This  to  the  Dead  by  sacred  right  belongs  ; 

All  else  is  nothing  — Did  occasion  suit 
To  tell  his  worth,  the  marble  of  this  tomb 
Would  ill  suffice : for  Plato’s  lore  sublime. 

And  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Stagyrite, 

Enriched  and  beautified  his  studious  mind  : 

With  Archimedes  also  he  conversed 
As  with  a chosen  Friend,  nor  did  he  leave 
Those  laureat  wreaths  ungathered  which  the  Nymphs 
Twine  on  the  top  of  Pindus.  — Finally, 

Himself  above  each  lower  thought  uplifting. 

His  ears  he  closed  to  listen  to  the  Song 
Which  Sion’s  Kings  did  consecrate  of  old; 

And  fixed  his  Pindus  upon  Lebanon. 

A blessed  Man  ! who  of  protracted  days 
Made  not,  as  thousands  do,  a vulgar  sleep; 

But  truly  did  He  live  his  life.  — Urbino, 

Take  pride  in  him  ! — O passenger,  farewell ! 


7. 

Weep  not,  beloved  friends!  nor  let  the  air 
For  me  with  sighs  be  troubled.  Not  from  life 
Have  I been  taken ; this  is  genuine  life 
And  this  alone  — the  life  which  now  I live 
In  peace  eternal ; where  desire  and  joy 
Together  move  in  fellowship  without  end. — 
Francesco  Ceni  willed  that,  after  death 
His  tombstone  thus  should  speak  for  him.  And  surely 
Small  cause  there  is  for  that  fond  wish  of  ours 
Long  to  continue  in  this  world  ; a world 
That  keeps  not  faith,  nor  yet  can  point  a hope 
To  good,  whereof  itself  is  destitute. 


8. 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero 
With  an  untoward  fate  was  long  involved 
In  odious  litigation;  and  full  long. 

Fate  harder  still!  had  he  to  endure  assaults 
Of  racking  malady.  And  true  it  is 
That  not  the  less  a frank  courageous  heart 
And  buoyant  spirit  triumphed  over  pain ; 

And  he  was  strong  to  follow  in  the  steps 
Of  the  fair  Muses.  Not  a covert  path 
Leads  to  the  dear  Parnassian  forest’s  shade, 
That  might  from  him  be  hidden ; not  a track 
Mounts  to  pellucid  Hippocrene,  but  he 
Had  traced  its  windings.  — This  Savona  knows, 
Yet  no  sepulchral  honours  to  her  son 
She  paid,  for  in  our  age  the  heart  is  ruled 
Only  by  gold.  And  now  a simple  stone 


460 


WOKDSWOKTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Inscribed  with  this  memorial  here  is  raised 
By  his  bereft,  his  lonely,  Chiabrera. 

Think  not,  O passenger ! who  read’st  the  lines 
That  an  exceeding  love  hath  dazzled  me ; 

No  — he  was  one  whose  memory  ought  to  spread 
Where’er  Permessus  bears  an  honoured  name. 
And  live  as  long  as  its  pure  stream  shall  flow. 


9. 

0 FLOWER  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood. 
And  all  that  generous  nurture  breeds  to  make 
Youth  amiable;  O friend  so  true  of  soul 
To  fair  Aglaia ; by  what  envy  moved, 

Lelius ! has  death  cut  short  thy  brilliant  day 
In  its  sweet  opening]  and  what  dire  mishap 
Has  from  Savona  torn  her  best  delight] 

For  thee  she  mourns,  nor  e’er  will  cease  to  mourn ; 
And,  should  the  outpourings  of  her  eyes  suffice  not 
For  her  heart’s  grief,  she  will  entreat  Sebeto 
Not  to  withhold  his  bounteous  aid,  Sebeto 
Who  saw  thee,  on  his  margin,  yield  to  death. 

In  the  chaste  arms  of  thy  beloved  Love  ! 

What  profit  riches]  what  does  youth  avail] 

Dust  are  our  hopes;  — I,  weeping  bitterly. 

Penned  these  sad  lines,  nor  can  forbear  to  pray 

That  every  gentle  Spirit  hither  led 

May  read  them  not  without  some  bitter  tears. 


Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained 
Upon  this  sinful  earth,  by  sin  unstained  : 

O blessed  Lord  ! whose  mercy  then  removed 
A child  whom  every  eye  that  looked  on  loved 
Support  us,  teach  us  calmly  to  resign 
What  we  possessed,  and  now  is  wholly  thine ! 


CENOTAPH. 

In  affectionate  remembrance  of  Frances  Fermor,  whose  remains 
are  deposited  in  the  church  of  Claines,  near  Worcester,  this  stone  is 
erected  by  her  sister,  Dame  Margaret,  wife  of  Sir  George  Beaumont, 
Bart.,  who,  feeling  not  less  than  the  love  of  a brother  for  the  de- 
ceased, commends  this  memorial  to  the  care  of  his  heirs  and  suc- 
cessors in  the  possession  of  this  place. 


By  vain  affections  unenthralled. 
Though  resolute  when  duty  called 
To  meet  the  world’s  broad  eye. 
Pure  as  the  holiest  cloistered  nun 
That  ever  feared  the  tempting  sun. 
Did  Fermor  live  and  die. 


This  Tablet,  hallowed  by  her  name 
One  heart-relieving  tear  may  claim; 

But  if  the  pensive  gloom 
Of  fond  regret  be  still  thy  choice. 

Exalt  thy  spirit,  hear  the  voice 
Of  Jesus  from  her  tomb ! 

“I  AM  THE  WAY,  THE  TRUTH,  AND  THE  LIFE.” 


EPITAPH 

IN  THE  CIIAPEL  Y.VKD  OF  LANGD.iLE,  WESTMORELAND. 

By  playful  smiles,  (alas ! too  oft 
A sad  heart’s  sunshine)  by  a soft 
And  gentle  nature,  and  a free 
Yet  modest  hand  of  charity. 

Through  life  was  Owen  Lloyd  endeared 
To  young  and  old ; and  how  revered 
Had  been  that  pious  spirit,  a tide 
Of  humble  mourners  testified. 

When,  after  pains  dispensed  to  prove 
The  measure  of  God’s  cliastening  love. 

Here,  brought  from  far  his  corse  found  rest, — 
Fulfilment  of  his  own  request;  — 

Urged  less  for  this  Yew’s  shade,  though  he 
Planted  with  such  fond  hope  the  tree; 

Less  for  the  love  of  stream  and  rock, 

Dear  as  they  were,  than  that  his  flock 
When  they  no  more  their  pastor’s  voice 
Could  hear  to  guide  them  in  their  choice 
Through  good  and  evil,  help  might  have 
Admonished,  from  his  silent  grave. 

Of  righteousness,  of  sins  forgiven. 

For  peace  on  earth  and  bliss  in  heaven. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  SCHOLARS  OF  THE 
VILLAGE  SCHOOL  OF . 

I COME,  ye  little  noisy  crew. 

Not  long  your  pastime  to  prevent; 

I heard  the  blessing  which  to  you 
Our  common  friend  and  father  sent. 

I kissed  his  cheek  before  he  died ; 

And  when  his  breath  was  fled, 

I raised,  while  kneeling  by  his  side. 

His  hand : — it  dropped  like  lead. 

Your  hands,  dear  little-ones,  do  all 
That  can  be  done,  will  never  fall 
Like  his  till  they  are  dead. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 


461 


Dy  night  or  day,  blow  foul  or  fair, 

Ne’er  will  the  best  of  all  your  train 
Play  with  the  locks  of  his  white  hair, 

Or  stand  between  his  knees  again. 

Here  did  he  sit.  confined  for  hours ; 

But  he  could  se  the  woods  and  plains. 

Could  hear  the  wind  and  mark  the  showers 
Come  streaming  down  the  streaming  panes. 
Now  stretched  beneath  his  grass-green  mound 
lie  rests  a prisoner  of  the  ground. 

He  loved  the  breathing  air. 

He  loved  the  sun,  but  if  it  rise 
Or  set,  to  him  where  now  he  lies, 

Brings  not  a moment’s  care. 

Alas!  what  idle  words;  but  take 
The  Dirge  which  for  our  master’s  sake 
And  yours,  love  prompted  me  to  make. 

The  rhymes  so  homely  in  attire 
With  learned  ears  may  ill  agree. 

But  chanted  by  your  orphan  quire 
Will  make  a touching  melody. 


DIRGE. 

Mourn,  shepherd,  near  thy  old  grey  stone; 
Thou  angler,  by  the  silent  flood; 

And  mourn  when  thou  art  all  alone. 

Thou  woodman,  in  the  distant  wood ! 

Thou  one  blind  sailor,  rich  in  joy 
Though  blind,  thy  tunes  in  sadness  hum; 

And  mourn,  thou  poor  half-witted  boy ! 

Born  deaf,  and  living  deaf  and  dumb. 

Thou  drooping  sick  man,  bless  the  guide 
Who  checked  or  turned  thy  headstijong  youth, 

As  he  before  had  sanctified 

Thy  infancy  with  heavenly  truth. 

Ye  striplings  light  of  heart  and  gay. 

Bold  settlers  on  some  foreign  shore. 

Give,  when  your  thoughts  are  turned  this  way, 

A sigh  to  him  whom  we  deplore. 

For  us  who  here  in  funeral  strain 
With  one  accord  our  voices  raise. 

Let  sorrow  overcharged  with  pain 
Be  lost  in  thankfulness  and  praise. 

And  when  our  hearts  shall  feel  a sting 
From  ill  we  meet  or  good  we  miss. 

May  touches  of  his  memory  bring 
Fond  healing,  like  a mother’s  kiss. 


BY  THE  SIDE  OF  THE  GRAVE  SOME  YEARS  AFTER. 

Long  time  his  pulse  hath  ceased  to  beat ; 

But  benefits,  his  gift,  we  trace  — 

Expressed  in  every  eye  we  meet 

Round  this  dear  vale,  his  native  place. 

To  stately  hall  and  cottage  rude 
Flowed  from  his  life  what  still  they  hold. 
Light  pleasures  every  day  renewed ; 

And  blessings  half  a century  old. 

Oh  true  of  heart,  of  spirit  gay. 

Thy  faults,  where  not  already  gone 
From  memory,  prolong  their  stay 
For  charity’s  sweet  sake  alone. 

Such  solace  find  we  for  our  loss ; 

And  what  beyond  this  thought  we  crave 
Comes  in  the  promise  from  the  Cross, 

Shining  upon  thy  happy  grave.* 


LINES 

Composed  at  Grasmere,  (luring  a walk  one  evening,  after  astormy 
day,  the  author  having  just  read  in  a Newspaper  that  the  dissolution 
of  Mr.  Fox  was  hourly  expected. 


Loud  is  the  vale ! the  voice  is  up 

With  which  she  speaks  when  storms  are  gone, 

A mighty  unison  of  streams! 

Of  all  her  voices,  one  1 

Loud  is  the  Vale; — this  inland  depth 
In  peace  is  roaring  like  the  sea; 

Yon  star  upon  the  mountain-top 
Is  listening  quietly. 

Sad  was  I,  even  to  pain  deprest 
Importunate  and  heavy  load  ! f 
The  Comforter  hath  found  me  here. 

Upon  this  lonely  road ; 

And  many  thousands  now  are  sad  — 

Wait  the  fulfilment  of  their  fear; 

For  he  must  die  who  is  their  stay. 

Their  glory  disappear. 


* See  upon  the  subject  of  the  three  foregoing  pieces, 
“Mathew,”  “ The  Fountain &c.,  pages  400,  401. 
t Importuna  e grave  salma. 

Michael  Angelo. 


462 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A power  is  passings  from  the  earth 
To  breathless  Nature’s  dark  abyss; 

But  when  the  great  and  good  depart 
Wliat  is  it  more  than  this  — 

That  man,  who  is  from  God  sent  forth, 
Doth  yet  again  to  God  return  1 — 

Such  ebb  and  flow  must  ever  be, 

Then  wherefore  should  we  mourn  1 


ELEGIAC  VERSES, 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  BROTHER,  JOHN  WORDSWORTH, 

COMMANDER  OF  THE  E.  1.  COMPANY’S  SHIP,  THE  EARL  OF  ABER- 
OAVENNY,  IN  WHICH  HE  PERISHED  BY  CALAMITODS  SHIP- 
WRECK, FEB.  Gth,  1805. 

Composed  near  the  Mountain  track,  that  leads  from  Grasmere 
througli  Grisdale  Hawes,  where  it  descends  towards  Patterdale. 


The  sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo! 
That  instant,  startled  by  the  shock. 

The  buzzard  mounted  from  the  rock 
Deliberate  and  slow: 

Lord  of  the  air  he  took  his  flight; 

Oh ! could  he  on  that  woeful  night 
Have  lent  his  wing,  my  brother  dear. 

For  one  poor  moment’s  space  to  thee. 

And  all  who  struggled  with  the  sea. 
When  safety  was  so  near. 

Thus  in  the  weakness  of  my  heart 
I spoke  (but  let  that  pang  be  still) 

When  rising  from  the  rock  at  will, 

I saw  the  bird  depart. 

And  let  me  calmly  bless  the  Power 
That  meets  me  in  this  unknown  flower. 
Affecting  type  of  him  I mourn ! 

With  calmness  suffer  and  believe. 

And  grieve,  and  know  that  I must  grieve. 
Not  cheerless,  though  forlorn. 

Here  did  we  stop;  and  here  looked  round 
While  each  into  himself  descends 
For  that  last  thought  of  parting  friends 
That  is  not  to  be  found. 

Hidden  was  Grasmere  Vale  from  sight. 
Our  home  and  his,  his  lieart’s  delight. 

His  quiet  heart’s  selected  home. 

But  time  before  him  melts  away. 

And  he  hath  feeling  of  a day 
Of  blessedness  to  come, 


Full  soon  in  sorrow  did  I weep. 

Taught  that  the  mutual  hope  was  dust, 

In  sorrrow,  but  for  higher  trust. 

How  miserably  deep! 

All  vanished  in  a single  word, 

A breath,  a sound,  and  scarcely  heard. 

Sea — ship — drowned — shipwreck — so  it  came. 
The  meek,  the  brave,  the  good,  was  gone; 

He  who  had  been  our  living  John 
Was  nothing  but  a name. 

That  was  indeed  a parting!  oh. 

Glad  am  I,  glad  that  it  is  past; 

For  there  were  some  on  whom  it  cast 
Unutterable  woe. 

But  they  as  well  as  I have  gains; 

From  many  an  humble  source,  to  pains 
Like  these,  there  comes  a mild  release; 

Even  here  I feel  it,  even  this  plant 
Is  in  its  beauty  ministrant 
To  comfort  and  to  peace. 

He  would  have  loved  thy  modest  grace, 

Meek  flower!  To  him  I would  have  said, 

“It  grows  upon  its  native  bed 
Beside  our  parting-place; 

There,  cleaving  to  the  ground,  it  lies 
With  multitude  of  purple  eyes. 

Spangling  a cushion  green  like  moss ; 

But  we  will  see  it,  joyful  tide! 

Some  day,  to  see  it  in  its  pride. 

The  mountain  will  we  cross.” 

— Brother  and  friend,  if  verse  of  mine 
Have  power  to  make  thy  virtues  known. 

Here  let  a monumental  stone 
Stand — sacred  as  a shrine; 

And  to  the  few  who  pass  this  way, 

Traveller  or  shepherd,  let  it  say. 

Long  as  these  mighty  rocks  endure, — 

Oh  do  not  thou  too  fondly  brood, 

Although  deserving  of  all  good. 

On  any  earthly  hope,  however  pure ! * 

* The  plant  alluded  to  is  the  Moss  Campion  (Silene 
acaulis,  of  Linnaeus.)  This  most  beautiful  plant  is  scarce 
in  England,  though  it  is  found  in  great  abundance  upon  the 
mountains  of  Scotland.  The  first  specimen  I ever  saw  of 
it,  in  its  native  bed,  was  singularly  fine,  the  tuft  or  cushion 
being  at  least  eight  inches  in  diameter,  and  the  root  pro- 
portionably  thick.  I have  only  met  with  it  in  two  places 
among  our  mountains,  in  both  of  which  I have  since  sought 
for  it  in  vain. 

Botanists  will  not,  I hope,  take  it  ill,  if  I caution  them 
against  carrying  off,  inconsiderately,  rare  and  beautiful 
plants.  This  has  often  been  done,  particularly  from  Ingle- 
borough  and  other  mountains  in  Yorkshire,  till  the  species 
have  totally  disappeared,  to  the  great  regret  of  lovers  of 
nature  living  near  the  places  where  they  grew. 

See  among  the  Poems  on  the  “Naming  of  places,” 
No.  vi.,  [and  “The  PRELirnE,”  Book  XIV.,  ad.  fen.— 
H.  R.] 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 


403 


LINES 

VVrilten  November  13, 1814,  on  a blank  leaf  in  a copy  of  the 
Author’s  Poem  "The  Excursion,’’  upon  hearing  of  the  Death 
of  the  late  Vicar  of  Kendal. 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong^, 

Did  I deliver  this  unfinished  Song ; 

Yet  for  one  happy  issue  ; — and  I look 
With  self-congratulation  on  the  Book 
Which  pious,  learned  Murfitt  saw  and  read ; — 

Upon  my  thoughts  his  saintly  Spirit  fed ; 

He  conned  the  new-born  Lay  with  grateful  heart  — 
Foreboding  not  how  soon  he  must  depart ; 

Unweeting  that  to  him  the  joy  was  given 
Which  good  Men  take  with  them  from  Earth  to 
Heaven. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS, 

SUGGESTED  BY  A PICTURE  OF  PEELE  CASTLE,  IN  A 
STORM,  PAINTED  BY  SIR  GEORGE  BEAUMONT. 

I WAS  thy  Neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! 

Four  summer  weeks  I dwelt  in  sight  of  thee  : 

I saw  thee  every  day ; and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ! 

So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 

Whene’er  I looked,  thy  Image  still  was  there ; 

It  trembled,  but  it  never  passed  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm ! it  seemed  no  sleep ; 

No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings : 

I could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  Things. 

Ah  ! THEN,  if  mine  had  been  the  Painter’s  hand. 

To  express  what  then  I saw ; and  add  the  gleam. 
The  light  that  never  was,  on  sea  or  land. 

The  consecration,  and  the  Poet’s  dream  ; 

I would  have  planted  thee,  thou  Hoary  Pile ! 

Amid  a world  how  different  from  this  ! 

Beside  a sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile ; 

On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a sky  of  bliss. 

A Picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 

Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 

No  motion  but  the  moving  tide,  a breeze. 

Or  merely  silent  Nature’s  breathing  life. 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart. 

Such  Picture  would  I at  that  time  have  made 
And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part; 

A faith,  a trust,  that  could  not  be  betrayed. 


So  once  it  would  have  been,  — ’t  is  so  no  more ; 

I have  submitted  to  a new  control : 

A power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore; 

A deep  distress  hath  humanised  my  Soul. 

Not  for  a moment  could  I now  behold 
A smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I have  been : 

The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne’er  be  old ; 

This,  which  I know,  I speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend ! who  would  have  been  tne 
Friend, 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I deplore. 

This  Work  of  thine  I blame  not,  but  commend  ; 

This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

O ’t  is  a passionate  Work  ! — yet  wise  and  well ; 

Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 

That  Hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell. 

This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

I love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves. 

Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time. 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone. 

Housed  in  a dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  ! 

Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known. 

Is  to  be  pitied  ; for  ’tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer. 

And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne ! 

Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  here. — 

Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 


TO  THE  DAISY. 

Sweet  Flower ! belike  one  day  to  have 
A place  upon  thy  Poet’s  grave, 

I welcome  thee  once  more ; 

But  He,  who  was  on  land,  at  sea. 

My  Brother,  too,  in  loving  thee. 

Although  he  loved  more  silently. 

Sleeps  by  his  native  shore. 

Ah ! hopeful,  hopeful  was  the  day 
When  to  that  Ship  he  bent  his  way, 

To  govern  and  to  guide: 

His  wish  was  gained : a little  time 
Would  bring  him  back  in  manhood’s  prime 
And  free  for  life,  these  hills  to  climb, 
With  all  his  wants  supplied. 


464 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  full  of  hope  day  followed  day 
While  that  stout  Ship  at  anchor  lay 
Beside  the  shores  of  Wight; 

The  May  had  then  made  all  things  green; 
And,  floating  there,  in  pomp  serene. 

That  Ship  was  goodly  to  be  seen. 

His  pride  and  his  delight! 

I'et  then,  when  called  ashore,  he  sought 
The  tender  peace  of  rural  thought: 

In  more  than  happy  mood 

To  your  abodes,  bright  daisy  Flowers 

He  then  would  steal  at  leisure  hours. 

And  loved  you  glittering  in  your  bowers, 
A starry  multitude. 

But  hark  the  word!  — the  Ship  is  gone;  — 
From  her  long  course  returns : — anon 
Sets  sail : — in  season  due. 

Once  more  on  English  earth  they  stand : 
But,  when  a third  time  from  the  land 
They  parted,  sorrow  was  at  hand 
For  Him  and  for  his  Crew. 

Ill  fated  Vessel!  — ghastly  shock! 

— At  length  delivered  from  the  rock, 

The  deep  she  hath  regained ; 

And  through  the  stormy  night  they  steer; 
Labouring  for  life,  in  hope  and  fear. 
Towards  a safer  shore  — how  near. 

Yet  not  to  be  attained ! 

“ Silence !”  the  brave  Commander  cried ; 
To  that  calm  word  a shriek  replied. 

It  was  the  last  death-shriek. 

— A few  appear  by  morning  light. 
Preserved  upon  the  tall  mast’s  height; 

Oft  in  my  soul  I see  that  sight; 

But  one  dear  remnant  of  the  night  — 

For  him  in  vain  I seek. 

Si.x  weeks  beneath  the  moving  sea 
He  lay  in  slumber  quietly; 

Unforced  by  wind  or  wave 

To  quit  the  Ship  for  which  he  died, 

(All  claims  of  duty  satisfied ;) 

And  there  they  found  him  at  her  side; 
And  bore  him  to  the  grave. 

Vain  service  ! yet  not  vainly  done 
For  this,  if  other  end  were  none, 

That  He,  who  had  been  cast 
Uiwn  a way  of  life  unmeet 
For  such  a gentle  Soul  and  sweet. 

Should  find  an  undisturbed  retreat 
Near  what  he  loved,  at  last; 


That  neighbourhood  of  grove  and  field 
To  Him  a resting-place  should  yield, 

A meek  man  and  a brave ! 

The  birds  shall  sing  and  ocean  make 
A mournful  murmur  for  his  sake 
And  Thou,  sweet  Flower,  shalt  sleep  and  wake 
Upon  his  senseless  grave.* 


“ Late,  late  yestreen  I saw  the  new  moone 
Wi’  the  aiild  moone  in  hir  arme.” 

Ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence,  Percy’s  RdUptes 


Once  I could  hail  (howe’er  serene  the  sky) 

The  Moon  re-entering  her  monthly  round. 

No  faculty  yet  given  me  to  espy 

The  dusky  Shape  within  her  arms  imbound. 

That  thin  memento  of  eflfulgence  lost 

Which  some  have  named  her  Predecessor’s  Ghost. 

Young,  like  the  Crescent  that  above  me  shone. 
Nought  I perceived  within  it  dull  or  dim ; 

All  that  appeared  was  suitable  to  One 
Whose  fancy  had  a thousand  fields  to  skim ; 

To  expectations  spreading  with  wild  growth. 

And  hope  that  kept  with  me  her  plighted  troth. 

I saw  (ambition  quickening  at  the  view) 

A silver  boat  launched  on  a boundless  flood ; 

A pearly  crest,  like  Dian’s  when  it  threw 
Its  brightest  splendour  round  a leafy  wood  ; 

But  not  a hint  from  under-ground,  no  sign 
Pit  for  the  glimmering  brow  of  Proserpine. 

Or  was  it  Dian’s  self  that  seemed  to  move 
Before  me  I — nothing  blemished  the  fair  sight; 

On  her  I looked  whom  jocund  Fairies  love, 
Cynthia,  who  puts  the  little  stars  to  flight. 

And  by  that  thinning  magnifies  the  great, 

For  exaltation  of  her  sovereign  state. 

And  when  I learned  to  mark  the  Spectral-shape 
As  each  new  Moon  obeyed  the  call  of  Time, 

If  gloom  fell  on  me,  swift  was  my  escape; 

Such  happy  privilege  hath  Life’s  gay  Prime, 

To  see  or  not  to  see,  as  best  may  please 
A buoyant  Spirit,  and  a heart  at  ease. 

Now,  dazzling  Stranger ! when  thou  meet’st  my  glance 
Thy  dark  Associate  ever  I discern ; 

Emblem  of  thoughts  too  eager  to  advance 
While  I salute  my  joys,  thoughts  sad  or  stern; 
Shades  of  past  bliss,  or  phantoms  that  to  gain 
Their  fill  of  promised  lustre  wait  in  vain. 

* See  page  134. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 


465 


So  changes  mortal  Life  with  fleetinjr  years ; 

A mournful  change,  should  Reason  fail  to  bring 
The  timely  insight  that  can  temper  fears, 

And  from  vicissitude  remove  its  sting; 

M'hile  Faith  aspires  to  seats  in  that  Domain 
Where  joys  are  perfect,  neither  wax  nor  wane. 


ELEGIAC  STANZAS. 

1824. 

O FOR  a dirge!  But  why  complain! 
Ask  rather  a triurr.phal  strain 
When  Fermor’s  race  is  run; 

A garland  of  immortal  boughs 
To  bind  around  the  Christian’s  brows, 
Whose  glorious  work  is  done. 


But  hushed  be  every  thought  that  springs 
From  out  the  bitterness  of  things ; 

Her  quiet  is  secure; 

No  tliorns  can  pierce  her  tender  feet. 
Whose  life  was,  like  the  violet,  sweet, 

As  climbing  jasmine,  pure;  — 

As  snowdrop  on  an  infant’s  grave. 

Or  lily  heaving  with  tlie  wave 
That  feeds  it  and  defends  ; 

As  Vesper,  ere  the  star  hath  kissed 
The  mountain  top,  or  breathed  the  mist 
That  from  the  vale  ascends. 

Thou  takest  not  away,  O Death! 

Thou  strik’st  — and  absence  perishelh. 
Indifference  is  no  more ; 

The  future  brightens  on  our  sight; 

For  on  the  past  hatli  fallen  a light 
That  tempts  us  to  adore. 


We  pay  a high  and  holy  debt; 

No  tears  of  passionate  regret 
Shall  stain  this  votive  lay; 

Ill-worthy,  Beaumont!  were  the  grief 
That  flings  itself  on  wild  relief 
When  Saints  have  passed  away. 


Sad  doom,  at  Sorrow’s  shrine  to  kneel. 

For  ever  covetous  to  feel. 

And  impotent  to  bear; 

Such  once  was  hers  — to  think  and  think 
On  severed  love,  and  only  sink 
From  anguish  to  despair! 

But  nature  to  its  inmost  part 
Had  Faith  refined,  and  to  her  heart 
A peaceful  cradle  given : 

Calm  as  the  dew-drop’s,  free  to  rest 
Within  a breeze-fanned  rose’s  breast 
Till  it  exhales  to  heaven. 

Was  ever  Spirit  that  could  bend 
So  graciously  1 — that  could  descend. 
Another’s  need  to  suit. 

So  promptly  from  her  lofty  throne  1 — 

In  works  of  love,  in  these  alone, 

IIow  restless,  how  minute ! 

Pale  was  her  hue;  yet  mortal  cheek 
Ne’er  kindled  with  a livelier  streak 
When  aught  had  suffered  wrong, — 

When  aught  that  breathes  had  felt  a wound; 
Such  look  the  Oppressor  might  confound. 
However  proud  and  strong. 

31 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  EARTIL 
FEBRUARY,  1816 

1. 

“Rest,  rest,  perturbed  Earth! 

“ O rest,  thou  doleful  Mother  of  Mankind  !’’ 

A Spirit  sang  in  tones  more  plaintive  than  the  wind  . 
“ From  regions  where  no  evil  thing  has  birth 
“ I come  — thy  stains  to  wash  away, 

“Thy  cherished  fetters  to  unbind, 

“To  open  thy  sad  eyes  upon  a milder  day. 

“ The  Heavens  are  thronged  with  martyrs  that  hava 
risen 

“ From  out  thy  noisome  prison ; 

“The  penal  caverns  groan 
“ With  tens  of  thousands  rent  from  off  the  tree 
“Of  hopeful  life,  — by  Battle’s  whirlwind  blown 
“ Into  the  deserts  of  Eternity. 

“ Unpitied  havoc ! Victims  unlamented  ! 

“ But  not  on  high,  where  madness  is  resented, 

“ And  murder  causes  some  sad  tears  to  flow, 

“ Though,  from  the  widely-sweeping  blow, 

“The  choirs  of  Angels  spread,  triumphantly  aug- 
mented. 

2. 


“False  Parent  of  Mankind! 

“ Obdurate,  proud,  and  blind, 

“I  sprinkle  thee  with  soft,  celestial  dews, 

“ Thy  lost  maternal  heart  to  re-infuse  ! 

“ Scattering  this  far-fetched  moisture  from  my  wings. 
“Upon  the  act  a blessing  I implore, 

“ Of  which  the  rivers  in  their  secret  springs, 

“ The  rivers  stained  so  oft  with  human  gore, 

“ Are  conscious ; — may  the  like  return  no  more ! 


46G 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ May  discord  — for  a Serapli’s  care 
“ Shall  be  attended  with  a bolder  prayer  — 

“ May  she,  who  once  disturbed  the  seats  of  bliss 
“ These  mortal  spheres  above, 

“ Be  chained  for  ever  to  the  black  abyss ! 

“ And  tliou,  O rescued  Earth,  by  peace  and  love, 
“ And  merciful  desires,  thy  sanctity  approve  1” 

The  Spirit  ended  his  mysterious  rite, 

And  the  pure  vision  closed  in  darkness  infinite. 


EPITAPH. 

By  a blest  husband  guided,  Mary  came 
From  nearest  kindred,  Vernon  her  new  name; 

She  came,  though  meek  of  soul,  in  seemly  pride 
Of  happiness  and  hope,  a youthful  bride. 

O dread  reverse  ! if  aught  he  so,  which  proves 
^'hat  God  will  chasten  whom  he  dearly  loves. 

Faith  bore  her  up  through  pains  in  mercy  given. 

And  troubles  that  were  each  a step  to  Heaven : 

Two  babes  were  laid  in  earth  before  she  died  ; 

A third  now  slumbers  at  the  mother’s  side; 

Its  sister-twin  survives,  whose  smiles  afford 
A trembling  solace  to  her  widowed  lord. 

Reader ! if  to  thy  bosom  cling  the  pain 
Of  recent  sorrow  combated  in  vain ; 

Or  if  thy  cherished  grief  have  failed  to  thwart 
Time  stdl  intent  on  his  insidious  part. 

Lulling  the  mourner’s  best  good  thoughts  asleep. 
Pilfering  regrets  we  would,  but  cannot  keep ; 

Bear  with  him  — judge  Him  gently  who  makes  known 
His  bitter  loss  by  this  memorial  stone; 

And  pray  that  in  his  faithful  breast  the  grace 
Of  resignation  find  a hallowed  place. 


ELEGIAC  MUSINGS 

IN  THE  GROUNDS  OF  COLEORTON  HALL,  THE  SEAT  OF 
THE  LATE  SIR  G.  H.  BEAUMONT,  BART. 

In  those  grounds  stands  the  Parish  Church,  wherein  is  a mural 
momiment  bearing  an  inscription  wliich,  in  deference  to  the  earnest 
request  of  the  deceased,  is  confined  to  name,  dates,  and  these  woids : — 
“ Enter  not  into  judgment  with  thy  servant,  O Lord!" 

With  copious  eulogy  in  prose  or  rhyme 
<Traven  on  the  tomb  we  struggle  against  Time, 

Alas,  how  feebly ' but  our  feelings  rise 
And  still  we  struggle  when  a good  man  dies: 

Such  offering  Bevumont  dreaded  and  forbade, 

A hpiiit  meek  in  self-abasement  clad. 


Yet  here  at  least,  though  few  have  numbered  days 
That  shunned  so  modestly  the  light  of  praise, 

His  graceful  manners,  and  the  temperate  ray 
Of  that  arch  fancy  which  would  round  him  play. 
Brightening  a converse  never  known  to  swerve 
From  courtesy  and  delicate  reserve; 

That  sense,  the  bland  philosophy  of  life. 

Which  checked  discussion  ere  it  warmed  to  strife; 
Those  rare  accomplishments,  and  varied  powers. 

Might  have  their  record  among  sylvan  bowers. 

Oh,  fled  for  ever!  vanished  like  a blast 

That  shook  the  leaves  in  myriads  as  it  passed ; — 

Gone  from  this  world  of  earth,  air,  sea,  and  sky. 

From  all  its  spirit-moving  imagery. 

Intensely  studied  with  a painter’s  eye, 

A poet’s  heart;  and,  for  congenial  view, 

Portrayed  with  happiest  pencil,  not  untrue 
To  common  recognitions  while  the  line 
Flowed  in  a course  of  sympathy  divine;  — 

Oh!  severed,  too  abruptly  from  delights 

That  all  the  seasons  shared  with  equal  rights;  — 

Rapt  in  the  grace  of  undismantled  age, 

From  soul-felt  music,  and  the  treasured  page 
Lit  by  that  evening  lamp  which  loved  to  shed 
Its  mellow  lustre  round  thy  honoured  head ; 

While  friends  beheld  thee  give  with  eye,  voice,  mien. 
More  than  theatric  force  to  Shakspeare's  scene;  — 

If  thou  hast  heard  me  — if  thy  Spirit  know 

Aught  of  these  bowers  and  whence  their  pleasures  flow, 

If  things  in  our  remembrance  held  so  dear, 

And  thoughts  and  projects  fondly  cherished  here. 

To  thy  exalted  nature  only  seem 

Time's  vanities,  light  fragments  of  earth’s  dream  — 

Rebuke  us  not ! — The  mandate  is  obeyed 

That  said,  “Let  praise  be  mute  where  I am  laid;” 

The  holier  deprecation,  given  in  trust 
To  the  cold  marble,  waits  upon  thy  dust; 

Vet  have  we  found  how  slowly  genuine  grief 
From  silent  admiration  wins  relief. 

Too  long  abashed  thy  name  is  like  a rose 
That  doth  “within  itself  its  sweetness  close;’ 

A drooping  daisy  changed  into  a cup 
In  which  her  bright-eyed  beauty  is  shut  up. 

Within  these  groves,  where  still  are  flitting  by 
Shades  of  the  past,  oft  noticed  with  a sigh. 

Shall  stand  a votive  tablet,  haply  free. 

When  towers  and  temples  fall,  to  speak  of  thee! 

If  sculptured  emblems  of  our  mortal  doom 
Recal  not  there  the  wisdom  of  the  tomb. 

Green  ivy  risen  from  out  the  cheerful  earth. 

Will  fringe  the  lettered  stone;  and  herbs  spring  forth, 
Whose  fragrance,  by  soft  dews  and  rain  unbound. 

Shall  penetrate  the  heart  without  a wound  ; 

While  truth  and  love  their  purposes  fulfil. 
Commemorating  genius,  talent,  skill. 

That  could  not  lie  concealed  where  thou  wert  known , 
Thy  virtues  lie  must  judge,  and  He  alone. 

The  God  upon  whose  mercy  they  are  thrown. 

Nov.  im 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEG-IAC  POEMS. 


467 


WRITTEN  AFTER  THE  DEATH  OF 
CHARLES  LAMB. 

To  a good  man  of  most  dear  memory 
This  stone  is  sacred.  Here  he  lies  apart 
From  the  great  city  where  he  first  drew  breath, 

Was  reared  and  taught;  and  humbly  earned  his  bread, 
To  the  strict  labours  of  the.  merchant’s  desk 
By  duty  chained.  Not  seldom  did  those  tasks 
Tease,  and  the  thought  of  time  so  spent  depress 
His  spirit,  but  the  recompense  was  high; 

Firm  independence,  bounty’s  rightful  sire; 

Affections,  warm  as  sunshine,  free  as  air; 

And  when  the  precious  hours  of  leisure  came. 
Knowledge  and  wisdom,  gained  from  converse  sweet 
With  books,  or  while  he  ranged  the  crowded  streets 
With  a keen  eye,  and  overflowing  heart: 

So  genius  triumphed  over  seeming  wrong. 

And  poured  out  truth  in  works  by  lliouglitful  love 
Inspired  — works  potent  over  smiles  and  tears. 

And  as  round  mountain-tops  the  lightning  plays. 

Thus  innocently  sported,  breaking  forth 
As  from  a cloud  of  some  grave  sympathy. 

Humour  and  wild  instinctive  wit,  and  all 
The  vivid  flashes  of  his  spoken  words. 

From  the  most  gentle  creature  nursed  in  fields* 

* Tliis  way  of  indicating  the  name  of  my  lamented  friend 
has  been  found  fault  with  ; perhaps  rightly  so;  but  I may 
say  in  justification  of  the  double  sense  of  the  word,  that 
similar  allusions  are  not  uncommon  in  epitaphs.  One  of 
the  best  in  our  language  in  verse,  I ever  read,  was  upon  a 
person  who  bore  the  name  of  Palmer;  and  the  course  of 
the  thought,  throughout,  turned  upon  the  Life  of  the  De- 
parted, oonsidered  as  a pilgrimage.  Nor  can  I think  that 
the  objection  in  the  present  case  will  have  much  force  with 
any  one  who  remembers  Charles  Lamb’s  beautiful  sonnet 
addressed  to  his  own  name,  and  ending  — 

“ No  deed  of  mine  shall  shame  thee,  gentle  name  !” 

[In  “ Hierologus,  a Church  Tour  through  England  and 
Wales,”  I have  met  with  an  epitaph,  which  is  probably 
the  one  alluded  to  above  ; the  passage  also  contains  another 
epitaph  more  directly  pertinent  to  the  subject. 

“ CalhoVtcus. — How'  intuitively  do  our  ancestors  seem  to 
have  been  possessed  of  taste,  as  in  their  architecture,  so 
also  in  their  poetry  ! I question  whether  you  could  bring 
forward  one  instance  in  the  thirteenth,  fourteenth,  or 
fifteenth  centuries,  of  an  epitaph  to  which  the  most  fas- 
tidious taste  could  object.  Even  that  seducer  of  our 
Elisabethan  writers,  a pun,  was  managed  by  them,  always 
with  beauty,  sometimes  with  dignity.  I remember  two 
instances  in  particular.  The  first  is  in  a Kentish  epitaph 
on  one  Palmer. 

Palmers  all  our  fathers  were; 

I,  a Palmer  lived  here. 

And  traveyled  sore,  till  w'orn  with  age, 

I ended  this  world’s  pilgrimage. 

On  the  blest  Ascen.sion  Day 
In  the  cheerful  month  of  May, 

One  thousand  with  three  hundred  seven. 

And  took  my  journey  h?nce  to  Heaven. 


Had  been  derived  the  name  he  bore  — a name. 
Wherever  Christian  altars  had  been  raised. 

Hallowed  to  meekness  and  to  innocence; 
j And  if  in  him  meekne,ss  at  times  gave  way. 

Provoked  out  of  herself  by  troubles  strange. 

Many  and  strange,  that  hung  about  his  life;f 
Still,  at  the  centre  of  his  being,  lodged 
A soul  by  resignation  sanctified  : 

And  if  too  often,  selfireproached,  he  felt 
That  innocence  belongs  not  to  our  kind, 

A power  that  never  ceased  to  abide  in  him. 

Charity,  ’mid  the  multitude  of  sins 
That  she  can  cover,  left  not  his  exposed 
To  an  unforgiving  judgment  from  just  Heaven. 

O,  he  was  good,  if  e’er  a good  man  lived  ? 

* * # * # 

From  a reflecting  mind  and  sorrowing  heart 
Those  simple  lines  flowed  with  an  earnest  wish. 
Though  but  a doubting  hope,  that  they  might  serve 
Fitly  to  guard  the  precious  dust  of  him 
Whose  virtues  called  them  forth.  That  aim  is  missed  ; 
For  much  that  truth  most  urgently  required 
' Had  from  a faltering  pen  been  asked  in  vain : 

Yet,  haply,  on  the  printed  page  received, 
j The  imperfect  record,  there,  may  stand  unblamed 
! As  long  as  verse  of  mine  shall  breathe  the  air 
Of  memory,  or  see  the  light  of  love. 

{ Thou  wert  a scorner  of  the  fields,  my  friend. 

But  more  in  show  than  truth ; and  from  the  fields, 

I And  from  the  mountains,  to  thy  rural  grave 
Transported,  my  soothed  spirit  hovers  o’er 
Its  green  untrodden  turf,  and  blowing  flowers ; 

And  taking  up  a voice  shall  speak  (tho’  still 
Awed  by  the  theme’s  peculiar  sanctity 
Which  words  less  free  presumed  not  even  to  touchl 
Of  that  fraternal  love,  whose  heaven-lit  lamp 
I From  infancy,  through  manhood,  to  the  last 
' Of  threescore  years,  and  to  thy  latest  hour. 

Burnt  on  with  ever-strengthening  light,  enshrined 
j Within  thy  bosom. 


: Fal<BophiJ.us. — Very  beautiful  indeed!  But  is  that  the 

right  date  ? It  seems  to  me  too  early  for  the  flowing 
nature  of  the  verse. 

j Cot/i.— Weever,  who  is  my  authority,  gives  it  so;  and  I 
presume  the  inscription  is  not  now  in  being  to  correct  him, 

I if  wrong.  The  other  to  which  I referred  is  much  later; 

I and  commemorates  the  munificent  London  merchant  Lambe. 

O Lambe  of  God,  who  sin  dost  take  away 
And  like  a Lambe  was  offered  up  for  sin, 

■ While  I,  poore  Lambe,  from  out  Thy  flock  did  stray, 
Yet  Thou,  good  Lord,  vouchsafe  thy  Lamb  to  win 
Back  to  Thy  fold,  and  hold  thy  Lambe  therein. 

That  at  the  days,  which  Lambes  and  goates  shall  seve’', 
Of  thy  choice  Lambes,  Lambe  may  be  one  for  ever.”  » 

p.  70.  — H.  R.] 

[tSee  Talfourd’s  ‘‘  Final  Memorials  of  Charles  Lamb.” 
— H.  R.] 


468 


WORDSWORTH’S  P 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S . 


“Wonderful”  hath  been 
The  love  established  between  man  and  man, 

“ Passing  the  love  of  women  ; ” and  between 
Man  and  his  help-mate  in  fast  wedlock  joined 
Through  God,  is  raised  a spirit  and  soul  of  love 
Without  whose  blissful  influence  Paradise 
Had  been  no  Paradise;  and  earth  were  now 
A waste  where  creatures  bearing  human  form, 

Direst  of  savage  beasts,  would  roam  in  fear. 

Joyless  and  comfortless.  Our  days  glide  on  ; 

And  let  him  grieve  who  cannot  choose  but  grieve 
That  he  hath  been  an  elm  without  his  vine. 

And  her  bright  dower  of  clustering  charities, 

That,  round  his  trunk  and  branches,  might  have  clung 
Enriching  and  adorning.  Unto  thee, 

Not  so  enriched,  not  so  adorned,  to  thee 
Was  given  (say  rather  thou  of  later  birth 
Wert  given  to  her)  a sister  — ’tis  a word 
'I’imidly  uttered,  for  she  lives,  the  meek, 

The  self-restraining,  and  the  ever-kind  ; 

In  whom  thy  reason  and  intellgent  heart 
Found  — for  all  interests,  hopes,  and  tender  cares, 

All  softening,  humanising,  hallowing  powers, 

Whether  withheld,  or  for  her  sake  unsought  — 

More  than  sufficient  recompense ! 

Her  love 

(What  weakness  prompts  the  voice  to  tell  it  herel) 
Was  as  the  love  of  motliers;  and  when  years, 

I.iftiitg  the  boy  to  man’s  estate,  had  called 
The  long-protected  to  assume  the  part 
Of  a protector,  the  first  filial  tie 
Was  undissolved  ; and,  in  or  out  of  sight. 

Remained  imperishably  interwoven 

With  life  itself.  Thus,  ’mid  a shifting  world. 

Did  they  together  testify  of  time 

And  season’s  difference  — a double  tree 

With  two  collateral  stems  sprung  from  one  root; 

Such  were  they — such  thro’  life  they  might  have  been 
In  union,  in  partition  only  sucli ; 

Otherwise  wroaght  the  will  of  the  Most  High ; 

Yet,  thro’  all  visitations  and  all  trials. 

Still  they  were  faithful;  like  two  vessels  launched 
From  the  same  beach  one  ocean  to  explore 
With  mutual  help,  and  sailing — to  their  league 
True,  as  inexorable  winds,  or  bars 
Floating  or  fixed  of  polar  ice,  allow. 

But  turn  we  rather,  let  my  spirit  turn 
With  thine,  O silent  and  invisible  friend  ! 

To  those  rare  intervals,  nor  rare  nor  brief. 

When  reunited,  and  by  choice  withdrawn 
From  miscellaneous  converse,  ye  were  taught 
That  the  remembrance  of  foregone  distress. 

And  the  worse  fear  of  future  ill  (which  oft 
Doth  hang  around  if,  as  a sickly  child 
Upon  its  mother)  may  be  both  alike 
Disarmed  of  power  to  unsettle  present  good 
So  prized,  and  things  inward  and  outward  held 
In  such  an  even  balance,  that  the  heart 


Acknowledges  God’s  grace,  his  mercy  feels. 

And  in  its  depth  of  gratitude  is  still. 

O gift  divine  of  quiet  sequestration  ! 

The  hermit,  exercised  in  prayer  and  praise. 

And  feeding  daily  on  the  hope  of  heaven. 

Is  happy  in  his  vow,  and  fondly  cleaves 
To  life-long  singleness;  but  happier  far 
Was  to  your  souls,  and,  to  the  thoughts  of  others, 

A thousand  times  more  beautiful. appeared. 

Your  dual  loneliness.  The  sacred  tie 
Is  broken ; yet  why  grieve  ? for  Time  but  holds 
His  moiety  in  trust,  till  joy  shall  lead 
To  the  blest  world  where  parting  is  unknown. 

1835. 


EXTEMPORE  EFFUSION  UPON  THE  DEATH 
OF  JAMES  HOGG. 

When  first,  descending  from  the  moorlands, 

I saw  tlie  stream  of  Yarrow  glide 
Along  a bare  and  open  valley. 

The  Ettrick  Shepherd  was  my  guide. 

When  last  along  its  banks  I wandered, 

Tlirough  groves  that  had  begun  to  shed 
Their  golden  leaves  upon  the  pathways. 

My  steps  the  Border-minstrel  led. 

The  mighty  minstrel  breathes  no  longer. 

Mid  mouldering  ruins  low  he  lies; 

And  death  upon  the  braes  of  Yarrow, 

Has  closed  the  Shepherd-poet’s  eyes : 

Nor  has  the  rolling  year  twice  measured. 

From  sign  to  sign,,  its  stedfast  course. 

Since  every  mortal  power  of  Coleridge 
Was  frozen  at  its  marvellous  source  ; 

The  ’rapt  one,  of  the  godlike  forehead. 

The  heaven-eyed  creature  sleeps  in  earth: 

And  Lamb,  the  frolic  and  the  gentle, 

Plas  vanished  from  his  lonely  hearth. 

Like  clouds  that  rake  * the  mountain-summits. 

Or  waves  that  own  no  curbing  hand. 

How  fast  has  brother  followed  brother. 

From  sunshine  to  the  sunless  land  1 


* This  expression  is  borrowed  from  a sonnet  by  Mr.  G. 
j Bell,  the  author  of  a small  volume  of  poems  lately  printed 
sat  Penrith.  Speaking  of  Skiddaw,  he  says,  “Yon  dark 
1 cloud  ‘ rakes,’  and  shrouds  its  noble  brow.”  These  poems, 
though  incorrect  often  in  expression  and  metre,  do  honour 
to  their  unpretending  author,  and  may  be  added  to  the 
number  of  proofs  daily  occurring,  that  a finer  perception 
\ of  the  appearance  of  nature  is  spreading  through  the 
I humbler  classes  of  society. 


EPITAPHS  AND  ELEGIAC  POEMS. 


4G0 


Yet  I,  whose  lids  from  infant  slumber 
Were  earlier  raised,  remain  to  hear 
A tiinid  voice,  that  asks  in  whispers, 

“ Who  next  shall  drop  and  disappear  1” 

Our  haughty  life  is  crowned  with  darkness, 

Like  London  witli  its  own  black  wreath, 

On  which  with  thee,  O Crabbe ! forth-looking, 

I gazed  from  Hampstead’s  breezy  heatli. 

As  if  but  yesterday  departed. 

Thou  too  art  gone  before ; but  why. 

O’er  ripe  fruit,  seasonably  gathered. 

Should  frail  survivors  heave  a sigh  1 

Mourn  rather  for  that  holy  Spirit, 

Sweet  as  the  spring,  as  ocean  deep; 

For  her  who,  ere  her  summer  faded. 

Has  sunk  into  a breathless  sleep. 

No  more  of  old  romantic  sorrows. 

For  slaughtered  youth  or  love-lorn  maid! 

With  sharper  grief  is  Yarrow  smitten. 

And  Ettrick  mourns  with  her  their  poet  dead.* 
Rydal  Modnt,  Xovemicr  30,  1835. 

INSCRIPTION 

FOR  A MONUMENT  IN  CROSTIIWAITE  CHURCH,  IN  THE 
VALE  OF  KESWICK,  t 

Ye  vales  and  hills  whose  beauty  hither  drew 
The  poet’s  steps,  and  fixed  him  here,  on  you. 


* Walter  Scott died  21st  Sept.,  1832*. 

S.  T.  Coleridge  ....  “ 25th  July,  1834. 

Charles  Lamb  ....  “ 27th  Dec.,  1834. 

Geo.  Crabbe “3d  Feb.,  1832. 

Felicia  Hemans  ....  “ 16th  May.  1835. 

[t  See  Vol.  vi.  of  the  “Life  and  Correspondence  of 
Southey,  by  his  son.’’  — H.  R.] 


j His  eyes  have  closed ! And  ye,  lov’d  books,  no  more 
Shall  Southey  feed  upon  your  precious  lore, 

To  works  that  ne’er  sliall  forfeit  their  renown. 
Adding  immortal  labours  of  his  own  — 

Whether  he  traced  historic  truth  with  zeal 
For  the  State’s  guidance,  or  the  Church’s  weal. 

Or  Fancy,  disciplined  by  studious  art. 

Inform’d  his  pen,  or  wisdom  of  the  heart, 

Or  judgments  sanctioned  in  the  patriot’s  mind 
By  reverence  for  the  rights  of  all  mankind. 

Wide  were  his  aims,  yet  in  no  human  breast 
Could  private  feelings  meet  for  holier  rest. 

His  joys,  his  griefs,  have  vanished  like  a cloud 
From  Skiddaw’s  top ; but  he  to  heaven  was  vowed 
Through  his  industrious  life,  and  Christian  faith 
Calmed  in  his  soul  the  fear  of  change  and  death. 


SONNET. 

Why  should  we  weep  or  mourn.  Angelic  boy. 

For  such  thou  wert  ere  from  our  sight  removed. 

Holy,  and  ever  dutiful  — beloved 
From  day  to  day  with  never-ceasing  joy. 

And  hopes  as  dear  as  could  the  heart  employ 
In  aught  to  earth  pertaining]  Death  has  proved 
His  might,  nor  less  his  mercy,  as  behoved — ^ 

Death  conscious  that  he  only  could  destroy 
The  bodily  frame.  That  beauty  is  laid  low 
To  moulder  in  a far-off  field  of  Rome; 

But  Heaven  is  now,  blest  Child,  thy  Spirit’s  home ; 
When  such  divine  communion,  which  we  know. 

Is  felt,  thy  Roman  burial-place  will  be 
Surely  a sweet  remembrancer  of  thee.j: 

1846. 

[t  This  was  the  Poet’s  grandchild  — a son  of  the  Rev. 
John  Wordsworth:  he  died  at  Rome,  whither  he  had  been 
taken  with  his  mother  on  a tour  for  her  health.  In  a letter 
dated  “ Rydal  Mount,  January  23d,  1846,”  Wordsworth 
speaking  of  his  grandson’s  death  calls  him  “as  noble  a boy 
of  nearly  five  years  as  ever  was  seen.”  — II.  R.] 


40 


ODE 


IiNTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY  FROM  RECOLLECTIONS  OF  EARLY  CHILDHOOD. 


The  Child  is  Father  of  the  Man ; 

And  I could  wish  iny  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

See  page 


1. 

There  was  a time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream. 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight. 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparelled  in  celestial  light. 

The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a dream. 

It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore ; 

Turn  wheresoe’er  I may. 

By  night  or  day. 

The  things  which  I have  seen  I now  can  see  no  more. 

2. 

The  Rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  Rose, 

The  Moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare, 
Waters  on  a starry  night 
Are  beautiful  and  fair; 

The  sunshine  is  a glorious  birth; 

But  yet  I know,  where’er  I go. 

That  there  hath  past  away  a glory  from  the  eartli, 

3. 

Now  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a joyous  song. 

And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor’s  sound, 

To  me  alone  there  came  a thought  of  grief: 

A timely  utterance  gave  that  tliouglit  relief, 

And  I again  am  strong : 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep; 

No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong ; 

I hear  the  Echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 

The  Winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 

And  all  the  earth  is  gay; 

Land  and  sea 

Give  themselves  up  to  jollity. 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  Beast  keep  holiday;  — 

Tliou  Ciiild  of  Joy, 

Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 


4. 

Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I Iiave  beard  the  call 
Ye  to  eacli  other  make;  I see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee; 

My  heart  is  at  your  festival. 

My  head  hath  its  coronal. 

The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I feel  — I feel  it  all. 

Oh  evil  day ! if  I were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning, 

This  sweet  May-morning, 

And  the  Children  are  culling 
On  every  side. 

In  a thousand  valleys  far  and  wide. 

Fresh  flowers;  while  tlie  sun  shines  warm, 
And  the  Babe  leaps  up  on  his  Mother’s  arm:  — 

I hear,  1 hear,  with  joy  I hear ! 

— But  there’s  a Tree,  of  many,  one, 

A single  Field  which  I have  looked  upon. 

Both  of  them  sp«ak  of  something  that  is  gone: 

The  Pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat : 

Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  1 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream] 

5. 

Our  birth  is  but  a sleep  and  a forgetting: 

The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life’s  Star, 

Hath  liad  elsewhere  its  setting. 

And  cornet!)  from  afar: 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness. 

And  not  in  utter  nakedness. 

But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 
From  God,  who  is  our  home : 

Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy ! 

Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 
Upon  the  growing  Boy, 

But  He  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows. 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 

j The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 

Must  travel,  still  is  Nature’s  Priest, 

470 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 


471 


And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 

At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 

And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

6. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a IMotlier’s  mind. 
And  no  unworthy  aim. 

The  homely  Nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  Foster-child,  her  Inmate  Man, 
Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

7. 

Behold  the  child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 

A six  years’  Darling  of  a pigmy  size  ! 

See,  where  ’mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
'Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother’s  kisses. 

With  light  upon  him  from  his  father’s  eyes! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart. 

Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life. 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art; 

A wedding  or  a festival, 

A mourning  or  a funeral; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart. 
And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song: 
Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
f i dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 
Ere  this  be  thrown  aside. 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 
Tkc  little  Actor  cons  anotlier  part ; 

^’iHikig  from  time  to  time  his  “ humorous  stage’’ 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  Life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 
Were  endless  imitation. 

S. 

Thou,  vhosi)  ivUriov  semblance  doth  belie 
'J'hy  Soul  s immensity  ; 

Thou  best  Philoc-ophet,  wlio  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  Eye  among  the  blind, 

That,  deaf  and  silent,  rcad’st  the  eternal  deep. 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  mind, — 
Mighty  Prophet!  Seer  blest! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest. 
Which  we  arc  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find. 

In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Broods  like  the  Day,- a Master  o’er  a Slave, 

A Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by; 

Thou  little  Child,  yet  glorious  in  tlie  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  tliy  being’s  height. 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 


Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  1 
Full  soon  thy  Soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight. 

And  custom  lie  upon  thee  witli  a weigfit. 

Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  !* 

! 9- 

O joy  ! that  in  our  embers 
Is  something  that  doth  live. 

That  nature  yet  remembers 
What  was  so  fugitive ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  : not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest 
I Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  wliether  busy  or  at  rest. 

With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast:— 
I Not  for  these  I raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise; 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense  and  outward  things 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings; 

Blank  misgivings  of  a Creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realised. 

High  instincts  before  which  our  mortal  Nature 
I Did  tremble  like  a guilty  thing  surprised  : 

But  for  those  first  affections 
Those  shadowy  recollections. 

Which,  bo  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain  light  of  all  our  day. 

Are  yet  a master  light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence : truths  tliat  wake. 

To  perish  never ; 

Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  Man  nor  Boy, 

Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy. 

Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence  in  a season  of  cairn  weather 
Though  inland  far  we  be. 

Our  souls  have  sight  of  tliat  immortal  sea 
Which  brought  us  hither, 

Can  in  a moment  travel  thither. 

And  see  the  Children  sport  upon  the  shore. 

And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

10. 

Then  sing,  ye  Birds,  sing,  sing  a joyous  sono^ ! 

And  let  the  young  Lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 

We  in  thought  will  join  your  throng. 

Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play. 

Ye  that  tlirough  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 
Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

* See  “ The  Excursion,”  Book  IV. 

‘‘  Alas  ! llie  endowment  of  Immortal  Power,”  &o,,  [and 
Note  5 of  Notes  to  ‘‘  The  Excursion.”  — II.  R.] 


472 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 
Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind  ; 

In  the  pritnal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be; 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering; 

In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

11. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 
Forebode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves'! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I feel  your  might; 


I only  have  relinquished  one  delight 
To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway. 

I love  the  Brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret, 
Even  more  than  when  I tripped  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a new-born  Day 
Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  Clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o’er  man’s  mortality ; * 

Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live. 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 

To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

1800-6. 


NOTES. 


[See  also  the  passage  in  “The  Excursion,”  Book  IX: 

Ah  ! why  in  age 

Do  we  revert  .so  fondly  to  the  walks 
Of  childhood  — but  that  there  the  soul  discerns 
The  dear  memorial  footsteps  unimpaired 
Of  her  own  native  vigour  — thence  can  hear 
Reverberations ; and  a choral  song. 

Commingling  with  the  incense  that  ascends 
Undaunted  toward  the  imperishable  heavens 
From  her  own  lonely  altar? 

and  the  passage  in  “ The  Preluue,”  Book  V : 

Our  childhood  sits. 

Our  simple  childhood,  sits  upon  a throne 
That  hath  more  power  than  all  the  elements. 

I guess  not  what  this  tells  of  Being  past. 

Nor  what  it  augurs  of  the  life  to  come ; etc. 
u * * * There  was  never  yet  the  child  of  any 

promise  (so  far  as  the  theoretic  faculties  are  concerned) 
but  awaked  to  the  sense  of  beauty  with  the  first  gleam 
of  reason;  and  I suppose  there  are  few,  among  those 
who  love  Nature  otherwise  than  by  profession  and  at 
second-hand,  who  look  not  back  to  their  youngest  and 
least  learned  days  as  those  of  the  most  intense,  super- 
stitious, insatiable,  and  beatific  perception  of  her  splen- 
liours.  And  the  bitter  decline  of  this  glorious  feeling, 
though  many  note  it  not,  partly  owing  to  the  cares  and 
weight  of  manhood,  which  leave  them  not  the  time  nor 
the  liberty  to  look  for  their  lost  treasure,  and  partly  to 
the  human  and  divine  affections  which  are  appointed  to 
take  its  place,  yet  has  formed  the  subject,  not  indeed 
of  lamentation,  but  of  holy  thankfulness  for  the  witness 
it  bears  to  the  immortal  origin  and  end  of  our  nature, 


to  one  whose  authority  is  almost  without  appeal  m all 
questions  relating  to  the  influence  of  external  things 
upon  the  pure  human  soul. 

Not  for  these  I raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise. 

But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 
Of  sense,  and  outward  things. 

Falling  from  us:  vanishings. 

Blank  misgivings  of  a creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized. 

And  if  it  were  possible  for  us  to  recollect  all  the  un- 
accountable and  happy  instincts  of  the  careless  time, 
and  to  reason  upon  them  with  the  maturer  judgment, 
we  might  arrive  at  more  right  results  than  either  the 
philosophy  or  the  sophisticated  practice  of  art  has  yet 
attained.  But  we  lose  the  perceptions  before  we  are 
capable  of  methodizing  or  comparing  them.”  Ruskin's 
“ Modern  Painters,"  Vol,  II.,  p.  36.,  Part.  III.,  Cli.  v.. 
Sect.  1. 

(I  # * # Etenim  qui  velit  acutius  indagare  causas 
propensEB  in  antiqua  sajcula  voluntatis,  mirum  ni  con- 
jectura  incidat  aliquando  in  commentum  illud  Pytha- 
gorffi,  docentis,  animarum  nostrarum  non  turn  fiesi 
initium,  cum  in  hoc  mundo  nascimur : immo  ex  ignota 
quadam  regione  venire  eas,  in  sua  quamque  corpora ; 
neque  tarn  penitus  I.ethseo  potu  iinbui,  quin  permanet 
quasi  quidam  anteact®  ®tatis  sapor;  hunc  autem  exci- 
tari  identidem,  et  nescio,  quo  sensu  percipi,  tacito  qui- 
dem  illo  et  obscure,  sed  pcrcipi  tamen.  Alque  hac 
ferme  sententia  extat  summi  hac  memoria  Poet® 
i nobilissimum  carmen;  nempe  non  aliam  ob  causam 
I tangi  pueriti®  recordationem  exquisita  ilia  ac  pervagata 


INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY. 


473 


diilcedine,  quatn  propter  debilem  quondam  prioris  aevi 
Deique  proprioris  sensum. 

Quamvis  autem  hanc  opinionem  vix  ferat  divina? 
pliilosophiaj  ratio,  fatemur  tamen  earn  eatenus  ad  verum 
accedere,  qua  sanctum  aliquod  et  grrave  tribuit  memoriEG 
et  caritati  puerilium  annorum. , Nosinet  certe  infantes 
novimus  quam  prope  tetigerit  Divina  benignitas:  quis 
porro  scit,  an  omnis  ilia  temporis  anteacti  dulcedo 
habeat  quandam  significationem  Illius  PrajEentisel” 
Keble  ; “ Pratecliones  De  PoeliccB  Vi  ^ledica,"  p.  788, 
Prxl.  xxxix. 

The  following  passages  from  the  writings  of  a sacred 
poet  of  the  17th  century — Henry  Vaughan  — have  an 
interest  as  touching  the  same  subject  to  which  the  ima- 
ginative meditations  of  this  Ode  are  devoted : 

“ CORRUPTIOX. 

Sure,  it  was  so.  Man  in  those  early  days 
Was  not  all  stone  and  earth; 

He  shin’d  a little,  and  by  those  weak  rays, 

Had  some  glimpse  of  his  birth. 

He  saw  Heaven  o'er  his  head,  and  knew  whence 
He  came  condemned  hither,  etc.,  p.  61. 

CHILDEIIOOD. 

I cannot  reach  it ; and  my  striving  eye 
Dazles  at  it,  as  at  eternity. 


Were  now  that  chronicle  alive. 

Those  white  designs  which  children  drive. 

And  the  thoughts  of  each  harmless  hour. 

With  their  content  too  in  my  pow’r. 

Quickly  would  I make  my  path  even 
And  by  meer  playing  go  to  Heaven. 
***** 

Dear  harmless  age ! the  short,  swift  span 
Where  weeping  virtue  parts  with  man ; 

Where  love  without  lust  dwells,  and  bends 
What  way  we  please  without  self  ends. 

An  age  of  mysteries ! which  he 

Must  live  twice  that  would  God’s  face  see; 

Which  angels  guard,  and  with  it  play, 

Angels ! which  foul  men  drive  away. 

How  do  I study  now  and  scan 
Thee  more  than  ere  I studyed  man. 

And  onely  see  through  a long  night 
Thy  edges  and  thy  bordering  light ! 

O for  thy  center  and  mid-day  ! 

For  sure  that  is  the  narrow  way  ! 

p.  171-2.  “ Sacred  Poems,”  by  Henry  Vaughan,  1650. 
Reprint,  1847.  — H.  R.] 


3K 


40# 


THE  PEELUDE; 

OR, 

GROWTH  OF  A POET^S  MIND. 

AN  AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL  POEM. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 


The  following  Poem  was  commenced  in  the  begin- 
ning of  the  year  1799,  and  completed  in  the  summer 
of  1805. 

The  design  and  occasion  of  the  work  are  described 
by  the  Author  in  his  Preface  to  the  Excursion,  first 
published  in  1814,  where  he  thus  speaks:  — 

“ Several  years  ago,  when  the  Author  retired  to  his 
native  mountains  with  the  hope  of  being  enabled  to  con- 
struct a literary  work  that  might  live,  it  was  a reasonable 
thing  that  he  should  take  a review  of  his  own  mind,  and 
examine  how  far  Nature  and  Education  had  qualified  him 
for  such  an  employment. 

“ As  subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he  undertook  to  re- 
cord, in  verse,  the  origin  and  progress  of  his  own  powers, 
as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with  them. 

“That  work,  addressed  to  a dear  friend,  most  distin- 
guished for  his  knowledge  and  genius,  and  to  w'hom  the 
author’s  intellect  is  deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished  ; 
and  the  result  of  the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it, 
was  a determination  to  compose  a philosophical  Poem, 
containing  views  of  Man,  Nature,  and  Society,  and  to  be 
entitled  the  ‘Recluse;’  as  having  for  its  principal  subject 
the  sensations  and  opinions  of  a poet  living  in  retirement. 

“The  preparatory  Poem  is  biographical,  and  conducts 
the  history  of  the  Author’s  mind  to  the  point  when  he  was  | 
emboldened  to  hope  that  his  faculties  were  sufficiently  j 
matured  for  entering  upon  the  arduous  labour  which  he  j 
had  proposed  to  himself;  and  the  two  works  have  the 
same  kind  of  relation  to  each  other,  if  he  may  so  express 
himself,  as  the  Ante-chapel  has  to  the  body  of  a Gothic 
Church.  Continuing  this  allusion,  he  may  be  permitted  to 
add,  that  his  minor  pieces,  which  have  been  long  before 
the  public,  when  they  shall  be  properly  arranged,  will  be 
found  by  the  attentive  reader  to  have  such  connection  with 
the  main  work  as  may  give  them  claim  to  be  likened  to  the 
little  cells,  oratories,  and  sepulchral  recesses,  ordinarily 
included  in  those  edifices.” 

Such  was  the  Author’s  language  in  the  year  1814. 

It  will  thence  be  seen,  that  the  present  poem  was 
intended  to  be  introductory  to  the  Recluse,  and  that 
the  Recluse,  if  completed,  would  have  consisted  of 
Three  Parts.  Of  these,  the  Second  Part  alone,  viz., 
the  Excursion,  was  finished,  and  given  to  the  world 
by  the  Author. 


The  First  Book  of  the  First  Part  of  the  ReclitsE 
still  remains  in  manuscript;  but  the  Third  Part  was 
only  planned.  The  materials  of  which  it  would  have 
been  formed  have,  however,  been  incorporated,  for  the 
most  part,  in  the  Author’s  other  Publications,  written 
subsequently  to  the  Excursion. 

The  Friend,  to  whom  the  present  Poem  is  addressed, 
was  the  late  Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge,  who  was 
resident  in  Malta,  for  the  restoration  of  his  health, 
when  the  greater  part  of  it  was  composed. 

Mr.  Coleridge  read  a considerable  portion  of  the 
Poem  while  he  was  abroad  ; and  his  feelings,  on  hearing 
it  recited  by  the  Author  (after  his  return  to  his  own 
country)  are  recorded  in  ms  Verses,  addressed  to  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  which  will  be  found  in  the  “Sibylline 
Leaves,”  p.  197,  ed.  1817,  or  “Poetical  Works,  by 
S.  T.  Coleridge,”  Vol.  I.,  p.  206. 

Rtdal  Mount,  July  loth,  1850.* 


[*In  connecting  “The  Prelude”  with  the  Author’s 
“Poetical  Works,”  it  is  proper  to  add  that  it  was  pub- 
lished as  a posthumous  poem.  William  Wordsworth  died 
at  Rydal  Mount,  on  Tuesday  the  23d  of  April,  1850:  on 
the  7th  of  the  same  month  he  had  completed  his  80th  year. 

Coleridge’s  poem,  referred  to  in  the  above  advertisement, 
is  here  inserted  for  the  convenience  of  the  reader,  and  as  a 
fit  introduction  to  “ The  Prelude.”  — II.  R.] 

TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

Composed  on  the  Night  after  his  recitation  of  a Poem  on  the 
Growth  of  an  Individual  Mind. 

Friend  of  the  Wise  ! and  Teacher  of  the  Good  ! 

Into  my  heart  have  I received  that  lay 
More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay, 

Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 

Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  a Human  Spirit  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told  to  the  understanding  mind 
Revealable  ; and  what  within  the  mind. 

By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  ! 


THE  PRELUDE. 


475 


Theme  hard  as  high  ! 

Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears 
(The  first-born  they  of  Reason  and  twin-birth), 

Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force, 

And  current  self-determined,  as  might  seem. 

Or  by  some  inner  Power;  Of  moments  awful 
Now  in  thy  life,  and  now  abroad, 

When  power  streamed  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  received 
The  light  reflected,  as  a light  bestowed  — 

Of  Fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 

Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens 
Native  or  oulland,  lakes  and  famous  hills! 

Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising;  or  by  secret  mountain-streams. 

The  guides  and  the  companions  of  thy  way  ! 

Of  more  ihan  Fancy,  of  the  social  sense 
Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as  man, 

AVhere  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  Heaven’s  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main. 

For  I'nou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded. 

Amid  the  tremor  of  a realm  aglow. 

Amid  a mighty  nation  jubilant. 

When  from  the  general  heart  of  human  kind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a full-born  Deity  ! 

Of  that  dear  Hope  afflicted  and  struck  down. 

So  summon’d  homeward,  thenceforth,  calm  and  sure, 
P’rom  the  dread  watch-tower  of  man’s  absolute  self. 
With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 
Far  on  — herself  a glory  to  behold. 

The  Angel  of  the  vision  ! Then  (last  strain) 

Of  duty,  chosen  laws  controlling  choice. 

Action  and  joy  ! — An  orphic  song  indeed, 

A song  divine  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts. 

To  their  own  music  chanted  ! 

O great  bard  ! 

Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air. 

With  steadfast  eye  I view’d  thee  in  llie  choir 
Of  ever  enduring  men.  The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 
Shed  influence  ! They,  both  in  power  and  act, 

Are  permanent,  and  'I'ime  is  not  with  them, 

Save  as  it  w’orketh /or  them,  they  in  it. 

Nor  less  a sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old. 

And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  Fame 
Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a linked  lay  of  truth. 

Of  truth  profound  a sweet  continuous  lay. 

Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes! 

Ah  ! as  I listened  w'ilh  a heart  forlorn. 

The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 

And  even  as  life  returns  upon  the  drown’d. 

Life’s  joy  rekindling  roused  a throng  of  pains  — 

Keen  pangs  of  Love,  aw'akening  as  a babe 
Turbulent,  wdth  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 


And  fears  self-will’d,  that  shunn’d  the  eye  of  Hope  ; 
And  Hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  Fear, 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vain. 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain  ; 

And  all  which  I had  cull'd  in  wood-walks  wild. 

And  all  which  patient  toil  had  rear’d,  and  all, 
Commune  with  thee  had  open’d  out  — but  flowers 
Strew’d  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier. 

In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

That  way  no  more  I and  ill  beseems  it  me. 

Who  came  a welcomer  in  herald’s  guise. 

Singing  of  glory  and  futurity. 

To  wander  back  on  such  unhealthful  road. 

Plucking  the  poi.sons  of  self-harm  ! And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strew’d  before  thy  advancing! 

Nor  do  thou. 

Sage  Bard,  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  my  comtnunion  with  thy  nobler  mind 
By  pity  or  grief,  already  felt  too  long ! 

Nor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased  : for  peace  is  nigh 
Where  Wisdom’s  voice  has  found  a listening  heart. 
Amid  the  howl  of  more  than  wintry  storms, 

'I'he  Halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve. 

Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  home 
Is  sweetest  ! moments  for  their  own  sake  hail’d 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song. 

In  silence  listening,  like  a devout  child, 
lUy  soul  lay  passive,  by  the  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars. 

With  momentary  stars  of  my  own  birth. 

Fair  constellated  foam,*  still  darting  off' 

Into  the  darkness  ; now  a tranquil  sea, 
j Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  Moon. 

And  when  — O friend  ! my  comforter  and  guide  ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength  I — 
Thy  long  sustained  song  finally  closed. 

And  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased  — yet  thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces  — 

Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  it  ? or  aspiration  ? or  resolve  ?) 
Absorb’d,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound  — 

And  when  I rose,  I found  myself  in  prayer. 


»[“A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  intervals 
coursed  by  the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a roar,  and  little  stars  of 
flame  danced  and  sparkled  and  went  out  in  it ; and  every  now  and 
then  light  detachments  of  this  white  cloud-like  foam  darted  off  from 
the  vessel's  side,  each  with  its  own  small  constellation,  over  the 
sea,  and  scoured  out  of  sight  like  a Tartar  troop  over  a wilderucsd  ” 
— The  Friend,  p.  220.] 


THE  PRELUDE. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


INTRODUCTION  — CHILDHOOD  AND  SCHQOL-TIME. 

P,  ■ 


0 THERE  is  blessing  in  this  gentle  breeze, 

A visitant  that  while  it  funs  my  cheek 
Doth  seem  half-conscious  of  the  joy  it  brings 
From  the  green  fields,  and  from  yon  azure  sky. 
Whate’er  its  mission,  the  soft  breeze  can  come 
To  none  more  grateful  than  to  me;  escaped 
From  the  vast  city,  where  I long  had  pined 

A discontented  sojourner:  now  free. 

Free  as  a bird  to  settle  where  I will. 

What  dwelling  shall  receive  me  ? in  what  vale 
Shall  be  my  harbour]  underneath  what  grove 
Shall  I take  up  my  home  ? and  what  clear  stream 
Shall  with  its  murmur  lull  me  into  rest] 

The  earth  is  all  before  me.  With  a heart 
Joyous,  nor  scared  at  its  own  liberty, 

1 look  about ; and  should  the  chosen  guide 
Be  nothing  better  than  a wandering  cloud, 

I cannot  miss  my  way.  I breathe  again  ! 

Trances  of  thought  and  mountings  of  the  mind 
Come  fast  upon  me : it  is  shaken  off. 

That  burthen  of  my  own  unnatural  self. 

The  heavy  weight  of  many  a weary  day 
Not  mine,  and  such  as  were  not  made  for  me. 

Long  months  of  peace  (if  such  bold  word  accord 
With  any  promises  of  human  life). 

Long  months  of  ease  and  undisturbed  delight 
Are  mine  in  prospect;  whither  shall  I turn 
By  road  or  pathway,  or  through  trackless  field. 

Up  hill  or  down,  or  shall  some  floating  thing 
Upon  the  river  point  me  out  my  course  ? 

Dear  Liberty ! yet  what  w’ould  it  avail 
But  for  a gift  that  consecrates  the  joy  ] 

For  I,  metliought,  while  the  sweet  breath  of  heaven 
Was  blowing  on  my  body,  felt  within 
A correspondent  breeze,  that  gently  moved 
With  quickening  virtue,  but  is  now  become 
A tempest,  a redundant  energy. 

Vexing  its  own  creation.  Thanks  to  both. 

And  their  congenial  powers,  that,  while  they  join 
In  breaking  up  a long-continued  frost. 


Bring  with  them  vernal  promises,  the  hope 
Of  active  days  urged  on  by  flying  hours, — 

Days  of  sweet  leisure,  taxed  with  patient  thought 
Abstruse,  nor  wanting  punctual  service  high. 

Matins  and  vespers  of  harmonious  verse ! 

Thus  far,  O Friend  ! did  I,  not  used  to  make 
A present  joy  the  matter  of  a song. 

Pour  forth  that  day  my  soul  in  measured  strains 
That  would  not  be  forgotten,  and  are  here 
Recorded : to  the  open  fields  I told 
A prophecy:  poetic  numbers  came 
Spontaneously  to  clothe  in  priestly  robe 
A renovated  spirit  singled  out. 

Such  hope  was  mine,  for  holy  services. 

My  own  voice  cheered  me,  and,  far  more,  the  mind’s 
Internal  echo  of  the  imperfect  sound  ; 

To  both  I listened,  drawing  from  them  both 
A cheerful  confidence  in  things  to  come. 

Content  and  not  unwilling  now  to  give 
A respite  to  this  passion,  I paced  on 
With  brisk  and  eager  steps;  and  came,  at  length. 
To  a green  shady  place,  where  down  I sate 
Beneath  a tree,  slackening  my  thoughts  by  choice. 
And  settling  into  gentler  happiness. 

’Twas  autumn,  and  a clear  and  placid  day. 

With  warmth,  as  much  as  needed,  from  a sun 
Two  hours  declined  towards  the  west;  a day 
With  silver  clouds,  and  sunshine  on  the  grass. 

And  in  the  sheltered  and  the  sheltering  grove 
A perfect  stillness.  Many  were  the  thoughts 
Encouraged  and  dismissed,  till  choice  was  made 
Of  a known  vale,  whither  my  feet  should  turn. 

Nor  rest  till  they  had  reached  the  very  door 
Of  the  one  cottage  which  methought  I saw. 

No  picture  of  mere  memory  ever  looked 
So  fair ; and  while  upon  the  fancied  scene 
I gazed  with  growing  love,  a higher  power 
Than  fancy  gave  assurance  of  some  work 
Of  glory  there  forthwith  to  be  begun, 

t-6 


THE  PRELUDE. 


477 


Perhaps  too  there  performed.  Thus  long  I mused, 
Nor  e’er  lost  siglit  of  what  I mused  upon, 

Save  when,  amid  the  stately  grove  of  oaks, 

Now  here,  now  there,  an  acorn,  from  its  cup 
Dislodged,  through  sere  leaves  rustled,  or  at  once 
To  the  bare  earth  dropped  with  a startling  sound. 
From  that  soft  couch  I rose  not,  till  the  sun 
Had  almost  touched  the  horizon  ; casting  then 
A backward  glance  upon  the  curling  cloud 
Of  city  smoke,  by  distance  ruralized  ; 

Keen  as  a truant  or  a fugitive. 

But  as  a pilgrim  resolute,  I took. 

Even  with  the  chance  equipment  of  that  hour 
The  road  that  pointed  toward  the  chosen  vale. 

It  was  a splendid  evening,  and  my  soul 

Once  more  made  trial  of  her  strength,  nor  lacked 

Aeolian  visitations;  but  the  harp 

Was  soon  defrauded,  and  the  banded  host 

Of  harmony  dispersed  in  straggling  sounds. 

And  lastly  utter  silence  ! “ Be  it  so ; 

Why  think  of  any  thing  but  present  goodl” 

So,  like  a home-bound  labourer  I pursued 
My  way  beneath  the  mellowing  sun,  that  shed 
Mild  influence ; nor  left  in  me  one  wish 
Again  to  bend  the  Sabbath  of  that  time 
To  a servile  yoke.  What  need  of  many  words  1 
A pleasant  loitering  journey,  through  three  days 
Continued,  brought  me  to  my  hermitage. 

I spare  to  tell  of  what  ensued,  the  life 
In  common  things  — the  endless  store  of  things. 
Rare,  or  at  least  so  seeming  every  day 
Found  all  about  me  in  one  neighbourhood  — 

The  self-congratulation,  and,  from  morn 
To  night,  unbroken  cheerfulness  serene. 

But  speedily  an  earnest  longing  rose 
To  brace  myself  to  some  determined  aim, 

Reading  or  thinking;  either  to  lay  up 
New  stores,  or  rescue  from  decay  the  old 
By  timely  interference : and  therewith 
Came  hopes  still  higher,  that  with  outward  life 
I might  endue  some  airy  phantasies 
That  had  been  floating  loose  about  for  years. 

And  to  such  beings  temperately  deal  forth 
The  many  feelings  that  oppressed  my  heart. 

That  hope  hath  been  discouraged  ; welcome  light 
Dawns  from  the  east,  but  dawns  to  disappear 
And  mock  me  with  a sky  that  ripens  not 
Into  a steady  morning;  if  my  mind. 

Remembering  the  bold  promise  of  the  past. 

Would  gladly  grapple  with  some  noble  theme. 
Vain  is  her  wish  ; where’er  she  turns  she  finds 
Impediments  from  day  to  day  renewed. 

And  now  it  would  content  me  to  yield  up 
Those  lofty  hopes  awhile,  for  present  gifts 
Of  humbler  industry.  But,  oh,  dear  friend  ! 

The  poet,  gentle  creature  as  he  is, 

Ilalh,  like  the  lover,  his  unruly  times; 

His  fits  when  he  is  neither  sick  nor  well. 


Though  no  distress  be  near  him  but  his  own 
Unmanageable  thoughts:  his  mind,  best  pleased 
While  she  as  duteous  as  the  mother  dove 
Sits  brooding,  lives  not  always  to  that  end. 

But  like  the  innocent  bird,  bath  goadings  on 
That  drive  her  as  in  trouble  througii  the  groves; 

With  me  is  now  such  passion,  to  be  blamed 
No  otherwise  than  as  it  lasts  too  long. 

When,  as  becomes  a man  who  would  prepare 
For  such  an  arduous  work,  I through  myself 
Make  rigorous  inquisition,  the  report 
Is  often  cheering;  for  I neither  seem 
To  lack  that  first  great  gift,  the  vital  soul,^ 

Nor  general  truths,  which  are  themselves  a sort 
Of  elements  and  agents,  under-powers. 

Subordinate  helpers  of  the  living  mind: 

Nor  am  I naked  of  e.xternal  things. 

Forms,  images,  nor  numerous  other  aids 
Of  less  regard,  though  won  perhaps  with  toil 
And  needful  to  build  up  a poet’s  praise. 

Time,  place,  and  manners  do  I seek,  and  these 
Are  found  in  plenteous  store,  but  nowhere  such 
As  may  be  singled  out  with  steady  choice  ; 

No  little  band  of  yet  remembered  names 
Whom  I,  in  perfect  confidence,  might  hope 
To  summon  back  from  lonesome  banishment. 

And  make  them  dwellers  in  the  hearts  of  men 
Now  living,  or  to  live  in  future  years. 

Sometimes  the  ambitious  power  of  choice,  mistaking 
Proud  spring-tide  swellings  for  a regular  sea. 

Will  settle  on  some  British  theme,  some  old 
Romantic  tale  by  Milton  left  unsung; 

I More  often  turning  to  some  gentle  place 
j Within  the  groves  of  chivalry,  I pipe 
I To  shepherd  swains,  of*seated  harp  in  hand. 

Amid  reposing  knights  by  a river  side 
Or  fountain,  listening  to  the  grave  reports 
Of  dire  enchantments  faced  and  overcome 
By  the  strong  mind,  and  tales  of  warlike  feats. 

Where  spear  encountered  spear,  and  sword  with  sword 

Fought,  as  if  conscious  of  the  blazonry 

That  the  shield  bore,  so  glorious  was  the  strife; 

Whenee  inspiration  for  a song  that  winds 

Through  ever-changing  scenes  of  votive  quest 

Wrongs  to  redress,  harmonious  tribute  paid 

To  patient  courage  and  unblemished  truth. 

To  firm  devotion,  zeal  unquenchable. 

And  Christian  meekness  hallowing  faithful  loves. 
Sometimes,  more  sternly  moved,  I would  relate 
How  vanquished  Mithridates  northward  passed. 

And,  hidden  in  the  cloud  of  years,  became 
Odin,  the  father  of  a race  by  whom 
Perished  the  Roman  Empire:  how  the  friends 
And  followers  of  Sertorius,  out  of  Spain 
Flying,  found  shelter  in  the  Fortunate  Isles, 

And  left  their  usages,  their  arts  and  laws. 

To  disappear  by  a slow  gradual  death. 

To  dwindle  and  to  perish  one  by  one. 


478 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Starved  in  those  narrow  bounds:  but  not  tlie  soul 
Of  Liberty,  which  fifteen  hundred  years 
Survived,  and,  when  the  European  came 
Witli  skill  and  power  that  might  not  be  withstood. 
Did,  like  a pestilence,  maintain  its  hold 
And  wasted  down  by  glorious  death  that  race 
Of  natural  heroes:  or  I would  record 
How,  in  tyrannic  times,  some  high-souled  man. 
Unnamed  among  the  chronicles  of  kings, 

Suffered  in  silence  for  Truth’s  sake:  or  tell. 

How  that  one  Frenchman,*  through  continued  force 
Of  meditation  on  the  inhuman  deeds 
Of  those  who  conquered  first  the  Indian  Isles, 

Went  single  in  his  ministry  across 
The  ocean;  not  to  comfort  the  oppressed. 

But  like  a thirsty  wind,  to  roam  about 
Withering  the  oppressor:  how  Gustavus  sought 
Help  at  his  need  in  Dalecarlia’s  mines : 

How  Wallace  fought  for  Scotland ; left  the  name 
Of  Wallace  to  be  found,  like  a wild  flower, 

All  over  his  dear  country ; left  the  deeds 
Of  Wallace,  like  a family  of  ghosts. 

To  people  the  steep  rocks  and  river  banks. 

Her  natural  sanctuaries,  with  a local  soul 
Of  independence  and  stern  liberty. 

Sometimes  it  suits  me  better  to  invent 
A tale  from  my  own  heart,  more  near  akin 
To  my  own  passions  and  habitual  thoughts ; 

Some  variegated  story,  in  the  main 
Lofty,  but  the  unsubstantial  structure  melts 
Before  the  very  sun  that  brightens  it. 

Mist  into  air  dissolving!  Then  a wish. 

My  best  and  favourite  aspiration,  mounts 
With  yearning  toward  some  philosophic  song 
Of  Truth  that  cherishes  our  daily  life; 

With  meditations  passionate  from  deep 
Recesses  in  man’s  heart,  immortal  verse 
Thoughtfully  fitted  to  the  Orphean  lyre; 

But  from  this  awful  burthen  I full  soon 
Take  refuge  and  beguile  myself  with  trust 
That  mellower  years  will  bring  a riper  mind 
And  clearer  insight.  Thus  my  days  are  past 
In  contradiction;  with  no  skill  to  part 
Vague  longing,  haply  bred  by  want  of  power. 

From  paramount  impulse  not  to  be  withstood, 

A timorous  capacity  from  prudence. 

From  circumspection,  infinite  delay. 

Humility  and  modest  awe  themselves 
Betray  me,  serving  often  for  a cloak 
To  a more  subtle  selfishness;  that  now 
Locks  every  function  up  in  blank  reserve. 

Now  dupes  me,  trusting  to  an  anxious  eye 
That  with  intrusive  restlessness  beats  off 
Simplicity  and  self-presented  truth. 

Ah  ! better  far  than  this,  to  stray  about 


* Dominique  de  Gourgues,  a French  gentleman  who  went 
in  l.')68  to  Florida  to  avenge  the  massacre  of  the  French 
by  the  Spaniards  there 


Voluptuously  through  fields  and  rural  walks, 

And  ask  no  record  of  the  hours,  resigned 
To  vacant  musing,  unreproved  neglect 
Of  all  things,  and  deliberate  holiday. 

Far  better  never  to  have  heard  the  name 
Of  zeal  and  just  ambition,  than  to  live 
Baffled  and  plagued  by  a mind  that  every  hour 
Turns  recreant  to  her  task ; takes  heart  again. 

Then  feels  immediately  some  hollow  thought 
Hang  like  an  interdict  upon  her  hopes. 

This  is  my  lot;  for  either  still  1 find  ^ 

Some  imperfection  in  the  chosen  theme, 

^ Or  see  of  absolute  accomplishment 
Much  wanting,  so  much  wanting,  in  myself, 
j That  I recoil  and  droop,  and  seek  repose 
! In  listlessness  from  vain  perplexity, 

^ Unprofitably  travelling  toward  the  grave, 

! Like  a false  steward  who  hath  much  received 
[ And  renders  nothing  back. 

Was  it  for  this 

That  one,  the  fairest  of  all  rivers,  loved 
To  blend  his  murmurs  with  my  nurse’s  song. 

And,  from  his  alder  shades  and  rocky  falls. 

And  from  his  fords  and  shallows,  sent  a voice 
Tliat  flowed  along  my  dreams'!  For  this,  didst  thou. 
O Derwent!  winding  among  grassy  holms 
Where  I was  looking  on,  a babe  in  arms. 

Make  ceaseless  music  that  composed  my  thoughts 
To  more  than  infant  softness,  giving  me 
Amid  the  fretful  dwellings  of  mankind 
A foretaste,  a dim  earnest,  of  the  calm 
That  Nature  breathes  among  the  hills  and  groves'? 
When  he  had  left  the  mountains  and  received 
On  his  smooth  breast  the  shadow  of  those  towers 
That  yet  survive,  a shattered  monument 
Of  feudal  sway,  the  bright  blue  river  passed 
Along  the  margin  of  our  terrace  walk; 

A tempting  playmate  whom  we  dearly  loved. 

Oh,  many  a time  have  I,  a five  years’  child. 

In  a small  mill-race  severed  from  his  stream. 

Made  one  long  bathing  of  a summer’s  day  ; 

Basked  in  the  sun,  and  plunged  and  basked  again 
Alternate,  all  a summer’s  day,  or  scoured 
The  sandy  fields,  leaping  through  flowery  groves 
Of  yellow  ragwort;  or  when  rock  and  hill. 

The  woods,  and  distant  Skiddaw’s  lofty  height. 

Were  bronzed  with  deepest  radiance,  stood  alone 
Beneath  the  sky,  as  if  1 had  been  born 
On  Indian  plains,  and  from  my  mother’s  hut 
Had  run  abroad  in  wantonness,  to  sport, 

A naked  savage,  in  the  thunder  shower. 

Fair  seed-time  had  my  soul,  and  I grew  up 
Fostered  alike  by  beauty  and  by  fear: 

Much  favoured  in  my  birthplace,  and  no  less 
In  that  beloved  vale  to  which  ere  long 
We  were  transplanted  — there  were  we  let  loose 
For  sports  of  wider  range.  Ere  I had  told 
Ten  birth-days,  when  among  the  mountain  dopes 


THE  PRELUDE. 


479 


Frost,  and  the  breath  of  frosty  wind,  had  snapped 
The  last  autumnal  crocus,  ’twas  my  joy 
With  store  of  spring’es  o’er  my  shoulder  hung 
To  range  the  open  heights  where  woodcocks  run 
Along  the  smooth  green  turf.  Through  half  the  night, 
Scudding  away  from  snare  to  snare,  I plied 
That  anxious  visitation  ; — moon  and  stars 
Were  shining  o’er  my  head.  I was  alone. 

And  seemed  to  be  a trouble  to  the  peace 
That  dwelt  among  them.  Sometimes  it  befell 
In  these  night  wanderings,  that  a strong  desire 
O’erpowered  my  better  reason,  and  the  bird 
Which  was  the  captive  of  another’s  toil 
Became  my  prey ; and  when  the  deed  was  done 
I heard  among  the  solitary  hills 
Low  breathings  coming  after  me,  and  sounds 
Of  undistinguishable  motion,  steps 
Almost  as  silent  as  the  turf  they  trod. 

Nor  less  when  spring  had  warmed  the  cultured  vale. 
Moved  we  as  plunderers  where  the  mother-bird 
Had  in  high  places  built  her  lodge;  though  mean 
Our  object  and  inglorious,  yet  the  end 
Was  not  ignoble.  Oh  ! when  I have  hung 
Above  the  raven’s  nest,  by  knots  of  grass 
And  half-inch  fissures  in  the  slippery  rock 
But  ill  sustained,  and  almost  (so  it  seemed) 

Suspended  by  the  blast  that  blew  amain. 

Shouldering  the  naked  crag,  oh,  at  that  time 
While  on  the  perilous  ridge  I hung  alone. 

With  what  strange  utterance  did  the  loud  dry  wind 
Blow  through  my  ear ! the  sky  seemed  not  a sky 
Of  earth — and  with  what  motion  moved  the  clouds! 

Dust  as  we  are,  the  immortal  spirit  grows 
Like  harmony  in  music;  there  is  a dark 
Inscrutable  workmanship  that  reconciles 
Discordant  elements,  makes  them  cling  together 
In  one  society.  How  strange  that  all 
The  terrors,  pains,  and  early  miseries. 

Regrets,  vexations,  lassitudes  interfused 
Within  my  mind,  should  e’er  have  borne  a part. 

And  that  a needful  part,  in  making  up 
The  calm  existence  that  is  mine  when  I 
Am  worthy  of  myself!  Praise  to  the  end  ! 

Thanks  to  the  means  which  Nature  deigned  to  employ ; 

Whether  her  fearless  visitings,  or  those 

That  came  with  soft  alarm,  like  hurtless  light 

Opening  the  peaceful  clouds;  or  she  may  use 

Severer  interventions,  ministry 

More  paloable,  as  best  might  suit  her  aim. 

One  summer  evening  (led  by  her)  I found 
A little  boat  tied  to  a willow  tree 
Within  a rocky  cave,  its  usual  home. 

Straight  I unloosed  her  chain,  and  stepping  in 
Pushed  from  the  shore.  It  was  an  act  of  stealth 
And  troubled  pleasure,  nor  without  the  voice 
Of  mountain-echoes  did  my  boat  move  on  ; 


' Leaving  behind  her  still,  on  either  side. 

Small  circles  glittering  idly  in  the  moon. 

Until  they  melted  all  into  one  track 
Of  sparkling  light.  But  now,  like  one  who  rows. 
Proud  of  his  skill,  to  reach  a chosen  point 
With  an  unswerving  line,  I fixed  my  view 
Upon  the  summit  of  a craggy  ridge. 

The  horizon’s  utmost  boundary;  far  above 
Was  nothing  but  the  stars  and  the  gray  sky. 

She  was  an  elfin  pinnace  ; lustily 
I dipped  my  oars  into  the  silent  lake. 

And,  as  I rose  upon  the  stroke,  my  boat 
Went  heaving  through  the  water  like  a swan ; 
When,  from  behind  that  craggy  steep  till  then 
The  horizon’s  bound,  a huge  peak,  black  and  huge 
As  if  with  voluntary  power  instinct 
Upreared  its  head.  I struck  and  struck  again. 

And  growing  still  in  stature  the  grim  shape 
Towered  up  between  me  and  the  stars,  atid  still. 

For  so  it  seemed,  with  purpose  of  its  own 
And  measured  motion  like  a living  thing, 

Strode  after  me.  With  trembling  oars  I turned. 

And  through  the  silent  water  stole  my  way 
Back  to  the  covert  of  the  willow  tree  ; 

There  in  her  mooring-place  I left  my  bark, — 

And  through  the  meadows  homeward  went,  in  grave 
And  serious  mood ; but  after  I had  seen 
That  spectacle,  for  many  days,  my  brain 
Worked  with  a dim  and  undetermined  sense 
Of  unknown  modes  of  being;  o’er  my  thoughts 
There  hung  a darkness,  call  it  solitude 
Or  blank  desertion.  No  familiar  shapes 
Remained,  no  pleasant  images  of  trees. 

Of  sea  or  sky,  no  colours  of  green  fields  ; 

But  huge  and  mighty  forms,  that  do  not  live 
Like  living  men,  moved  slowly  through  the  mind 
By  day,  and  were  a trouble  to  my  dreams. 

* Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe  ! 

Thou  Soul  that  art  the  eternity  of  thought, 

That  givest  to  forms  and  images  a breath 
And  everlasting  motion,  not  in  vain 
By  day  or  star-light  thus  from  my  first  dawn 
Of  childhood  didst  thou  intertwine  for  me 
The  passions  that  build  up  our  human  soul ; 

Not  with  the  mean  and  vulgar  works  of  man. 

But  with  high  objects,  with  enduring  things  — 

With  life  and  nature,  purifying  thus 
The  elements  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 

And  sanctifying,  by  such  discipline. 

Both  pain  and  fear,  until  we  recognise 
A grandeur  in  the  beatings  of  the  heart. 

Nor  was  this  fellowship  vouchsafed  to  me 
With  stinted  kindness.  In  November  days, 

When  vapours  rolling  down  the  valley  made 
A lonely  scene  more  lonesome,  among  woods 


* These  lines  have  already  been  published  in  the  auinor’s 
Poetical  Works.  See  a«(e,  p.  80. 


480 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  noon  and  ’mid  the  calm  of  summer  nights, 

^\'hen,  by  the  margin  of  tlie  trembling  lake, 

Beneath  tlie  gloomy  hills  homeward  I went 
In  solitude,  such  intercourse  was  mine; 

Mine  was  it  in  the  fields  both  day  and  night. 

And  by  the  waters,  all  the  summer  long. 

And  in  the  frosty  season,  when  the  sun 
Was  set,  and  visible  for  many  a mile 
The  cottage  windows  blazed  through  twilight  gloom, 
I heeded  not  their  summons:  happy  time 
It  was  indeed  for  all  of  us  — for  me. 

It  was  a time  of  rapture  ! Clear  and  loud 

The  village  clock  tolled  six;,  — I wheeled  about. 

Proud  and  exulting  like  an  untired  horse 

That  cares  not  for  his  home.  All  shod  with  steel, 

We  hissed  along  the  polished  ice  in  games 

Confederate,  imitative  of  the  chase 

And  woodland  pleasures,  — the  resounding  horn. 

The  pack  loud  chiming,  and  the  hunted  hare. 

So  through  the  darkness  and  the  cold  we  flew. 

And  not  a voice  was  idle ; with  the  din 
Smitten,  the  precipices  rang  aloud  ; 

The  leafless  trees  and  every  icy  crag 
Tinkled  like  iron;  while  far  distant  hills 
Into  the  tumult  sent  an  alien  sound 
Of  melancholy  not  unnoticed,  while  the  stars 
Eastward  were  sparkling  clear,  and  in  the  west 
The  orange  sky  of  evening  died  away. 

Not  seldom  from  the  uproar  I retired 

Into  a silent  bay,  or  sportively 

Glanced  sideway,  leaving  the  tumultuous  throng. 

To  cut  across  the  reflex  of  a star 

That  fled,  and,  flying  still  before  me,  gleamed 

Upon  the  glas.sy  plain ; and  oftentimes. 

When  we  had  given  our  bodies  to  the  wind. 

And  all  the  shadowy  banks  on  either  side 
Came  sweeping  through  the  darkness,  spinning  still 
The  rapid  line  of  motion,  then  at  once 
Have  I,  reclining  back  upon  my  heels. 

Stopped  short ; yet  still  the  solitary  cliffs 
Wheeled  by  me  — even  as  if  the  earth  had  rolled 
With  visible  motion  her  diurnal  round  ! 

Behind  me  did  they  stretch  in  solemn  train. 

Feebler  and  feebler,  and  I stood  and  watched 
Till  all  was  tranquil  as  a dreamless  sleep. 

Ye  Presences  of  Nature  in  the  sky 
And  on  the  earth  ! Ye  Visions  of  the  hills! 

And  Souls  of  lonely  places!  can  I think 
A vulgar  hope  was  yours  when  ye  employed 
Such  ministry,  when  ye  through  many  a year 
Haunting  me  thus  among  my  boyish  sports. 

On  caves  and  trees,  upon  the  woods  and  hills. 
Impressed  upon  all  forms  the  characters 
Of  danger  or  desire  ; and  thus  did  make 
The  surface  of  the  universal  earth 
Witli  triumph  and  delight,  with  hope  and  fear. 

Work  like  a seal 


' Not  uselessly  employed. 

Might  I pursue  this  theme  through  every  change 
Of  exercise  and  play,  to  which  the  year 
Did  summon  us  in  his  delightful  round. 

We  were  a noisy  crew;  the  sun  in  heaven 
I Beheld  not  vales  more  beautiful  than  ours; 

Nor  saw  a band  in  happiness  and  joy 
Richer,  or  worthier  of  the  ground  they  trod. 

I could  record  with  no  reluctant  voice 
The  woods  of  autumn  and  their  hazel  bowers 
With  milk-white  clusters  hung;  the  rod  and  line, 
True  symbol  of  hope’s  foolishness,  whose  strong 
And  unreproved  enchantment  led  us  on 
By  rocks  and  pools  shut  out  from  every  star. 

All  the  green  summer,  to  forlorn  cascades 
Among  the  windings  hid  of  mountain  brooks. 

— Unfading  recollections  ! at  this  hour 
The  heart  is  almost  mine  with  which  I felt, 

I From  some  hill-top  on  sunny  afternoons, 

I The  paper  kite  high  among  fleecy  clouds 
j Pull  at  her  rein  like  an  impetuous  courser; 

Or,  from  the  meadows  sent  on  gusty  days, 

Beheld  her  breast  the  wind,  then  suddenly 
Dashed  headlong,  and  rejected  by  the  storm. 

Ye  lowly  cottages  wherein  we  dwelt, 

A ministration  of  your  own  was  yours; 

Can  I forget  you,  being  as  you  were 
So  beautiful  among  the  pleasant  fields 
In  which  ye  stood  1 or  can  I here  forget 
The  plain  and  seemly  countenance  with  which 
Ye  dealt  out  your  plain  comforts?  Yet  had  ye 
Delights  and  exultations  of  your  own. 

Eager  and  never  weary  we  pursued 
Our  home-amusements  by  the  warm  peat-fire 
At  evening,  when  with  pencil,  and  smooth  slate 
In  square  divisions  parcelled  out  and  all 
With  crosses  and  with  ciphers  scribbled  o’er. 

We  schemed  and  puzzled,  head  opposed  to  head 
In  strife  too  humble  to  be  named  in  verse : 

Or  round  the  naked  table,  snow-white  deal. 

Cherry  or  maple,  sat  in  close  array. 

And  to  the  combat,  loo  or  whist,  led  on 
A thick-ribbed  army ; not,  as  in  the  world. 
Neglected  and  ungratefully  thrown  by 
Even  for  the  very  service  they  had  wrought, 

But  husbanded  through  many  a long  campaign. 
Uncouth  assemblage  was  it,  where  no  few 
Had  changed  their  functions;  some,  plebeian  cards 
Which  fate,  beyond  the  promise  of  their  birth. 

Had  dignified,  and  called  to  represent 
j The  persons  of  departed  potentates. 

: Oh,  with  what  echoes  on  the  board  they  fell ! 

Ironic  diamonds,— clubs,  hearts,  diamonds,  spades, 

I A congregation  piteously  akin  ! 

I Cheap  matter  offered  they  to  boyish  wit. 

Those  sooty  knaves,  precipitated  down 
I With  scof6  and  taunts,  like  Vulcan  out  of  heaven  : 


THE  PRELUDE. 


481 


The  paramoimt  ace,  a moon  in  her  eclipse, 

Queens  gleaming’  through  their  splendour’s  last  decay, 
And  mnnarchs  surly  at  the  wrongs  sustained 
By  royal  visages.  Meanwhile  abroad 
Incessant  rain  was  falling,  or  the  frost 
Raged  bitterly,  with  keen  and  silent  tooth; 

And,  interrupting  oft  that  eager  game, 

From  under  Esthwaite’s  splitting  fields  of  ice 
The  pent-up  air,  struggling  to  free  itself. 

Gave  out  to  meadow  grounds  and  hills  a loud 
Protracted  yelling,  like  the  noise  of  wolves 
Howling  in  troops  along  the  Bothnic  Main. 

Nor,  sedulous  as  I have  been  to  trace 
How  Nature  by  extrinsic  passion  first 
Peopled  the  mind  with  forms  sublime  or  fair, 

And  made  me  love  them,  may  I here  omit 
How  other  pleasures  have  been  mine,  and  joys 
Of  subtler  origin  ; how  I have  felt. 

Not  seldom  even  in  that  tempestuous  time. 

Those  hallowed  and  pure  motions  of  the  sense 
Which  seem,  in  their  simplicity,  to  own 
An  intellectual  charm;  that  calm  delight 
Which,  if  I err  not,  surely  must  belong 
To  those  first-born  affinities  that  fit 
Our  new  existence  to  existing  things, 

And,  in  our  dawn  of  being,  constitute 
The  bond  of  union  between  life  and  joy. 

Yes,  I remember  when  the  changeful  earth. 

And  twice  five  summers,  on  my  mind  had  stamped 
The  faces  of  the  moving  year,  even  then 
I held  unconscious  intercourse  with  beauty 
Old  as  creation,  drinking  in  a pure 
Organic  pleasure  from  the  silver  wreaths 
Of  curling  mist,  or  from  the  level  plain 
Of  waters  coloured  by  impending  clouds. 

The  sands  of  Westmoreland,  the  creeks  and  bays 
Of  Cumbria’s  rocky  limits,  they  can  tell 
How,  when  the  Sea  threw  off  his  evening  shade, 

And  to  the  shepherd’s  hut  on  distant  hills 
Sent  w’elcome  notice  of  the  rising  moon. 

How  I have  stood,  to  fancies  such  as  these 
A stranger,  linking  with  the  spectacle 
No  conscious  memory  of  a kindred  sight. 

And  bringing  with  me  no  peculiar  sense 
Of  quietness  or  peace ; yet  have  I stood. 

Even  while  mine  eye  hath  moved  o’er  many  a league 
Of  shining  water,  gathering  as  it  seemed 
Through  every  hair-breadth  in  that  field  of  light 
New  pleasure  like  the  bee  among  the  flowers. 

Thus  oft  amid  those  fits  of  vulgar  joy 
Which,  through  all  seasons,  on  a child’s  pursuits 
Are  prompt  attendants,  ’mid  that  giddy  bliss 
Which,  like  a tempest,  works  along  the  blood 
And  is  forgotten;  even  then  I felt 
Gleams  like  the  flashing  of  a shield  ; — the  earth 
And  common  face  of  Nature  spake  to  me 
Remeiuberable  things;  sometimes,  ’tis  true, 


By  chance  collisions  and  quaint  accidents 
(Like  those  ill-sorted  unions,  work  supposed 
Of  evil-minded  fairies,)  yet  not  vain 
Nor  profitless,  if  haply  they  impressed 
Collateral  objects  and  appearances, 

Albeit  lileless  then,  and  doomed  to  sleep 
Until  maturer  seasons  called  them  forth 
To  impregnate  and  to  elevate  the  mind. 

— And  if  the  vulgar  joy  by  its  own  weight 
Wearied  itself  out  of  the  memory. 

The  scenes  which  were  a witness  of  that  joy 
Remained  in  their  substantial  lineaments 
Depicted  on  the  brain,  and  to  the  eye 
Were  visible,  a daily  sight;  and  thus 
By  the  impressive  discipline  of  feaY, 

By  pleasure  and  repeated  happiness. 

So  frequently  repeated,  and  by  force 
Of  obscure  feelings  representative 
Of  things  forgotten,  these  same  scenes  so  bright. 
So  beautiful,  so  majestic  in  themselves. 

Though  yet  the  day  was  distant,  did  become 
Habitually  dear,  and  all  their  forms 
And  changeful  colours  by  invisible  links 
Were  fastened  to  the  aftbetions. 

I began 

My  story  early  — not  misled,  I trust. 

By  an  infirmity  of  love  for  days 

Disowned  by  memory  — ere  the  breath  of  spring 

Planting  my  snowdrops  among  winter  snows  : 

Nor  wdl  it  seem  to  thee,  O Friend  ! so  prompt 
In  sympathy,  that  1 have  lengthened  out 
With  fond  and  feeble  tongue  a tedious  tale. 
Meanwhile,  my  hope  has  been,  that  I might  fetch 
Invigorating  thoughts  from  former  years; 

Might  fix  the  wavering  balance  of  my  mind. 

And  haply  meet  reproaches  too,  whose  power 
May  spur  me  on,  in  manhood  now  mature. 

To  honourable  toil.  Yet  should  these  hopes 
Prove  vain,  and  thus  should  neither  I be  taught 
To  understand  myself,  nor  thou  to  knovv 
With  better  knowledge  how  the  heart  was  framed 
Of  him  thou  lovest ; need  I dread  from  thee 
Harsh  judgments,  if  the  song  be  loth  to  quit 
Those  recollected  hours  that  have  the  charm 
Of  visionary  things,  those  lovely  forms 
And  sweet  sensations  that  throw  back  our  life, 
And  almost  make  remotest  infancy 
A visible  scene,  on  which  the  sun  is  shining  ? 

One  end  at  least  hath  been  attained ; my  mind 
Hath  been  revived,  and  if  this  genial  mood 
Desert  me  not,  forthwith  shall  be  brought  down 
Through  later  years  the  story  of  my  life. 

The  road  lies  plain  before  me;  — ’tis  a theme 
Single  and  of  determined  bounds;  and  hence 
I choose  it  rather  at  this  time,  than  work 
Of  ampler  or  more  varied  argument. 

Where  I might  be  discomfited  and  lost: 

And  certain  hopes  are  with  me,  that  to  thee 
This  labour  will  be  welcome,  honoured  Friend! 

41 


BOOK  SECOND. 


sc  II OOL-TIBIE.  — (Continued.) 


Thus  far,  O Friend  ! have  we,  though  leaving  much 
Unvisited,  endeavoured  to  retrace 
The  simple  ways  in  which  my  childhood  walked; 
Those  chiefly  that  first  led  me  to  the  love 
Of  rivers,  woods,  and  fields.  The  passion  yet 
Was  in  its  birth,  sustained  as  might  befall 
By  nourishment  that  came  unsought;  for  still 
From  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month,  we  lived 
A round  of  tumult.  Duly  were  our  games 
Prolonged  in  summer  till  the  daylight  failed  : 

No  chair  remained  before  the  doors;  the  bench 
And  threshold  steps  were  empty ; fast  asleep 
The  labourer,  and  the  old  man  who  had  sat 
A later  lingerer  ; yet  the  revelry 
Continued  and  the  loud  uproar:  at  last. 

When  all  the  ground  was  dark,  and  twinkling  stars 
Edged  the  black  clouds,  home  and  to  bed  we  went. 
Feverish  with  weary  joints  and  beating  minds. 

Ah  ! is  there  one  who  ever  has  been  young, 

Nor  needs  a warning  voice  to  tame  the  pride 
Of  intellect  and  virtue's  self-esteem! 

One  is  there,  though  the  wisest  and  the  best 
Of  all  mankind,  who  covets  not  at  times 
Union  that  cannot  be ; — who  would  not  give, 

If  so  he  might,  to  duty  and  to  truth 
The  eagerness  of  infantine  desire! 

A tranquillizing  spirit  presses  now 
On  my  corporeal  frame,  so  wide  appears 
The  vacancy  between  me  and  those  days 
Which  yet  have  such  self-presence  in  my  mind. 

That,  musing  on  them,  often  do  I seem 
Two  consciousnesses,  conscious  of  myself 
And  of  some  other  Being.  A rude  mass 
Of  native  rock,  left  midway  in  the  square 
Of  our  small  market  village,  was  the  goal 
Or  centre  of  these  sports;  and  when,  returned 
After  long  absence,  thither  I repaired. 

Gone  was  the  old  grey  stone,  and  in  its  place 
A smart  Assembly-room  usurped  the  ground 
That  had  been  ours.  There  let  the  fiddle  scream, 

And  be  ye  happy!  Yet,  my  Friends!  I know 
That  more  than  one  of  you  will  think  with  me 
Of  those  soft  starry  nights,  and  that  old  Dame 
From  whom  the  stone  was  named,  who  there  had  sate, 
And  watched  her  table  with  its  huckster’s  wares 
Assiduous,  through  the  length  of  sixty  years. 

VVe  ran  a boisterous  course  ; the  year  span  round 
With  giddy  motion.  But  the  time  approached 


That  brought  with  it  a regular  desire 
For  calmer  pleasures,  when  the  winning  forms 
Of  Nature  were  collaterally  attached 
To  every  scheme  of  holiday  delight 
And  every  boyish  sport,  less  grateful  else 
And  languidly  pursued. 

When  summer  came, 

Our  pastime  was,  on  bright  half-holidays. 

To  sweep  along  the  plain  of  Windermere 
With  rival  oars;  and  the  selected  bourne 
Was  now  an  Island  musical  w'ith  birds 
That  sang  and  ceased  not;  now  a Sister  Isle 
Beneath  the  oaks’  umbrageous  covert,  sown 
With  lilies  of  the  valley  like  a field ; 

And  now  a third  small  Island,  where  survived 
In  solitude  the  ruins  of  a shrine 
Once  to  Our  Lady  dedicate,  and  served 
Daily  with  chaunted  rites.  In  such  a race 
So  ended,  disappointment  could  be  none, 

Uneasiness,  or  pain,  or  jealousy: 

We  rested  in  the  shade,  all  pleased  alike. 

Conquered  and  conqueror.  'I'hus  the  pride  of  strength, 
And  the  vainglory  of  superior  skill. 

Were  tempered ; thus  was  gradually  produced 
A quiet  independence  of  the  heart ; 

And  to  my  Friend  who  knows  me  I may  add, 

Fearless  of  blame,  that  hence  for  future  days 
Ensued  a diffidence  and  modesty. 

And  I was  taught  to  feel  perhaps  too  much. 

The  self-sufficing  power  of  Solitude. 

Our  daily  meals  were  frugal,  Sabine  fare ! 

More  than  we  wished  we  knew  the  blessing  then 
Of  vigorous  hunger  — hence  corporeal  strength 
Unsapped  by  delicate  viands;  for,  exclude 
A little  weekly  stipend,  and  we  lived 
Through  three  divisions  of  the  quartered  year 
In  penniless  poverty.  But  now  to  school 
P'rom  the  half-yearly  holidays  returned,  ' 

VV’e  came  with  weightier  purses,  that  sufficed 
To  furnish  treats  more  costly  than  the  Dame 
Of  the  old  grey  stone,  from  her  scant  board,  supplied. 
Hence  rustic  dinners  on  the  cool  green  ground. 

Or  in  the  woods,  or  by  a river  side 
Or  shady  fountains,  while  among  the  leaves 
Soft  airs  were  stirring,  and  the  mid-day  sun 
Unfelt  shone  brightly  round  us  in  our  joy. 

Nor  is  my  aim  neglected  if  I tell 

IIow  sometimes,  in  the  length  of  those  half-years, 

4B 


THE  PRELUDE. 


488 


We  from  our  funds  drew  largely;  — proud  to  curb, 
And  eager  to  spur  on,  the  galloping  steed  ; 

And  with  the  courteous  inn-keeper,  whose  stud 
Supplied  our  want,  we  haply  might  employ 
Sly  subterfuge,  if  the  adventure’s  bound 
Were  distant:  some  finned  temple  where  of  yore 
The  Druids  worshipped,  or  the  antique  walls 
Of  that  large  abbey,  where  within  the  V^ale 
Of  Nightshade,  to  St.  Mary’s  honour  built. 

Stands  yet  a mouldering  pile  with  fractured  arch, 
Belfry,  and  images,  and  living  trees, 

A holy  scene  ! Along  the  smooth  green  turf 
Our  horses  grazed.  To  more  than  inland  peace 
Left  by  the  west  wind  sweeping  overhead 
From  a tumultuous  ocean,  trees  and  towers 
In  that  sequestered  valley  may  be  seen. 

Both  silent  and  both  motionless  alike; 

Such  the  deep  shelter  that  is  there,  and  such 
The  safeguard  for  repose  and  quietness. 

Our  steeds  remounted  and  the  summons  given. 

With  whip  and  spur  we  through  the  chauntry  flew 
In  uncouth  race,  and  left  the  cross-legged  knight, 

And  the  stone  abbot,  and  that  single  wren 

Which  one  day  sang  so  sweetly  in  the  nave 

Of  the  old  church,  that  — though  from  recent  showers 

The  earth  was  comfortless,  and  touched  by  faint 

Internal  breezes,  sobbing.s^if  the  place 

And  re.spirations,  from  the  roofless  walls 

The  shuddering  ivy  dripped  large  drops  — yet  still 

So  sweetly  ’mid  the  gloom  the  invisible  bird 

Sang  to  herself,  that  there  I could  have  made 

My  dwelling-place,  and  lived  for  ever  there 

To  hear  such  music.  Through  the  walls  we  flew 

And  down  the  valley,  and,  a circuit  made 

In  wantonness  of  heart,  through  rough  and  smooth 

We  scampered  homewards.  Oh,  ye  rocks  and  streams. 

And  that  still  spirit  shed  from  evening  air ! 

Even  in  this  joyous  time  I sometimes  felt 
Your  presence,  when  with  slackened  step  we  breathed 
Along  the  sides  of  the  steep  hills,  or  when 
Lighted  by  gleams  of  moonlight  from  the  sea 
We  beat  with  thundering  hoofs  the  level  sand. 

Midway  on  long  Winander’s  eastern  shore. 

Within  the  crescent  of  a pleasant  bay, 

A tavern  stood  ; no  homely-featured  house. 

Primeval  like  its  neighbouring  cottages. 

But  ’twas  a splendid  place,  the  door  beset 
With  chaises,  grooms,  and  liveries,  and  within 
Decanters,  glasses,  and  the  blood-red  wine. 

In  ancient  times,  and  ere  the  Hall  was  built 
On  the  large  island,  had  this  dwelling  been 
More  worthy  of  a poet’s  love,  a hut 
Proud  of  its  own  bright  fire  and  sycamore  shade. 

But — though  the  rhymes  were  gone  that  once  inscribed 
The  threshold,  and  large  golden  characters, 

Spread  o’er  the  spangled  sign-board,  had  dislodged 
The  old  Lion  and  usurped  his  place,  in  slight 


' And  mockery  of  the  rustic  painter’s  hand  — 

I Yet,  to  this  hour,  the  spot  to  me  is  dear 
I With  all  its  foolish  pomp.  The  garden  lay 
Upon  a slope  surmounted  by  a plain 
Of  a small  bowling-green  ; beneath  ns  stood 
A grove,  with  gleams  of  water  through  the  trees 
And  over  the  tree-tops;  nor  did  we  want 
Refreshment,  strawberries  and  mellow  cream. 

There,  while  through  half  au  afternoon  we  played 
On  the  smooth  platform,  whether  skill  prevailed 
Or  happy  blunder  triumphed,  bursts  of  glee 
INIade  all  the  mountains  ring.  But,  ere  night-fall. 
When  in  our  pinnace  we  returned  at  leisure 
Over  the  shadowy  lake,  and  to  the  beach 
Of  some  small  island  steered  our  course  with  one. 
The  Minstrel  of  the  troop,  and  left  him  there. 

And  rowed  off  gently,  while  he  blew  his  flute 
Alone  upon  the  rock  — oh,  then,  the  calm 
And  dead  still  water  lay  upon  my  mind 
Even  with  a W'eight  of  pleasure,  and  the  sky. 

Never  before  so  beautiful,  sank  down 
Into  my  heart,  and  held  me  like  a dream ! 

Thus  were  my  sympathies  enlarged,  and  thus  \ 
Daily  the  common  range  of  visible  things  ^ 
Grew  dear  to  me:  already  I began 
To  love  the  sun;  a boy  I loved  the  sun. 

Not  as  I since  have  loved  him,  as  a pledge 
And  surety  of  our  earthly  life,  a light 
Which  we  behold  and  feel  we  are  alive; 

Nor  for  his  bounty  to  so  many  worlds  — 

But  for  this  cause,  that  I had  seen  him  lay 
Ilis  beauty  on  the  morning  hills,  had  seen 
The  western  mountain  touch  his  setting  orb. 

In  many  a thoughtless  hour,  when,  from  excess 
Of  happiness,  my  blood  appeared  to  flow 
For  its  own  pleasure,  and  I breathed  with  joy. 

And,  from  like  feelings,  humble  though  intense, 

I To  patriotic  and  domestic  love 
j Analogous,  the  moon  to  me  was  dear; 

For  I could  dream  away  my_purposes, 
j Standing  to  gaze  upon  her  while  she  hung 
Midway  between  the  hills,  as  if  she  knew 
No  other  region,  but  belonged  to  thee. 

Yea,  appertained  by  a peculiar  right 

To  thee  and  thy  grey  huts,  thou  one  dear  Vale ! 

Those  incidental  charms  which  first  attached 
My  heart  to  rural  objects,  day  by  day 
Grew  weaker,  and  I hasten  on  to  tell 
How  Nature,  intervenient  till  this  time 
And  secondary,  now  at  length  was  sought 
j For  her  own  sake.  But  who  shall  parcel  out 
* His  intellect  by  geometric  rules, 
j Split  like  a province  into  round  and  square? 
j Who  knows  the  individual  hour  in  which 
His  habits  were  first  sown,  even  as  a seed  ? 

I Who  that  shall  point  as  with  a wand  and  say 
“This  portion  of  the  river  of  my  mind 
i Came  from  yon  fountain?”  Thou,  my  Friend!  art  one 


484 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


More  deeply  read  in  thine  own  thoughts;  to  thee 
Science  appears  hut  wliat  in  trutli  she  is, 

Not  as  onr  glory  and  our  absolute  boast, 

But  as  a succedaneurn,  ami  a prop 
To  our  infirmity.  No  officious  slave 
Art  thou  of  that  false  secondary  power 
'By  which  we  multiply  distinctions,  then 
Deem  that  our  puny  boundaries  are  things 
That  we  perceive,  and  not  that  we  have  made. 

To  thee,  unblinded  by  these  formal  arts, 

The  unity  of  all  hath  been  revealed, 

And  thou  wilt  doubt,  with  me  less  aptly  skilled 
Than  many  are  to  range  the  faculties 
In  scale  and  order,  class  the  cabinet 
Of  their  sensations,  and  in  voluble  phrase 
Run  through  the  history  and  birth  of  each 
As  of  a single  independent  thing. 

Hard  task,  vain  hope,  to  analyze  the  mind, 

If  each  most  obvious  and  particular  thought 
Not  in  a mystical  and  idle  sense, 

But  in  the  words  of  Reason  deeply  weighed, 

Hath  no  beginning. 

Blest  the  infant  Babe, 

(For  with  my  best  conjecture  I would  trace 
Our  Being’s  earthly  progress,)  blest  the  Babe, 
Nursed  in  his  Mother's  arms,  who  sinks  to  sleep 
Rocked  on  his  Mother’s  breast;  who  with  his  soul 
Drinks  in  the  feelings  of  his  Mother’s  eye ! 

For  him,  in  one  dear  Presence,  there  e.xists 
A virtue  which  irradiates  and  exalts 
Objects  through  widest  intercourse  of  sense. 

No  outcast  he,  bewildered  and  depressed  ; 

Along  his  infant  veins  are  interfused 
The  gravitation  and  the  filial  bond 
Of  nature  that  connect  him  with  the  world. 

Is  there  a flower,  to  which  he  points  with  hand 
Too  weak  to  gather  it,  already  love 
Drawn  from  love’s  purest  earthly  fount  for  him 
Hath  beautified  that  flower;  already  shades 
Of  pity  cast  from  inward  tenderness 
Do  fall  around  him  upon  aught  that  bears 
Unsightly  marks  of  violence  or  harm. 
Emphatically  such  a being  lives. 

Frail  creature  as  he  is,  helpless  as  frail. 

An  inmate  of  tliis  active  universe. 

For  feeling  has  to  him  imparted  power 
That  through  the  growing  faculties  of  sense 
Doth  like  an  agent  of  the  one  great  Mind 
Create,  creator  and  receiver  both. 

Working  but  in  alliance  with  works 
Which  it  beholds.  — Such,  verily,  L the  first 
Poetic  spirit  of  our  humar  H'e, 

By  uniform  control  of  a^ter  years. 

In  most,  abated  or  suppressed ; in  so'iie. 

Through  every  change  of  growth  and  of  decay. 
Pre-eminent  till  death. 

From  early  days. 

Beginning  not  long  after  that  first  time 
In  which,  a Babe,  by  intercourse  of  touch 


I held  mute  dialogues  with  my  Mother’s  heart, 

I have  endeavoured  to  display  the  means 
, Whereby  this  infant  sensibility, 

Great  birthright  of  our  being,  was  in  me 
Augmented  and  sustained.  Yet  is  a path* 

More  difficult  before  me;  and  I fear 
That  in  its  broken  windings  we  shall  need 
The  chamois’  sinews,  and  the  eagle’s  wing ; 

For  now  a trouble  came  into  my  mind 
From  unknown  causes.  I was  left  alone 
Seeking  the  visible  world,  nor  knowing  why. 

The  props  of  my  affections  were  removed. 

And  yet  the  building  stood,  as  if  sustained 
By  its  own  spirit ! All  that  I beheld 
Was  dear,  and  hence  to  finer  influxes 
The  mind  lay  open  to  a more  exact 
And  close  communion.  Many  are  our  joys 
In  youth,  but  oh  ! what  happiness  to  live 
When  every  hour  brings  palpable  access 
Of  knowledge,  when  all  knowledge  is  delight. 
And  sorrow  is  not  there ! The  seasons  came. 

And  every  season  wheresoe’er  I moved 
Unfolded  transitory  qualities. 

Which,  but  for  this  most  watchful  power  of  love, 
Had  been  neglected ; left  a register 
Of  permanent  relations,  else  unknown. 

Hence  life,  and  change,  and  beauty,  solitude 
More  active  even  than  “ best  society” — 

Society  made  sweet  as  solitude 
By  silent  inobtrusive  sympathies. 

And  gentle  agitations  of  the  mind 
From  manifold  distinctions,  difference 
Perceived  in  things,  where,  to  the  unwatchful  eye, 
No  difference  is,  and  hence,  from  the  same  source, 
Sublimer  joy;  for  I would  walk  alone. 

Under  the  quiet  stars,  and  at  that  time 
Have  felt  whate’er  there  is  of  power  in  sound 
I To  breathe  an  elevated  mood,  by  form 
j Or  image  unprofaned ; and  I would  stand, 

I If  the  night  blackened  with  a coming  storm. 
Beneath  some  rock,  listening  to  notes  that  are 
The  ghostly  language  of  the  ancient  earth. 

Or  make  their  dim  abode  in  distant  winds. 

Thence  did  I drink  the  visionary  power; 

And  deem  not  profitless  those  fleeting  moods 
Of  shadowy  exultation  : not  for  this, 

I That  they  are  kindred  to  our  purer  mind 
I And  intellectual  life;  but  that  the  soul, 

I Remembering  how  she  felt,  but  what  she  felt 
! Remembering  not,  retains  an  obscure  sense 
Of  possible  sublimity,  whereto 
With  growing  faculties  she  doth  aspire, 

With  faculties  still  growing,  feeling  still 
That  whatsoever  point  they  gain,  they  yet 
Have  something  to  pursue. 

And  not  alone, 

’Mid  gloom  and  tumult,  but  no  less  ’mid  fair 
And  tranquil  scenes,  that  universal  power 
And  fitness  in  the  latent  qualities 


THE  PllELUDE. 


4S5 


And  essences  of  things,  by  wliicli  the  mind 
Is  moved  with  feelings  of  delight,  to  me 
Came,  strengthened  with  a supcradded  soul, 

A virtue  not  its  own.  My  morning  walks 
Were  early  ; — oft  before  the  hours  of  school 
I travelled  round  our  little  lake,  five  miles 
Of  pleasant  wandering.  Happy  time!  more  dear 
I'or  this,  that  one  was  by  my  side,  a Friend,* 

Then  passionately  loved  ; with  heart  how  full 
Would  he  peruse  these  lines!  For  many  years 
Have  since  flowed  in  between  us,  and  our  minds 
Both  silent  to  each  other  at  this  time 
We  live  as  if  those  hours  had  never  been. 

Nor  seldom  did  I lift  our  cottage  latch 
Far  earlier,  ere  one  smoke-wreath  had  risen 
From  human  dwelling,  or  the  vernal  thrush 
Was  audible;  and  sat  among  the  woods 
Alone  upon  some  jutting  eminence, 

At  the  first  gleam  of  dawn-light,  when  the  Vale 
Vet  slumbering,  lay  in  utter  solitude. 

IIow  shall  I seek  the  origin  1 where  find 
Faith  in  the  marvellous  things  which  then  I felt? 

Oft  in  these  moments  such  a holy  calm 
Would  overspread  my  soul,  that  bodily  eyes 
Were  utterly  forgotten,  and  wbat  I saw 
Appeared  like  something  in  myself,  a dream, 

A prospect  in  the  mind. 

’Twere  long  to  tell 

What  spring  and  autumn,  what  tlie  winter  snows. 

And  what  the  summer  shade,  what  day  and  night. 

Evening  and  morning,  sleep  and  waking,  thought 

From  sources  ine.vhaustible,  poured  forth 

To  feed  the  spirit  o^eligioiis  love 

In  which  I walked  with  Nature.  But  let  this 

Be  not  forgotten,  that  I still  retained 

My  first  creative  sensibility; 

That  by  the  regular  action  of  the  world 
My  soul  was  unsubdued.  A plastic  power 
Abode  with  me;  a forming  hand,  at  times 
Rebellious,  acting  in  a devious  mood; 

A local  spirit  of  his  own,  at  war 
With  general  tendency,  but  for  the  most. 

Subservient  strictly  to  external  things 
With  which  it  communed.  An  auxiliar  light 
Came  from  my  mind,  whicli  on  the  setting  sun 
Bestowed  new  splendour  ; the  melodious  birds, 

The  fluttering  breezes,  fountains  that  run  on 
Murmuring  so  sweetly  in  themselves,  obeyed 
A like  dominion,  and  the  midnight  storm 
Grew  darker  in  the  presence  of  my  eye ; 

Hence  my  obeisance,  my  devotion  hence. 

And  hence  my  transport. 

Nor  should  this,  perchance. 
Pass  unrecorded,  that  I still  had  loved 
Tlie  exercise  and  produce  of  a toil. 

Than  analytic  industry  to  me 

More  pleasing,  and  whose  character  I deem 


* The  late  Rev.  John  Fleming,  of  Rayrigg,  Windermere. 


Is  more  poetic  as  resembling  more 
Creative  agency.  The  song  would  speak 
Of  that  interminable  building  reared 
By  observation  of  affinities 
In  objects  where  no  brotherliood  exists 
To  passive  minds.  My  seventeenth  year  was  come; 
And,  whether  from  tiiis  habit  rooted  now 
i So  deeply  in  my  mind,  or  from  excess 
In  the  great  social  principle  of  life 
Coercing  all  things  into  sympathy. 

To  unorganic  natures  were  transferred 
My  own  enjoyments;  or  the  power  of  truth 
Coming  in  revelation,  did  converse 
With  things  that  really  are;  I,  at  this  time. 

Saw  blessings  spread  around  me  like  a sea. 

'I'hus  while  the  days  flew  by,  and  years  passed  on. 
From  Nature  and  her  overflowing  soul, 
j I had  received  so  much,  that  all  my  thoughts 
[ Were  steeped  in  feeling;  I was  only  then 
Contented,  when  with  bliss  ineffable 
I felt  the  sentiment  of  Being  spread 
O’er  all  that  moves  and  all  that  seemeth  still ; 

O’er  all  that,  lost  beyond  the  reach  of  tJiought 
And  human  knowledge,  to  the  human  eye 
Invisible,  yet  liveth  to  the  heart; 

O’er  all  tliat  leaps  and  runs,  and  sliouts  and  sings. 
Or  beats  the  gladsome  air;  o’er  all  that  glides 
Beneath  the  wave,  yea,  in  the  wave  itself. 

And  mighty  depth  of  waters.  W’onder  not 
If  high  the  transport,  great  the  joy  I felt. 
Communing  in  this  sort  through  earth  and  heaven 
I With  every  form  of  creature,  as  it  looked 
Towards  the  Uncreated  with  a countenance 
i Of  adoration,  with  an  eye  of  love, 
i One  song  they  sang,  and  it  was  audible, 
i Most  audible,  then,  when  the  fleshly  ear, 

O’ercome  by  humblest  prelude  of  that  strain. 

Forgot  her  functions,  and  slept  undisturbed. 

j If  this  be  error,  and  another  faith 
i Find  easier  access  to  the  pious  mind. 

Yet  were  I grossly  destitute  of  all 
I Those  human  sentiments  that  make  this  earth 
I So  dear,  if  I should  fail  with  grateful  voice 
' To  speak  of  you,  ye  mountains,  and  ye  lakes 
I And  sounding  cataracts,  ye  mists  and  winds 
That  dwell  among  the  hills  where  I was  born. 

If  in  my  youth  I have  been  pure  in  heart, 

I If,  mingling  with  the  world,  I am  content 
i With  my  own  modest  pleasures,  and  have  lived 
j With  God  and  Nature  communing,  removed 
From  little  enmities  and  low  desires. 

The  gift  is  yours;  if  in  these  times  of  fear. 

This  melancholy  waste  of  hopes  o’erthrown, 

If,  ’mid  indifference  and  apathy. 

And  wicked  exultation  when  good  men 
i On  every  side  fall  oft',  we  know  not  how. 

To  selfishness,  disguised  in  gentle  names 
Of  peace  and  quiet  and  domestic  love, 

41* 


48G 


W 0 K D S W 0 R T ir  S R 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S . 


Yet  mingled  not  unwillingly  with  sneers 
On  visionary  minds;  if,  in  this  time 
Of  dereliction  and  dismay,  I yet 
Despair  not  of  our  nature,  hut  retain 
A more  than  Roman  confidence,  a faith 
That  fails  not,  in  all  sorrow  my  support. 

The  blessing  of  my  life ; the  gift  is  yours. 

Ye  w'inds  and  sounding  cataracts!  ’tis  yours. 

Ye  mountains  ! thine,  O Nature  ! Thou  hast  fed 
My  lofty  speculations ; and  in  thee, 

For  this  uneasy  heart  of  ours,  I find 
A never-failing  principle  of  joy 
And  purest  passion. 

Thou,  my  Friend,  wert  reared 
in  the  great  city,  ’mid  far  other  scenes: 

But  we,  by  different  roads,  at  length  have  gained 
The  self-same  bourne.  And  for  this  cause  to  thee 
I speak,  unapprehensive  of  contempt. 


The  insinuated  scoff"  of  coward  tongues. 

And  all  that  silent  language  wliich  so  oft 
In  conversation  between  man  and  man 
Blots  from  tlie  human  countenance  all  trace 
Of  beauty  and  of  love.  For  thou  hast  sought 
The  truth  in  solitude,  and,  since  the  days 
That  gave  thee  liberty,  full  long  desired 
To  serve  in  Nature’s  temple,  thou  hast  been 
The  most  assiduous  of  her  ministers; 

In  many  things  my  brother,  chieffy  here 
In  this  our  deep  devotion. 

P'are  thee  well ! 

Health  and  the  quiet  of  a healthful  mind 
Attend  thee  ! seeking  oft  the  haunts  of  men. 
And  yet  more  often  living  with  thyself. 

And  for  thyself,  so  haply  shall  thy  days 
Be  many,  and  a blessing  to  mankind. 


BOOK  THIRD. 


KESIDENCE  AT  CAMBRIDGE. 


It  was  a dreary  morning  when  the  wheels 
Rolled  over  a wide  plain  o’erhung  with  clouds, 

And  nothing  cheered  our  way  till  first  we  saw 
The  long-roofed  chapel  of  King’s  College  lift 
Turrets  and  pinnacles  in  answering  files, 

E.xtended  high  above  a dusky  grove. 

Advancing,  we  espied  upon  the  road 
A student  clothed  in  gown  and  tasselled  cap, 

Striding  along  as  if  o’ertasked  by  Time, 

Or  covetous  of  exercis-e  and  air ; 

He  passed  — nor  was  I master  of  my  eyes 
Till  he  was  left  an  arrow’s  flight  behind. 

As  near  and  nearer  to  the  spot  we  drew. 

It  seemed  to  suck  us  in  with  an  eddy’s  force. 

Onward  we  drove  beneath  the  Castle;  caught. 

While  crossing  Magdalene  Bridge,  a glimpse  of  Cam; 
And  at  the  Hoop  alighted,  famous  Inn. 

.My  spirit  was  up,  my  thoughts  were  full  of  hope ; 
Some  friends  I had,  acquaintances  who  there 
Seemed  friends,  poor  simple  school-boys,  now  hung  round 
With  honour  and  importance:  in  a world 
Of  welcome  faces  up  and  down  I roved  ; 

Questions,  directions,  warnings  and  advice. 

Flowed  in  upon  me,  from  all  sides;  fresh  day 
Of  pride  and  pleasure ! to  myself  I seemed 
A man  of  business  and  expense,  and  went 
From  shop  to  shop  about  my  own  affairs. 


To  Tutor  or  to  Tailor,  as  befell. 

From  street  to  street  with  loose  and  careless  mind. 

I was  the  Dreamer,  they  the  Dream ; I roamed 
Delighted  through  the  motley  spectacle; 

Gowns  grave,  or  gaudy,  doctors,  students,  streets. 
Courts,  cloisters,  flocks  of  churches,  gateways,  towers: 
Migration  strange  for  a stripling  of  the  hills, 

A northern  villager. 

As  if  ttie  chang-e 

Had  waited  on  some  Fairy’s  wand,  at  once 
Behold  me  rich  in  monies,  and  attired 
In  splendid  garb,  with  liose  of  silk,  and  hair 
Powdered  like  rimy  trees,  when  fi'ost  is  keen. 

My  lordly  dressing-gown,  I pass  it  by. 

With  other  signs  of  manhood  that  supplied 
The  lack  of  beard.  — T'lie  weeks  went  roundly  on. 
With  invitations,  siqipers,  wine  and  fruit. 

Smooth  housekeeping  within,  and  all  without 
Liberal,  and  suiting  gentleman’s  array. 

The  Evangelist  St.  John  my  patron  was: 

Three  Gothic  courts  are  his,  and  in  the  first 
Was  my  abiding-place,  a nook  obscure  ; 

Right  underneath,  the  College  kitchens  made 
A humming  sound,  le.ss  tuneable  than  bees. 

But  hardly  less  industrious;  with  shrill  notes 
Of  sharp  command  and  scolding  intermixed. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


4ST 


Near  me  hung  Trinity’s  loquacious  clock, 

Who  never  let  the  quarters,  niglit  or  day. 

Slip  by  him  unprocluimed,  and  told  the  hours 
Twice  over  with  a male  and  female  voice. 

Her  peaking  organ  was  my  neighbour  too; 

And  from  my  pillow,  looking  forth  by  light 
Of  moon  or  favouring  stars,  I could  behold 
The  antecliapel  where  the  statue  stood 
Of  Newton  with  his  prism  and  silent  face. 

The  marble  index  of  a mind  for  ever 
Voyaging  through  strange  seas  of  Thought,  alone. 

Of  College  labours,  of  the  Lecturer’s  room 
Ail  studded  round,  as  thick  as  chairs  could  stand. 
With  loyal  students  faithful  to  tlieir  books, 
Half-and-half  idlers,  hardy  recusants. 

And  honest  dunces  — of  important  days, 
E.xaminations  when  the  man  was  weighed 
As  in  a balance  ! of  excessive  hopes. 

Tremblings  withal  and  commendable  fears. 

Small  jealousies,  and  triumphs  good  or  bad. 

Let  others  that  know  more  speak  as  tliey  know. 

Such  glory  was  but  little  sought  by  me. 

And  little  won.  Yet  from  the  first  crude  days 
Of  settling  time  in  tliis  untried  abode, 

I was  disturbed  at  times  by  prudent  thoughts. 
Wishing  to  hope  without  a hope,  some  fears 
About  my  future  worldly  maintenance. 

And,  more  than  all,  a strangeness  in  the  mind, 

A feeling  that  I was  not  for  that  hour. 

Nor  for  that  place.  But  wherefore  be  cast  down  1 

For  (not  to  speak  of  Reason  and  her  pure 

Reflective  acts  to  fix  the  moral  law 

Deep  in  the  conscience,  nor  of  Christian  Hope, 

Bowing  her  head  before  her  sister  Faith 

As  one  far  mightier,)  hither  I had  come, 

Bear  witness  Truth,  endowed  with  holy  powers 
And  faculties,  whether  to  work  or  feel. 

Oft  when  the  dazzling  show  no  longer  new 

Had  ceased  to  dazzle,  ofttimes  did  I quit 

My  comrades,  leave  the  crowd,  buildings  and  groves, 

And  as  I paced  alone  the  level  fields 

Far  from  those  lovely  sights  and  sounds  sublime 

With  which  I had  been  conversant,  the  mind 

Drooped  not ; but  tliere  into  herself  returning, 

With  prompt  rebound  seemed  fresli  as  heretofore. 

At  least  I more  distinctly  recognized 
Her  native  instincts:  let  me  dare  to  speak 
A higher  language,  say  that  now  I felt 
What  independent  solaces  were  mine. 

To  mitigate  the  injurious  sway  of  place 
Or  circumstance,  how  far  soever  changed 
In  youth,  or  lo  be  changed  in  manhood’s  prime; 

Or  for  the  few  who  shall  be  called  to  look 
On  the  long  shadows  in  our  evening  years, 

O.-dained  precursors  to  the  niglit  of  death. 

As  if  awakened,  summoned,  roused,  constrained, 

I looked  for  universal  things ; perused 
The  common  countenance  of  earth  and  sky : 


Earth,  nowhere  unembellishcd  by  some  trace 
jOf  that  first  Paradise  whence  man  was  driven; 

And  sky,  whose  beauty  and  bounty  are  expressed 
By  the  proud  name  she  bears  — the  name  of  Heaven. 

1 1 called  on  both  to  teach  me  what  they  might ; 

Or  turning  the  mind  in  upon  herself 
Pored,  watched,  expected,  listened,  spread  my  thoughts 
! And  spread  them  with  a wider  creeping;  felt 
Incumbencies  more  awful,  visitings 
Of  the  Upholder  of  the  tranquil  soul. 

That  tolerates  the  indignities  of  ’I'ime, 

1 And,  from  the  centre  of  Eternity 
■ All  finite  motions  overruling,  lives 
j In  glory  immutable.  But  peace  ! enough 
Here  to  record  that  I was  mounting  now 
To  sucli  community  with  highest  trutli  — 

A track  pursuing,  not  untrod  before. 

From  strict  analogies  by  thought  supplied 
I Or  consciousnesses  not  to  be  subdued. 

‘ To  every  natural  form,  rock,  fruit  or  flower, 

I Even  the  loose  stones  tliat  cover  the  highway, 

I gave  a moral  life:  I saw  tliern  feel. 

Or  linked  them  to  some  feeling:  the  great  mass 
Lay  bedded  in  a quickening  soul,  and  all 
I That  I beheld  respired  with  inward  meaning. 

Add  that  whate’er  of  Terror  or  of  Love 
Or  Beauty,  Nature’s  daily  face  put  on 
From  transitory  passion,  unto  this 
j I was  as  sensitive  as  waters  are 
j To  the  sky’s  influence  in  a kindred  mood 
j Of  passion  ; was  obedient  as  a lute 
j That  waits  upon  the  touches  of  the  wind. 

Unknown,  unthought  of,  yet  I was  most  rich  — 

I had  a world  about  me  — ’twas  my  own ; 

I made  it,  for  it  only  lived  to  me, 
j And  to  the  God  who  sees  into  the  heart. 

I Such  sympathies,  though  rarely,  were  betrayed 
i By  outward  gestures  and  by  visible  looks: 

Some  called  it  madness  — so  indeed  it  was. 

If  cliildlike  fruitfulness  in  passing  joy 
If  steady  moods  of  thouglitfulness  matured 
To  inspiration,  sort  with  such  a name ; 

If  prophecy  be  madness;  if  things  viewed 
By  poets  in  old  time,  and  liigher  up 
By  the  first  men,  earth’s  first  inhabitants, 

May  in  these  tutored  days  no  more  be  seen 
With  undisordered  sight.  But  leaving  this. 

It  was  no  madness,  for  the  bodily  eye 
Amid  my  strongest  workings  evermore 
Was  searching  out  the  lines  of  difference 
As  they  lie  hid  in  all  external  forms. 

Near  or  remote,  minute  or  vast,  an  eye 
Which  from  a tree,  a stone,  a withered  leaf. 

To  the  broad  ocean  and  the  azure  heavens 
Spangled  with  kindred  multitudes  of  stars. 

Could  find  no  surface  where  its  power  might  sleep; 
Which  spake  perpetual  logic  to  iny  soul. 

And  by  an  unrelenting  agency 
i Did  bind  my  feelings  even  as  in  a chain. 


488 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  here,  O Friend  ! have  I retraced  my  life 
Up  to  an  eminence,  and  told  a tale 
Of  matters  which  not  falsely  may  be  called 
The  glory  of  my  youth.  Of  genius,  power, 
Creation  and  divinity  itself 
I have  been  speaking,  for  my  theme  has  been 
What  passed  within  me.  Not  of  outward  things 
Done  visibly  for  other  minds,  words,  signs, 

Symbols  or  actions,  but  of  my  own  heart 
Have  I been  speaking,  and  my  youthful  mind. 

0 Heavens!  how  awful  is  the  might  of  souls. 

And  what  they  do  within  themselves  w’hile  yet 
The  yoke  of  earth  is  new  to  them,  the  world 
Nothing  but  a wild  field  wdiere  they  were  sown. 
This  is,  in  truth,  heroic  argument, 

'i'his  genuine  prowess,  which  I wished  to  touch 
With  hand  however  weak,  but  in  the  main 
It  lies  far  hidden  from  the  reach  of  words. 

Points  have  we  all  of  us  within  our  souls 
Where  all  stand  single;  this  I feel,  and  make 
Breathings  for  incommunicable  powers  ; 

But  is  not  each  a memory  to  himself. 

And,  therefore,  now  that  we  must  quit  this  theme, 

1 am  not  heartless,  for  there’s  not  a man 

That  lives  who  hath  not  known  his  godlike  hours, 
And  feels  not  what  an  empire  we  inherit 
As  natural  beings  in  the  strength  of  Nature. 

No  more:  for  now  into  a populous  plain 
We  must  descend.  A Traveller  I am. 

Whose  tale  is  only  of  himself;  even  so,- 
So  bo  it,  if  the  pure  of  heart  be  prompt 
To  follow,  and  if  thou,  my  honoured  Friend  ! 

W’ho  in  these  thoughts  art  ever  at  my  side, 
Supjxrrt,  as  heretofore,  my  fainting  steps. 

ft  hath  been  told,  that  when  the  first  delight 
That  flashed  upon  me  from  this  novel  show 
Had  failed,  the  mind  returned  into  herself; 

Vet  true  it  is,  that  I had  made  a change 
In  climate,  and  my  nature’s  outward  coat 
Changed  also  slowly  and  insensibly. 

Full  oft  the  quiet  and  exalted  thoughts 
Of  loneliness  gave  way  to  empty  noise 
And  superficial  pastimes;  now  and  tlien 
Forced  labour,  and  more  frequently  forced  hopes; 
And,  worst  of  all,  a treasonable  growth 
Of  indecisive  judgments,  that  impaired 
And  shook  the  mind’s  simplicity.  — And  yet 
This  was  a gladsome  time.  Could  1 behold  — 
Who,  less  insensible  than  sodden  clay 
In  a sea-river’s  bed  at  ebb  of  tide. 

Could  have  beheld,  — with  undelighted  heart. 

So  many  happy  youths,  so  wide  and  fair 
A congregation  in  its  budding-time 
Of  health,  and  hope,  and  beauty,  all  at  once 
So  many  divers  samples  from  the  growth 
Of  life’s  sweet  season  — could  have  seen  unmoved 
That  miscellaneous  garland  of  wild  flowers 


j Decking  the  matron  temples  of  a place 
! So  famous  through  the  world  7 To  me,  at  .cast, 

It  was  a goodly  prospect;  for,  in  sooth. 

Though  I had  learnt  betimes  to  stand  unpropped, 
And  independent  musings  pleased  me  so 
That  spells  seemed  on  me  when  I was  alone. 

Yet  could  I only  cleave  to  solitude 
In  lonely  places;  if  a throng  was  near 
That  way  I leaned  by  nature;  for  my  heart 
Was  social,  and  loved  idleness  and  joy. 

Not  seeking  those  who  might  participate 
My  deeper  pleasures  (nay,  I had  not  once. 

Though  not  unused  to  mutter  lonesome  songs. 

Even  with  myself  divided  such  delight. 

Or  looked  that  way  for  aught  that  might  be  clothed 
In  human  language),  easily  I passed 
From  the  remembrances  of  better  things. 

And  slipjved  into  the  ordinary  works 
Of  careless  youth,  unburthened,  unalarmed. 
Caverns  there  were  within  my  mind  which  sun 
Could  never  penetrate,  yet  did  there  not 
Want  store  of  leafy  arbours  where  the  light 
Might  enter  in  at  will.  Companionships, 
j Friendships,  acquaintances,  were  welcome  all. 

I We  sauntered,  played,  or  rioted  ; we  talked 
j Unprofitable  talk  at  morning  hours; 

Drifted  about  along  the  streets  and  walks. 

Read  lazily  in  trivial  books,  went  forth 
j To  gallop  through  the  country  in  blind  zeal 
j Of  senseless  horsemanship,  or  on  tlie  breast 
Of  Cam  sailed  boisterously,  and  let  the  stars 
Come  forth,  perhaps  without  one  quiet  thought. 


Such  was  the  tenor  of  the  second  act 
In  this  new  life.  Imagination  slept. 

And  ygUnot  utterly.  I could  not  print 
Ground  where  the  grass  had  yielded  to  the  steps 
Of  generations  of  illustrious  men. 

Unmoved.  I could  not  always  lightly  psiss 
Through  the  same  gateways,  sleep  where  they  had 
slept. 

Wake  where  they  waked,  range  that  inclosure  old, 
That  garden  of  great  intellects,  undisturbed. 

Place  also  by  the  side  of  this  dark  sense 
Of  noble  feeling,  that  those  spiritual  men. 

Even  the  great  Nevvton’s  own  ethereal  self. 

Seemed  humbled  in  these  precincts  thence  to  be 
The  more  endeared.  Their  several  memories  hero 
(Even  like  their  persons  in  their  portraits  clothed 
With  the  accustomed  garb  of  daily  life) 

Put  on  a lowly  and  a touching  grace 
Of  more  distinct  humanity,  that  left 
All  genuine  admiration  unimpaired. 


' Beside  the  pleasant  IMill  of  Trompington 
I laughed  with  Chaucer  in  the  hawthorn  snade; 
Heard  him,  while  birds  were  warbling,  tell  Ins  taiet 
, Of  amorous  passion.  And  that  gentle  Bard, 


THE  PEELUDE. 


489 


Chosen  by  the  Muses  for  their  Pag-c  of  State  — 
Sweet  Spenser,  moving  tiirough  his  ciouded  heaven 
VV^ith  the  moon’s  beauty  and  the  moon’s  soft  pace, 

I called  him  Brother,  Englishman,  and  Friend  ! 

Yea,  our  blind  Poet,  who,  in  his  later  day. 

Stood  almost  single;  uttering  odious  truth 

Darkness  before,  and  danger’s  voice  brdiind, 

Soul  awful  — if  the  eartli  has  ever  lodged 
An  awful  soul  — I seemed  to  see  him  here 
Familiarly,  and  in  his  scholar’s  dress 
Bounding  before  me,  yet  a stripling  youth  — 

A boy,  no  better,  with  his  rosy  cheeks 
Angelical,  keen  eye,  courageous  look. 

And  conscious  step  of  purity  and  pride. 

Among  the  band  of  my  compeers  was  one 
Whom  chance  had  stationed  in  the  very  room 
Honoured  by  Milton’s  name.  O temperate  Bard  ! 
Be  it  confcst  that,  for  the  first  time,  seated 
Within  thy  innocent  lodge  and  oratory, 

One  of  a festive  circle,  I poured  out 
Libations,  to  thy  memory  drank,  till  pride 
And  gratitude  grew  dizzy  in  a brain 
Never  excited  by  the  fumes  of  wine 
Before  that  hour,  or  since.  Then,  forth  I ran 
From  the  assembly ; through  a length  of  streets. 
Ran,  ostrich-like,  to  reach  our  chapel  door 
In  not  a desperate  or  opprobrious  time. 

Albeit  long  after  the  importunate  bell 
Had  stopped,  with  wearisome  Cassandra  voice 
No  longer  haunting  the  dark  winter  night. 

Call  back,  O Friend  ! a moment  to  thy  mind 
The  place  itself  and  fashion  of  the  rites. 

VVith  careless  ostentation  shouldering  up 
My  surplice,  through  the  inferior  throng  I clove 
Of  the  plain  Burghers,  who  in  audience  stood 
On  the  last  skirts  of  their  permitted  ground. 

Under  the  pealing  organ.  Empty  thoughts  ! 

I am  ashamed  of  them  : and  that  great  Bard, 

And  thou,  O Friend ! who  in  thy  ample  mind 
Ha.st  placed  me  high  above  my  best  deserts, 

Ye  will  forgive  the  weakness  of  that  hour. 

In  some  of  its  unworthy  vanities. 

Brother  to  many  more. 

In  this  mixed  sort 

The  months  passed  on,  remissly,  not  given  up 
To  wilful  alienation  from  the  right. 

Or  walks  of  open  scandal,  but  in  vague 
And  loose  indifference,  easy  likings,  aims 
Of  a low  pitch  — duty  and  zeal  dismissed. 

Yet  nature,  or  a happy  course  of  things 
Not  doing  in  their  stead  the  needful  work. 

The  memory  languidly  revolved,  the  heart 
Reposed  in  noontide  rest,  the  inner  pulse 
Of  contemplation  almost  failed  to  beat. 

Such  life  might  not  inaptly  be  compared 
To  a floating  island,  an  amphibious  spot 
Unsound,  of  spongy  texture,  yet  withal 
Not  wanting  a fair  face  of  water  weeds 
3M 


And  pleasant  flowers.*  The  thirst  of  living  praise, 
Fit  reverence  for  the  glorious  Dead,  the  sight 
Of  those  long  vistas,  sacred  catacomb.®, 

Where  mighty  minds  lie  visibly  entombed. 

Have  often  stirred  the  heart  of  youth,  and  bred 
A fervent  love  of  rigorous  discipline. — 

Alas ! such  high  emotion  touched  not  me.\ 

Look  was  there  none  within  these  walls  to  shame 
My  easy  spirits,  and  discountenance 
Their  light  composure,  far  less  to  instil 
A calm  resolve  of  mind,  firmly  addressed 
To  puissant  efforts.  Nor  was  this  the  blame 
Of  others  but  my  own  ; I should,  in  truth. 

As  far  as  doth  concern  my  single  self, 

Misdeem  most  widely,  lodging  it  elsewhere; 

For  I,  bred  up  ’mid  Nature’s  luxuries. 

Was  a spoiled  child,  and  rambling  like  the  wind, 

As  I had  done  in  daily  intercourse 

With  those  crystalline  rivers,  solemn  heights. 

And  mountains,  ranging  like  a fowl  of  the  air, 

I was  ill-tntored  for  cajitivity  ; \ 

To  quit  my  pleasure,  and,  from  month  to  month. 

Take  up  a station  calmly  on  the  perch 
Of  sedentary  peace.  Those  lovely  forms 
Had  also  lefl  less  space  within  my  mind. 

Which,  wrought  upon  instinctively,  had  found 
A freshness  in  those  objects  of  her  love, 

A winning  power,  beyond  all  other  power. 

Not  that  I slighted  books, — that  were  to  lack 
All  sense,  — but  other  passions  in  me  ruled. 

Passions  more  fervent,  making  me  less  prompt 
To  in-door  study  than  was  wise  or  well. 

Or  suited  to  those  years.  Yet  I,  though  used 
In  magisterial  liberty  to  rove. 

Culling  such  flowers  of  learning  as  might  tempt 
A random  choice,  could  shadow  forth  a place 
(If  now  I yield  not  to  a flattering  dream) 

Whose  studious  aspect  should  have  bent  me  down 
To  instantaneous  service  ; should  at  once 
Have  made  me  pay  to  science  and  to  arts 
And  written  lore,  acknowledged  my  liege  lord, 

A homage  frankly  offered  up,  like  that 
Which  I had  paid  to  Nature.  Toil  and  pains 
In  this  recess,  by  thoughtful  Fancy  built. 

Should  spread  from  heart  to  heart;  and  stately  groves, 
Majestic  edifices,  should  not  want 
A corresponding  dignity  within. 

The  congregating  temper  that  pervades 
Our  unripe  years,  not  wasted,  should  be  taught 

To  minister  to  works  of  high  attempt 

Works  which  the  enthusiast  would  perform  with  love. 
Youth  should  be  awed,  religiously  possessed 
With  a conviction  of  the  power  that  waits 
On  knowledge,  when  sincerely  sought  and  prized 
For  its  own  sake,  on  glory  and  on  praise 
If  but  by  labour  won,  and  fit  to  endure 
1 he  passing  day ; should  learn  to  put  aside 


[*  See  ante,  p.  419.  — H.  R.] 


490 


WOKDSWOKTH'S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Her  trappings  here,  should  strip  them  off  abashed 
Before  antiquity  and  steadfast  truth 
And  strong  book-minded  ness ; and  over  all 
A healthy  sound  simplicity  should  reign, 

A seemly  plainness,  name  it  what  you  will. 

Republican  or  pious. 

If  these  thoughts 
Are  a gratuitous  emblazonry 
That  mocks  the  recreant  age  we  live  in,  then 
Be  Folly  and  False-seeming  free  to  affect 
Whatever  formal  gait  of  discipline 
Shall  raise  them  highest  in  their  own  esteem  — 

Let  them  parade  among  the  Schools  at  will, 

But  spare  the  House  of  God.  Was  ever  known 
The  witless  shepherd  who  persists  to  drive 
A flock  that  thirsts  not  to  a pool  disliked  1 
A weight  must  surely  hang  on  days  bepn 
And  ended  with  such  mockery.  Be  wise. 

Ye  Presidents  and  Deans,  and,  till  the  spirit 
Of  ancient  times  revive,  and  youth  be  trained 
At  home  in  pious  service,  to  your  bells 
Give  seasonable  rest,  for  ’tis  a sound 
Hollow  as  ever  vexed  the  tranquil  air ; 

And  your  officious  doings  bring  disgrace 
On  the  plain  steeples  of  our  English  Church, 

Whose  worship,  ’mid  remotest  village  trees. 

Suffers  for  thi.s.  Even  Science,  too,  at  hand 
In  daily  sight  of  this  irreverence. 

Is  smitten  thence  with  an  unnatural  taint. 

Loses  her  just  authority,  falls  beneath 
Collateral  su.?picion,  else  unknown. 

This  truth  escaped  me  not,  and  I confess. 

That  having  ’mid  my  native  hills  given  loose 
To  a schoolboy’s  vision,  I had  raised  a pile 
Upon  the  basis  of  the  coming  time. 

That  fell  in  ruins  round  me.  Oh,  what  joy 
To  see  a sanctuary  for  our  country’s  youth 
Informed  with  such  a spirit  as  might  be 
Its  own  protection  ; a primeval  grove. 

Where,  though  the  shades  with  cheerfulness  were  fil 
Nor  indigent  of  songs  warbled  from  crowds 
In  under-coverts,  yet  the  countenance 
Of  the  whole  place  should  bear  a stamp  of  awe ; 

A habitation  sober  and  demure 
For  ruminating  creatures;  a domain 
For  quiet  things  to  wander  in ; a haunt 
In  which  the  heron  should  delight  to  feed 
By  the  shy  rivers,  and  the  pelican 
Upon  the  cypress  spire  in  lonely  thought 
Might  sit  and  sun  himself  — Alas ! Alas ! 

In  vain  for  such  solemnity  I looked ; 

Mine  eyes  were  crossed  by  butterflies,  ears  vexed 
By  chattering  popinjays;  the  inner  heart 
Seemed  trivial,  and  the  impresses  without 
Of  a loo  gaudy  region. 

Different  sight 

Those  venerable  Doctors  saw  of  old. 

When  all  who  dwelt  within  these  famous  walls 
Led  in  abstemiousness  a studious  life 


When,  in  forlorn  and  naked  chambers  cooped 
And  crowded,  o’er  the  ponderous  books  they  hung 
Like  caterpillars  eating  out  their  way 
In  silence,  or  with  keen  devouring  noise 
Not  to  be  tracked  or  fathered.  Princes  then 
At  matins  froze,  and  couclied  at  curfew-time. 

Trained  up  through  piety  and  zeal  to  prize 
Spare  diet,  patient  labour,  and  plain  weeds. 

O seat  of  Arts!  renowned  throughout  the  world! 

Far  different  service  in  those  homely  days 
The  Muses’  modest  nurslings  underwent 
From  their  first  childhood : in  that  glorious  time 
When  Learning,  like  a stranger  come  from  far. 

Sounding  through  Christian  lands  her  trumpet,  roused 
Peasant  and  king;  when  boys  and  youths,  the  growth 
Of  ragged  villages  and  crazy  huts. 

Forsook  their  homes,  and  errant  in  the  quest 
Of  Patron,  famous  school  or  friendly  nook, 

Where,  pensioned,  they  in  shelter  might  sit  down. 

From  town  to  town  and  through  wide  scattered  realms 
Journeyed  with  ponderous  folios  in  their  hands; 

And  often,  starting  from  some  covert  place, 

Saluted  the  chance  comer  on  the  road. 

Crying,  “ An  obolus,  a penny  give 

To  a poor  scholar !”  — when  illustrious  men. 

Lovers  of  truth,  by  penury  constrained, 

Bucer,  Erasmus,  or  Melancthon,  real 
Before  the  doors  or  windows  of  their  cells 
By  moonshine  through  mere  lack  of  taper  light. 

But  peace  to  vain  regrets ! We  see  but  darkly 
Even  when  we  look  behind  us,  and  best  things 

(Are  not  so  pure  by  nature  that  they  needs 
Must  keep  to  all,  as  fondly  all  believe. 

Their  highest  promise.  If  the  mariner. 

When  at  reluctant  distance  he  hath  passed 
Some  tempting  island,  could  but  know  the  ills 
That  must  have  fallen  upon  him  had  he  brought 
His  bark  to  land  upon  the  wished-for  shore, 

.,  Good  cause  would  off  be  his  to  thank  the  surf 
I Whose  white  belt  scared  him  thence,  or  wind  that  blew 
I Inexorably  adverse ; for  myself 
1 1 grieve  not;  happy  is  the  gowned  youth, 
j Who  only  misses  what  I missed,  who  falls 
I No  lower  than  I fell. 

I did  not  love. 

Judging  not  ill  perhaps,  the  timid  course 
I Of  our  scholastic  studies;  could  have  wi.shed 
I To  see  the  river  flow  with  ampler  range 
And  freer  pace ; but  more,  far  more.  I grieved 
To  see  displayed  among  an  eager  few. 

Who  in  the  field  of  contest  persevered. 

Passions  unworthy  of  youth’s  generous  lieart 
And  mounting  spirit,  pitiably  repaid. 

When  so  disturbed,  whatever  palms  are  won. 

I From  these  I turned  to  travel  with  the  shoal 
‘ Of  more  unthinking  natures,  easy  minds 
i And  pillowy ; yet  not  wanting  love  that  makes 
1 The  day  pass  lightly  on,  when  foresight  sleeps, 


THE  PRELUDE. 


491 


And  wisdom  and  the  pledges  interchanged 
With  our  own  inner  being  are  forgot. 

Yet  was  this  deep  vacation  not  given  up 
To  utter  waste.  Hitherto  I had  stood 
In  my  own  mind  remote  from  social  life, 
vAt  least  from  what  we  commonly  so  name,) 

Like  a lone  shepherd  on  a promontory. 

Who  lacking  occupation  looks  far  forth 
Into  the  boundless  sea,  and  rather  makes 
Than  finds  what  he  beholds.  And  sure  it  is. 

That  tliis  first  transit  from  the  smooth  deliglits 
And  wild  outlandisli  walks  of  simple  youth. 

To  sometliing  that  resembles  an  approacli 
Towards  human  business,  to  a privileged  world 
Within  a world,  a midway  residence 
With  all  its  intervenient  imagery. 

Did  better  suit  my  visionary  mind. 

Far  better,  than  to  have  been  bolted  forth. 

Thrust  out  abruptly  into  Fortune’s  way 
Among  the  conflicts  of  substantial  life; 

By  a more  just  gradation  did  lead  on 
To  higher  things;  more  naturally  matured. 

For  permanent  possession,  better  fruits. 

Whether  of  truth  or  virtue,  to  ensue. 

In  serious  mood,  but  oftener,  I confess. 

With  playful  zest  of  fancy  did  we  note 
(How  could  we  less?)  the  manners  and  the  ways 
Of  those  who  lived  distinguished  by  the  badge 
Of  good  or  ill  report;  or  those  with  whom 
By  frame  of  Academic  discipline 
We  were  perforce  connected,  men  whose  sway 
And  known  authority  of  office  served 
To  set  our  minds  on  edge,  and  did  no  more. 

Nor  wanted  we  rich  pastune  of  this  kind. 

Found  everywhere,  but  chiefly  in  the  ring 
Of  the  grave  Elders,  men  unscoured,  grotesque 
In  character,  tricked  out  like  aged  trees 
Which  through  the  lapse  of  their  infirmity 
Give  ready  place  to  any  random  seed 
That  chooses  to  be  reared  upon  their  trunks. 

Here  on  my  view,  confronting  vividly 
Those  shepherd  swains  whom  I had  lately  left. 
Appeared  a different  aspect  of  old  age; 

How  different ! yet  both  distinctly  marked. 

Objects  embossed  to  catch  the  general  eye. 

Or  portraitures  for  special  use  designed. 

As  some  might  seem,  so  aptly  do  they  serve 
To  illustrate  Nature’s  book  of  rudiments  — 

That  book  upheld  as  with  maternal  care 
When  she  would  enter  on  her  tender  scheme 
Of  teaching  comprehension  with  delight. 

And  mingling  playful  with  pathetic  thoughts. 

The  surfaces  of  artificial  life 
And  manners  finely  wrought,  the  delicate  race 
Of  colours,  lurking,  gleaming  up  and  down 
Through  that  state  arras  woven  with  silk  and  gold ; 


This  wily  interchange  of  snaky  hues. 

Willingly  or  unwillingly  revealed, 

I neither  knew  nor  cared  for;  and  as  such 
Were  wanting  here,  I took  what  might  be  found 
Or  less  elaborate  fabric.  At  this  day 
I smile,  in  many  a mountain  solitude 
Conjuring  up  scenes  as  obsolete  in  freaks 
Of  character,  in  points  of  wit  as  broad, 
j As  aught  by  wooden  images  performed 
For  entertainment  of  the  gaping  crowd 
At  wake  or  fair.  And  oftentimes  do  flit 
j Remembrances  before  me  of  old  men  — 

Old  humourists,  who  have  been  long  in  their  graves, 
^ And  having  almost  in  my  mind  put  off 
Their  human  names,  have  into  phantoms  passed 
Of  texture  midway  between  life  and  books. 

j I play  the  loiterer  : ’tis  enough  to  note 
That  here  in  dwarf  proportions  were  expressed 
The  limbs  of  the  great  world  ; its  eager  strifes 
Collaterally  portrayed,  as  in  mock  fight, 

A tournament  of  blows,  some  hardly  dealt 
Though  short  of  mortal  combat;  and  whate’er 
Wight  in  this  pageant  be  supposed  to  hit 
An  artless  rustic’s  notice,  this  way  less. 

More  that  w’ay,  was  not  wasted  upon  me  — 

And  yet  the  spectacle  may  well  demand 
A more  substantial  name,  no  mimic  show. 

Itself  a living  part  of  a live  whole, 

A creek  in  the  vast  sea ; for,  all  degrees 
And  shapes  of  spurious  fame  and  short-lived  praise 
Here  sate  in  state,  and  fed  with  daily  alms 
Retainers  won  away  from  solid  good  ; 

And  here  was  Labour,  his  own  bond-slave;  Hope 
That  never  set  the  pains  against  the  prize; 

Idleness  halting  with  his  weary  clog. 

And  poor  misguided  Shame,  and  witless  Fear, 

And  simple  Pleasure  foraging  for  Death  ; 

Honour  misplaced,  and  Dignity  astray; 

Feuds,  factions,  flatteries,  enmity,  and  guile 
Murmuring  submission,  and  bald  government, 

(The  idol  weak  as  the  idolater,) 

And  Decency  and  Custom  starving  Truth, 

And  blind  Authority  beating  with  his  staff 
The  child  that  might  have  led  him ; Emptiness 
Followed  as  of  good  omen,  and  meek  Worth 
Left  to  herself  unheard  of  and  unknown. 

Of  these  and  other  kindred  notices 
I cannot  say  what  portion  is  in  truth 
The  naked  recollection  of  that  time. 

And  what  may  rather  have  been  called  to  life 
By  after-meditation.  But  delight 
That,  in  an  easy  temper  lulled  asleep. 

Is  still  with  Innocence  its  own  reward. 

This  was  not  wanting.  Carelessly  I roamed 
As  through  a wide  museum  from  whose  stores 
A casual  rarity  is  singled  out 
And  has  its  brief  perusal,  then  gives  way 


492 


WO^vDS^YOETH’S  POETICALWOEKS. 


To  otliers,  all  supplanted  in  their  turn; 

Till  'mid  this  crowded  neighbourhood  of  things 
That  are  by  nature  most  unneighbourly, 

The  head  turns  round  and  cannot  right  itself ; 
And  though  an  aching  and  a barren  sense 
Of  gay  confusion  still  be  uppermost, 

With  few  wise  longings  and  but  litttle  love, 


Yet  to  the  memory  something  cleaves  at  last. 
Whence  profit  may  be  drawn  in  times  to  come. 

Thus  in  submissive  idleness,  my  Friend  ! 

The  labouring  time  of  autumn,  winter,  spring. 
Eight  months ! rolled  pleasingly  away  ; the  ninth 
Came  and  returned  me  to  my  native  liills. 


BOOK  FOURTH. 


SUMMER  VACATION. 


Bright  was  the  summer’s  noon  when  quickening  steps 
Followed  each  other  till  a dreary  moor 
Was  crossed,  a bare  ridge  clomb,  upon  whose  top 
Standing  alone,  as  from  a rampart’s  edge, 

[ overlooked  the  bed  of  Windermere, 

Like  a vast  river  stretching  in  the  sun. 

With  exultation,  at  my  feet  I saw 
Lake,  islands,  promontories,  gleaming  bays, 

A universe  of  Nature’s  fairest  forms 
Proudly  revealed  with  instantaneous  burst. 

Magnificent,  and  beautiful,  and  gay. 

I bounded  down  the  hill  shouting  amain 
For  the  old  Ferryman ; to  the  shout  the  rocks 
Replied,  and  when  the  Charon  of  the  flood 
Had  stayed  his  oars,  and  touched  the  jutting  pier, 

I did  not  step  into  the  well-known  boat 

Without  a cordial  greeting.  Thence  with  speed 

Up  the  familiar  hill  I took  my  way 

Towards  that  sweet  Valley  * where  I had  been  reared ; 

’Twas  but  a .short  hour’s  walk,  ere  veering  round 

I saw  the  snow-white  church  upon  her  hill 

Sit  like  a throned  Lady,  sending  out 

A gracious  look  all  over  her  domain. 

Yon  azure  smoke  betrays  the  lurking  town; 

With  eager  footsteps  I advance  and  reach 
The  cottage  threshold  where  my  journey  closed. 

Glad  welcome  had  I,  with  some  tears,  perhaps, 

From  my  old  Dame,  so  kind  and  motherly. 

While  she  perused  me  with  a parent’s  pride. 

The  thoughts  of  gratitude  shall  fall  like  dew 
Upon  thy  grave,  good  creature  ! Wlrile  my  heart 
Can  beat  never  will  I forget  thy  name. 

Heaven’s  blessing  be  upon  thee  where  thou  liest 
After  thy  innocent  and  busy  stir 
In  narrow  cares,  thy  little  daily  growth 
Of  calm  enjoyments,  after  eighty  years. 

And  more  than  eighty,  of  untroubled  life. 


Childless,  yet  by  the  strangers  to  thy  blood 
Honoured  with  little  less  than  filial  love. 

What  joy  was  mine  to  see  thee  once  again. 

Thee  and  thy  dwelling,  and  a crowd  of  things 
About  its  narrow  precincts  all  beloved. 

And  many  of  them  seeming  yet  my  own  ! 

Why  should  I speak  of  wliat  a thousand  hearts 
Have  felt,  and  every  man  alive  can  guess! 

The  rooms,  the  court,  the  garden  were  not  left 
Long  unsaluted,  nor  the  sunny  seat 
Round  the  stone  table  under  the  dark  pine. 
Friendly  to  studious  or  to  festive  hours  ; 

Nor  that  unruly  child  of  mountain  birth. 

The  famous  brook,  who,  soon  as  he  was  boxed 
Within  our  garden,  found  liimself  at  once. 

As  if  by  trick  insidious  and  unkind, 

I Stripped  of  his  voice  and  left  to  dimple  down 
(Without  an  effort  and  without  a will) 

A channel  paved  by  man’s  officious  care. 

I looked  at  him  and  smiled,  and  smiled  again. 

And  in  the  press  of  twenty  thousand  thoughts, 

“ Ha,”  quoth  I,  “ pretty  prisoner,  are  you  there  !” 
Well  might  sarcastic  Fancy  then  have  whispered, 
“An  emblem  here  behold  of  thy  own  life; 

In  its  late  course  of  even  days  with  all 
Their  smooth  enthralment ;”  but  the  heart  was  full. 
Too  full  for  that  reproach.  My  aged  Dame 
Walked  proudly  at  my  side:  she  guided  me; 

I willing,  nay  — nay,  wishing  to  be  led. 

— The  face  of  every  neighbour  whom  I met 
Was  like  a volume  to  me;  some  were  hailed 
Upon  the  road,  some  busy  at  their  work. 
Unceremonious  greetings  interchanged 
With  half  the  length  of  a long  field  between. 
Among  my  schoolfellows  I scattered  round 
Like  recognitions,  but  with  some  constraint 
Attended,  doubtless,  with  a little  pride. 

But  with  more  shame,  for  rny  habiliments. 

The  transformation  wrought  by  gay  attire. 


Hawkshead. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


493 


Not  less  delighted  did  I take  iiiy  place 
At  our  domestic  table:  and,  dear  Friend  ! 

In  this  endeavour  simply  to  relate 
A Poet’s  liistory,  may  I leave  untold 
The  thankfulness  with  which  I laid  me  down 
In  my  accustomed  bed,  more  welcome  now 
Perhaps  than  if  it  had  been  more  desired 
Or  been  more  often  thought  of  with  regret ; 

That  lowly  bed  wlience  I had  heard  the  wind 
Roar  and  the  rain  beat  hard,  where  I so  oft 
Had  lain  awake  on  summer  nights  to  watch 
The  moon  in  splendour  couched  among  the  leaves 
Of  a tall  ash,  that  near  our  cottage  stood ; 

Had  watched  her  with  fixed  eyes  while  to  and  fro 

In  the  dark  summit  of  the  waving  tree 

She  rocked  with  every  impulse  of  the  breeze. 

Among  the  favourites  whom  it  pleased  me  well 
To  see  again,  was  one  by  ancient  right 
Our  inmate,  a rough  terrier  of  the  hills; 

By  birth  and  call  of  nature  pre-ordained 
To  hunt  the  badger  and  unearth  the  fox 
Among  the  impervious  crags,  but  having  been 
From  youth  our  own  adopted,  he  had  passed 
Into  a gentler  service.  And  when  first 
The  boyish  spirit  flagged,  and  day  by  day 
Along  my  veins  I kindled  with  the  stir, 

The  fermentation,  and  the  vernal  heat 
Of  poesy,  affecting  private  shades 
Like  a sick  Lover,  tlien  this  dog  was  used 
To  watch  me,  an  attendant  and  a friend. 

Obsequious  to  my  steps  early  and  late. 

Though  often  of  such  dilatory  walk 
Tired,  and  uneasy  at  the  halts  I made. 

A hundred  times  when,  roving  high  and  low, 

I have  been  harassed  with  the  toil  of  verse. 

Much  pains  and  little  progress,  and  at  once 
Some  lovely  Image  in  the  song  rose  up 
Full-formed,  like  Venus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 

Then  have  I darted  forwards  to  let  loose 
My  hand  uimn  his  back  with  stormy  joy. 

Caressing  him  again  and  yet  again. 

And  when  at  evening  on  the  public  way 
I sauntered,  like  a river  murmuring 
And  talking  to  itself  when  all  things  else 
Are  still,  the  creature  trotted  on  before; 

Such  was  his  custom  ; but  whene’er  he  met 
A passenger  approaching,  he  would  turn 
To  give  me  timely  notice,  and  straightway. 

Grateful  for  that  admonishment,  I hushed 
My  voice,  composed  my  gait,  and,  with  the  air 
And  mien  of  one  whose  thouglits  are  free,  advanced 
To  give  and  take  a greeting  that  might  save 
My  name  from  piteous  rumours,  such  as  wait 
On  men  suspected  to  be  crazed  in  brain. 

Those  walks  well  worthy  to  be  prized  and  loved  — 
Regretted  ! — that  word,  too,  was  on  my  tongue. 

But  they  were  richly  laden  with  all  good. 

And  cannot  be  remembered  but  with  thanks 


And  gratitude,  and  perfect  joy  of  heart  — 

Those  walks  in  all  their  fresimess  now  came  back 
Like  a returning  Spring.  When  first  I made 
Once  more  the  circuit  of  our  little  lake. 

If  ever  happiness  hath  lodged  with  man. 

That  day  consummate  happiness  was  mine. 
Wide-spreading,  steady,  calm,  contemplative. 

The  sun  was  set,  or  setting,  when  I left 
Our  cottage  door,  and  evening  soon  brought  on 
A sober  hour,  not  winning  or  serene. 

For  cold  and  raw  the  air  was,  and  untuned  ; 

But  as  a face  we  love  is  sweetest  then 
When  sorrow  damps  it,  or,  whatever  look 
It  chance  to  wear,  is  sweetest  if  the  heart 
Have  fulness  in  herself;  even  so  with  me 
It  fared  tliat  evening.  Gently  did  my  soul 
Put  off  her  veil,  and,  self-transmuted,  stood 
Naked,  as  in  the  presence  of  her  God. 

While  on  I walked,  a comfort  seemed  t«  touch 
A heart  that  liad  not  been  disconsolate: 

Strength  came  where  weakness  was  not  known  to  be, 
At  least  not  felt ; and  restoration  came 
Like  an  intruder  knocking  at  the  door 
Of  unacknowledged  weariness.  I took 
,The  balance,  and  with  firm  hand  weighed  myself. 

— Of  that  external  scene  which  round  me  lay. 

Little,  in  this  abstraction,  did  I see  ; 

Remembered  less;  but  I had  inward  hopes 
And  swellings  of  the  spirit,  was  rapt  and  soothed. 
Conversed  with  promises,  had  glimmering  views 
I How  life  pervades  the  undecaying  mind; 
j How  the  immortal  soul  with  Godlike  power 
Informs,  creates,  and  thaws  the  deepest  sleep 
That  time  can  lay  upon  her;  how  on  earth, 

Man,  if  he  do  but  live  within  the  light 
Of  high  endeavours,  daily  spreads  abroad 
His  being  armed  with  strength  that  cannot  fail. 

Nor  was  there  want  of  milder  thoughts,  of  love 
Of  innocence,  and  holiday  repose  ; 

And  more  than  pastoral  quiet,  ’mid  the  stir 
Of  boldest  projects,  and  a peaceful  end 
At  last,  or  glorious,  by  endurance  won. 

Thus  musing,  in  a wood  I sat  me  down 
Alone,  continuing  there  to  muse:  the  slopes 
And  heights  meanwhile  were  slowly  overspread 
With  darkness,  and  before  a rippling  breeze 
The  long  lake  lengthened  out  its  hoary  line, 

And  in  the  sheltered  coppice  where  I sat. 

Around  me  from  among  the  hazel  leaves. 

Now  here,  now  there,  mov»d  by  tlie  straggling  wind, 
Came  ever  and  anon  a breath-like  sound. 

Quick  as  the  pantings  of  the  faithful  dog,  • 

The  off  and  on  companion  of  my  walk  ; 

And  such,  at  times,  believing  them  to  be, 

I turned  my  head  to  look  if  he  were  there ; 

Then  into  solemn  thought  I passed  once  more. 

A freshness  also  found  I at  this  time 
In  human  Life,  the  daily  life  of  those 

42 


494 


WORSDWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Whose  occupations  really  I loved: 

The  peaceful  scene  oft  filled  me  w ith  surprise 
Cliang-ed  like  a garden  in  the  heat  of  spring 
After  an  eight  days’  absence.  For  (to  omit 
The  things  which  were  the  same  and  yet  appeared 
Far  otherwise)  amid  this  rural  solitude, 

A narrow  Vale  where  each  was  known  to  all, 

’Twas  not  indifferent  to  a youthful  mind 
To  mark  some  sheltering  bower  or  sunny  nook, 
Where  an  old  man  had  used  to  sit  alone. 

Now  vacant;  pale-faced  babes  whom  I had  left 

In  arms,  now  rosy  prattlers  at  the  feet 

Of  a pleased  grandame  tottering  up  and  down  ; 

And  growing  girls  whose  beauty,  filched  away 
With  all  its  pleasant  promises,  was  gone 
To  deck  some  slighted  playmate’s  homely  cheek. 

Yes,  I had  something  of  a subtler  sense. 

And  often  looking  round  was  moved  to  smiles 
Such  as  a delicate  work  of  humour  breeds; 

I read,  without  design,  the  opinions,  thoughts. 

Of  those  plain-living  people  now  observed 
With  clearer  knowledge;  with  another  eye 
I saw  the  quiet  woodman  in  the  woods. 

The  shepherd  roam  the  hills.  With  new  delight. 
This  chiefly,  did  I note  my  grey-haired  Dame; 

Saw  her  go  forth  to  church  or  other  work 
Of  state,  equipped  in  monumental  trim  ; 

Short  velvet  cloak,  (her  bonnet  of  the  like,) 

A mantle  such  as  Spanish  Cavaliers 
Wore  in  old  time.  Her  smooth  domestic  life, 
Afiectionate  without  disquietude. 

Her  talk,  her  business,  pleased  me;  and  no  less 
Her  clear  though  shallow  stream  of  piety 
Tliat  ran  on  Sabbath  days  a freslier  course; 

With  thoughts  unfelt  till  now  I saw  her  read 
Her  Bible  on  hot  Sunday  afternoons, 

And  loved  the  book,  when  she  had  dropped  asleep 
And  made  of  it  a pillow  for  her  head. 

Nor  less  do  I remember  to  have  felt, 

Distinctly  manifested  at  this  time, 

A human-heartedness  about  my  love 
For  objects  hitherto  the  absolute  wealth 
Of  my  own  private  being  and  no  more: 

Which  I had  loved,  even  as  a blessed  spirit 
Or  Angel,  if  he  were  to  dwell  on  earth. 

Might  love  in  individual  happiness. 

But  now  there  opened  on  me  other  thoughts 
Of  change,  congratulation  or  regret, 

A pensive  feeling  ! It  spread  far  and  wide  ; 

The  trees,  the  mountains  shared  it,  and  the  brooks. 
The  stars  of  Heaven,  now  seen  in  their  old  haunts  — 
White  Sirius  glittering  o’er  the  southern  crags, 

Orion  with  liis  belt,  and  those  fair  Seven, 
Acquaintances  of  every  little  child. 

And  Jupiter,  my  own  beloved  star ! 

Wtiatever  shadings  of  mortality. 

Whatever  imports  from  the  world  of  death 


Had  come  among  these  objects  heretofore. 

Were,  in  the  main,  of  mood  less  tender;  strong. 
Deep,  gloomy  were  they,  and  severe;  the  scatterings 
Of  awe  or  tremulous  dread,  that  had  given  way 
In  later  youth  to  yearnings  of  a love 
Enthusiastic,  to  delight  and  hope. 

As  one  who  hangs  down-bending  from  the  side 
Of  a slow-moving  boat,  upon  the  breast 
Of  a still  water,  solacing  himself 
With  such  discoveries  as  his  eye  can  make 
Beneath  him  in  the  bottom  of  the  deep. 

Sees  many  beauteous  sights — weeds,  fishes,  flowers, 
Grots,  pebbles,  roots  of  trees,  and  fancies  more, 

Yet  often  is  perplexed  and  cannot  part 
The  shadow  from  the  substance,  rocks  and  sky, 
Mountains  and  clouds,  reflected  in  the  depth 
Of  the  clear  flood,  from  things  which  there  abide 
In  their  true  dwelling;  now  is  crossed  by  gleam 
Of  his  own  image,  by  a sunbeam  now. 

And  wavering  motions  sent  he  knows  not  whence, 
Impediments  that  make  his  task  more  sweet; 

Such  pleasant  office  have  we  long  pursued 
Incumbent  o’er  the  surface  of  past  time 
With  like  success,  nor  often  have  appeared 
Shapes  fairer  or  less  doubtfully  discerned 
Than  these  to  which  the  tale,  indulgent  Friend  ! 
Would  now  direct  thy  notice.  Yet  in  spite 
Of  pleasure  won  and  knowledge  not  withheld. 

There  was  an  inner  falling  off — I loved. 

Loved  deeply  all  that  had  been  loved  before. 

More  deeply  even  than  ever : but  a swarm 
Of  heady  schemes  jostling  each  other,  gawds. 

And  feast  and  dance,  and  public  revelry. 

And  sports  and  games  (too  grateful  in  themselves. 
Yet  in  themselves  less  grateful  I believe. 

Than  as  they  were  a badge  glossy  and  fresh 

Of  manliness  and  freedom)  all  conspired 

'I'o  lure  my  mind  from  firm  habitual  quest 

Of  feeding  pleasures,  to  depress  the  zeal 

And  damp  those  yearnings  which  had  once  been  mine- 

A wild,  unworldly-minded  youth,  given  up 

To  his  own  eager  thoughts.  It  would  demand 

Some  skill,  and  longer  time  than  may  be  spared. 

To  paint  these  vanities,  and  how  they  wrought 
In  haunts  where  they,  till  now,  had  been  unknown. 

It  seemed  the  very  garments  that  I wore 

Preyed  on  my  strength,  and  stopped  the  quiet  stream 

Of  self-forgetfulness. 

Yes,  that  heartless  chase 
Of  trivial  pleasures  was  a poor  exchange 
For  books  and  nature  at  that  early  age. 

’Tis  true,  some  casual  knowledge  might  be  gained 
Of  character  or  life;  but  at  that  time. 

Of  manners  put  to  school  I took  small  note. 

And  all  my  deeper  passions  lay  elsewhere. 

Far  better  had  it  been  to  exalt  the  mind 

By  solitary  study,  to  uphold 

Intense  desire  through  meditative  peace ; , 


THE  PRELUDE. 


495 


And  yet,  for  chastisement  of  these  regrets, 

The  memory  of  one  particular  hour 
Doth  here  rise  up  against  me.  ’Mid  a throng 
Of  maids  and  youths,  old  men,  and  matrons  staid, 
A medley  of  all  tempers,  I had  passed 
The  night  in  dancing,  gaiety,  and  mirth. 

With  din  of  instruments  and  shuffling  feet. 

And  glancing  forms,  and  tapers  glittering. 

And  unaimed  prattle  flying  up  and  down; 

Spirits  upon  the  stretch,  and  here  and  there 
Slight  shocks  of  young  love-liking  interspersed. 
Whose  transient  pleasure  mounted  to  the  head. 

And  tingled  through  the  veins.  Ere  we  retired. 
The  cock  had  crowed,  and  now  the  eastern  sky 
Was  kindling,  not  unseen,  from  humble  copse 
And  open  field,  through  which  the  pathway  wound, 
And  homeward  led  my  steps.  Magnificent 
The  morning  rose,  in  memorable  pomp. 

Glorious  as  e’er  I had  beheld  — in  front. 

The  sea  lay  laughing  at  a distance;  near. 

The  solid  mountains  shone,  bright  as  the  clouds. 
Grain-tinctured,  drenched  in  empyrean  light; 

And  in  the  meadows  and  the  lower  grounds 
Was  all  the  sweetness  of  a common  dawn  — 

Dews,  vapours,  and  the  melody  of  birds. 

And  labourers  going  forth  to  till  the  fields. 

Ah  ! need  I say,  dear  Friend  ! that  to  the  brim 
My  heart  was  full ; I made  no  vows,  but  vows 
Were  then  made  for  me;  bond  unknown  to  me 
Was  given,  that  I should  be,  else  sinning  greatly, 

A dedicated  Spirit.  On  I walked  / 

In  thankful  blessedness,  which  yet  survives. 

Strange  rendezvous  ! My  mind  was  at  that  time 
A parti-coloured  show  of  grave  and  gay. 

Solid  and  light,  short-sighted  and  profound; 

Of  inconsiderate  habits  and  sedate. 

Consorting  in  one  mansion  unreproved. 

The  worth  I knew  of  powers  that  I possessed. 
Though  slighted  and  too  oft  misused.  Besides, 

That  summer,  swarming  as  it  did  with  thoughts 
Transient  and  idle,  lacked  not  intervals 
When  Folly  from  the  frown  of  fleeting  Time 
Shrunk,  and  the  mind  e.xperienced  in  herself 
Conformity  as  just  as  that  of  old 
To  the  end  and  written  spirit  of  God’s  works. 
Whether  held  forth  in  Nature  or  in  Man, 

Through  pregnant  vision,  separate  or  conjoined. 

When  from  our  better  selves  we  have  too  long 
Been  parted  by  the  hurrying  world,  and  droop. 

Sick  of  its  business,  of  its  pleasure  tired. 

How  gracious,  how  benign,  is  Solitude;  ^ 

How  potent  a mere  image  of  her  sway ; 

Most  potent  when  impressed  upon  the  mind 
With  an  appropriate  human  centre  — hermit. 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  wilderness; 

Votary  (in  vast  cathedral,  where  no  foot 


Is  treading,  where  no  other  face  is  seen) 

Kneeling  at  prayers  ; or  watchman  on  the  top 
Of  lighthouse,  beaten  by  Atlantic  waves; 

Or  as  the  soul  of  that  great  Power  is  met 
Sometimes  embodied  on  a public  road. 

When,  for  the  night  deserted,  it  assumes 
A character  of  quiet  more  profound 
Than  pathless  wastes. 

j Once,  when  those  summer  months 

[ Were  flown,  and  autumn  brought  i‘^  annual  show 
Of  oars  with  oars  contending,  sails  with  sails, 

Upon  Winander’s  spacious  breast,  it  chanced 
'1  hat  — after  I had  left  a flower-decked  room 
(Whose  in-door  pastime,  lighted  up,  survived 
To  a late  hour),  and  spirits  overwrought 
Were  making  night  do  penance  for  a day 
Spent  in  a round  of  strenuous  idleness  — 
j My  homeward  course  led  up  a long  ascent. 

Where  the  road’s  watery  surface,  to  the  top 
Of  that  sharp  rising,  glittered  to  the  moon 
And  bore  the  semblance  of  another  stream 
Stealing  with  silent  lapse  to  join  the  brook 
That  murmured  in  the  vale.  All  else  was  still ; 

No  living  thing  appeared  in  earth  or  air. 

And,  save  the  flowing  water’s  peaceful  voice, 

Sound  there  was  none — but,  lo!  an  uncouth  shapi , 
Shown  by  a sudden  turning  of  the  road. 

So  near  that,  slipping  back  into  the  shade 
Of  a thick  hawthorn,  I could  mark  him  well. 

Myself  unseen.  He  was  of  stature  tall, 

A span  above  man’s  common  measure,  tall. 

Stiff,  lank,  and  upright;  a more  meagre  man 
VVas  never  seen  before  by  night  or  day. 

Long  were  his  arms,  pallid  his  hands;  his  mouth 
Looked  ghastly  in  the  moonlight ; from  behind, 

A mile-stone  propped  him ; I could  also  ken 
That  he  was  clothed  in  military  garb. 

Though  faded,  yet  entire.  Companionless, 

No  dog  attending,  by  no  staff  sustained. 

He  stood,  and  in  his  very  dress  appeared 
A desolation,  a simplicity. 

To  which  the  trappings  of  a gaudy  world 
Make  a strange  back-ground.  From  his  lips,  ere  long. 
Issued  low  muttered  sounds,  as  if  of  pain 
I Or  some  uneasy  thought;  yet  still  his  form 
Kept  the  same  awful  steadiness  — at  his  feet 
His  shadow  lay,  and  moved  not.  From  self-blame 
Not  wholly  free,  I watched  him  thus:  at  length 
Subduing  my  heart’s  specious  cowardice, 

I left  the  shady  nook  where  I had  stood 
And  hailed  him.  Slowly  from  his  resting-place 
He  rose,  and  with  a lean  and  wasted  arm 
In  measured  gesture  lifted  to  his  head 
Returned  my  salutation  ; then  resumed 
His  station  as  before : and  when  I asked 
His  history,  the  veteran,  in  reply. 

Was  neither  slow  nor  eager;  but,  unmoved, 
j And  with  a quiet,  uncomplaining  voice, 

1 A stately  air  of  mild  indifference, 


496 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


lie  told  in  few  plain  words  a soldier’s  tale  — 

That  in  the  Tropic  Islands  he  had  served, 

Whence  he  had  landed  scarcely  three  weeks  past; 
That  on  his  landing  he  had  been  dismissed, 

And  now  was  travelling  towards  his  native  home. 
This  heard,  I said,  in  pity,  “Come  with  me.” 

He  stooped,  and  straightway  from  the  ground  took  up 
An  oaken  staff  by  me  yet  unobserved  — 

A staff  which  must  have  dropped  from  his  slack  hand 
And  lay  till  now  neglected  in  the  grass. 

Though  weak  his  step  and  cautious,  he  appeared 
To  travel  without  pain,  and  I beheld. 

With  an  astonishment  but  ill-suppressed. 

His  ghostly  figure  moving  at  my  side  ; 

Nor  could  I,  while  we  journeyed  thus,  forbear 
To  turn  from  present  hardships  to  the  past, 

And  speak  of  war,  battle,  and  pestilence, 

Sprinkling  this  talk  w’ith  questions,  better  spared. 

On  what  he  might  himself  have  seen  or  felt. 

He  all  the  while  was  in  demeanour  calm, 

Concise  in  answer;  solemn  and  sublime 
He  might  have  seemed,  but  that  in  all  he  said 
There  was  a strange  half-absence,  as  of  one 
Knowing  too  well  the  importance  of  his  theme. 

But  feeling  it  no  longer.  Our  discourse 


Soon  ended,  and  together  on  we  passed 
In  silence  through  a wood  gloomy  and  still. 
Up-turning,  then,  along  an  open  field. 

We  reached  a cottage.  At  the  door  I knocked. 
And  earnestly  to  charitable  care 
Commended  him  as  a poor  friendless  man. 
Belated  and  by  sickness  overcome. 

Assured  that  now  the  traveller  would  repose 
In  comfort,  I entreated  that  henceforth 
He  would  not  linger  in  the  public  ways. 

But  ask  for  timely  furtherance  and  help 
Such  as  his  state  required.  At  this  reproof. 
With  the  same  ghastly  mildness  in  his  look. 

He  said,  “ My  trust  is  in  the  God  of  Heaven, 
And  in  the  eye  of  him  who  passes  me !” 

The  cottage  door  was  speedily  unbarred. 

And  now  the  soldier  touched  his  hat  once  more 
With  his  lean  hand,  and  in  a faltering  voice. 
Whose  tone  bespake  reviving  interests 
Till  then  unfelt,  he  thanked  me;  I returned 
The  farewell  blessing  of  the  patient  man. 

And  so  we  parted.  Back  I cast  a look, 

And  lingered  near  the  door  a little  space. 

Then  sought  with  quiet  heart  my  distant  home. 


BOOK  FIFTH. 


BOOKS. 


When  Contemplation,  like  the  night-calm  felt 
Through  earth  and  sky,  spreads  widely,  and  sends  deep 
Into  the  soul  its  tranquillizing  power. 

Even  then  I sometimes  grieve  for  thee,  O Man, 

Earth’s  paramount  Creature!  not  so  much  for  woes 
That  thou  endurest ; heavy  though  that  weight  be, 
Cloud-like  it  mounts,  or  touched  with  light  divine 
Doth  melt  away;  but  for  those  palms  achieved. 
Through  length  of  time,  by  patient  exercise 
Of  study  and  hard  thought ; there,  there,  it  is 
That  sadness  finds  its  fuel.  Hitherto, 

In  progress  through  this  Verse,  my  mind  hath  looked 
Upon  the  speaking  face  of  earth  and  heaven 
As  her  prime  teacher,  intercourse  with  man 
Established  by  the  sovereign  Intellect, 

Who  through  that  bodily  image  hath  diffused. 

As  might  appear  to  the  eye  of  fleeting  time, 

A deathless  spirit.  Thou  also,  man  ! hast  wrought. 
For  commerce  of  thy  nature  with  her.self. 

Things  that  a.spire  to  unconquerable  life  ; 

And  yet  we  feel  — we  cannot  choose  but  feel  — 

That  they  must  perish.  Tremblings  of  the  heart 


It  gives,  to  think  our  immortal  being 

No  more  shall  need  such  garments ; and  yet  man. 

As  long  as  he  shall  be  the  child  of  earth. 

Might  almost  “ weep  to  have”  what  he  may  lose, 
Nor  be  himself  extinguished,  but  survive. 

Abject,  depressed,  forlorn,  disconsolate. 

A thought  is  with  me  sometimes,  and  I say, — 
Should  the  whole  frame  of  earth  by  inward  throes 
Be  wrenched,  or  fire  come  down  from  far  to  scorch 
Her  pleasant  habitations,  and  dry  co 
Old  Ocean,  in  his  bed  left,  singed  and  bare. 

Yet  would  the  living  Presence  still  subsist 
Victorious,  and  composure  would  ensue. 

And  kindlings  like  the  morning — presage  sure 
Of  day  returning  and  of  life  revived. 

But  all  the  meditations  of  mankind. 

Yea,  all  the  adamantine  holds  of  truth 
By  reason  built,  or  passion,  which  itself 
Is  highest  reason  in  a soul  sublime ; 

The  consecrated  works  of  Bard  and  Sage, 
Sensuous  or  intellectual,  wrought  by  men. 

Twin  labourers  and  heirs  of  the  same  hopes; 


THE  PRELUDE. 


497 


Wliere  would  they  be  1 Oh  ! why  hath  not  the  Mind 
Some  element  to  stamp  her  image  on 
In  nature  somewhat  nearer  to  her  owni 
VV^hy,  gifted  with  such  powers  to  send  abroad 
Her  spirit,  must  it  lodge  in  shrines  so  frail  1 

One  day,  when  from  my  lips  a like  complaint 
Had  fallen  in  presence  of  a studious  friend. 

He  with  a smile  made  answer,  that  in  truth 
’Twas  going  far  to  seek  disquietude; 

But  on  the  front  of  his  reproof  confessed 
That  he  himself  had  oftentimes  given  way 
To  kindred  hauntings.  Whereupon  I told. 

That  once  in  the  stillness  of  a summer’s  noon, 

While  I was  seated  in  a rocky  cave. 

By  the  sea-side,  perusing,  so  it  chanced. 

The  famous  history  of  the  errant  knight 
Recorded  by  Cervantes,  these  same  thoughts 
Beset  me,  and  to  height  unusual  rose. 

While  listlessly  I sate,  and,  having  closed 

The  book,  had  turned  my  eyes  toward  the  wide  sea. 

On  poetry  and  geometric  truth, 

And  their  high  privilege  of  lasting  life. 

From  all  internal  injury  exempt, 

I mused,  upon  these  chiefly : and  at  length 
My  sensed  yielding  to  the  sultry  air. 

Sleep  seized  me,  and  I passed  into  a dream. 

I saw  before  me  stretched  a boundless  plain 
Of  sandy  wilderness,  all  black  and  void. 

And  as  I looked  around,  distress  and  fear 
Came  creeping  over  me,  when  at  my  side. 

Close  at  my  side,  an  uncouth  shape  appeared 
Upon  a dromedary,  mounted  high. 

He  seemed  an  Arab  of  the  Bedouin  tribes: 

A lance  he  bore,  and  underneath  one  arm 
A stone,  and  in  the  opposite  hand  a shell 
Of  a surpassing  brightness.  At  the  sight 
Much  I rejoiced,  not  doubting  but  a guide 
Was  present,  one  who  with  unerring  skill 
Would  through  the  desert  lead  me;  and  while  yet 
I looked  and  looked,  self-questioned  what  this  freight 
Which  the  new-comer  carried  through  the  waste 
Could  mean,  the  Arab  told  me  that  the  stone 
(To  give  it  in  the  language  of  the  dream) 

Was  “Euclid's  Elements;”  and  “This,”  said  he, 

“Is  something  of  more  worth;”  and  at  the  word 
Stretched  forth  the  shell,  so  beautiful  in  shape. 

In  colour  so  resplendent,  with  command 
That  I should  hold  it  to  my  ear.  I did  so. 

And  heard  that  instant  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

Which  yet  I understood,  articulate  sounds, 

A loud  prophetic  blast  of  harmony; 

An  Ode,  in  passion  uttered,  which  foretold 

Destruction  to  tlie  children  of  the  earth  ' 

By  deluge,  now  at  hand.  No  sooner  ceased 

The  song,  than  the  Arab  with  calm  look  declared  < 

That  all  would  come  to)>ass  of  which  the  voice  i 

Had  given  forewarning,  and  that  he  himself  ( 

Was  going-  then  to  bury  those  two  books : 

3N 


1 The  one  that  held  acquaintance  with  the  stars. 

And  wedded  soul  to  soul  in  purest  bond 
Of  reason,  undisturbed  by  space  or  time; 

T he  other  that  was  a god,  yea  many  gods. 

Had  voices  more  than  all  the  winds,  with  power 
To  exhilarate  the  spirit,  and  to  soothe. 

Through  every  clime,  the  heart  of  human  kind. 
While  this  was  uttering,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 

I wondered  not,  although  I plainly  saw 
The  one  to  be  a stone,  the  other  a shell ; 

Nor  doubted  once  but  that  they  both  were  books. 
Having  a perfect  faith  in  all  that  passed. 

Far  stronger,  now,  grew  the  desire  I felt 
To  cleave  unto  this  man  ; but  when  I prayed 
To  share  his  enterprise,  he  hurried  on 
Reckless  of  me:  I followed,  not  unseen. 

For  oftentimes  he  cast  a backward  look. 

Grasping  his  twofold  treasure.  — Lance  in  rest. 

He  rod?,  I keeping  pace  with  him ; and  no'vv 
He,  to  my  fancy,  had  become  the  knight 
Whose  tale  Cervantes  tells;  yet  not  the  knight. 

But  was  an  .Arab  of  the  desert  too; 

Of  these  was  neither,  and  was  both  at  once. 

His  countenance,  meanwhile,  grew  more  disturbed  ; 
And,  looking  backwards  when  he  looked,  mine  eyes 
Saw,  over  half  the  wilderness  diffused, 

A bed  of  glittering  light:  I asked  the  cause: 

“ It  is,”  said  he,  “ the  waters  of  the  deep 
Gathering  upon  us;”  quickening  then  the  pace 
Of  the  unwieldy  creature  he  bestrode. 

He  left  me:  I called  after  him  aloud; 

He  heeded  not;  but  with  his  twofold  charge 
Still  in  his  grasp,  before  me,  full  in  view. 

Went  hurrying  o’er  the  illimitable  waste. 

With  the  fleet  waters  of  a drowning  world 
In  chase  of  him;  whereat  I waked  in  terror. 

And  saw  the  sea  before  me,  and  the  book. 

In  which  I had  been  reading,  at- my  side. 

Full  often,  taking  from  the  world  of  sleep 
This  Arab  phantom,  which  I thus  beheld. 

This  semi-Qui.xote,  I to  him  have  given 
A substance,  fancied  him  a living  man, 

A gentle  dweller  in  the  desert,  crazed 
By  love  and  feeling,  and  internal  thought 
Protracted  among  endless  solitudes; 

Have  shaped  him  wandering  upon  this  quest! 

Nor  have  I pitied  him ; but  rather  felt 
Reverence  was  due  to  a being  thus  employed; 

And  thought  that,  in  the  blind  and  awful  lair 
Of  such  a madness,  reason  did  lie  couched. 

Enow  there  are  on  earth  to  take  in  charge 
Their  wives,  their  children,  and  their  virgin  loves, 

Or  whatsoever  else  the  heart  holds  dear; 

Enow  to  stir  for  these;  yea,  will  I say 
Contemplating  in  soberness  the  approach 
Of  an  event  so  dire,  by  signs  in  earth 
Or  heaven  made  manifest,  that  I could  share 
Tliat  maniac’s  fond  anxiety,  and  go 
42* 


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Upon  like  errand.  Oftentimes  at  least 
Me  hath  such  strong  entrancement  overcome, 

When  I have  held  a volume  in  my  hand, 

Poor  earthly  casket  of  immortal  verse, 

Shakspeare,  or  Milton,  labourers  divine! 

Great  and  benign,  indeed,  must  be  the  power 
Of  living  nature,  which  could  thus  so  long 
Detain  me  from  the  best  of  other  guides 
And  dearest  helpers,  left  unthanked,  unpraised. 

Even  in  the  time  of  lisping  infancy; 

And  later  down,  in  prattling  childhood  even. 

While  I was  travelling  back  among  those  days, 

IIow  could  I ever  play  an  ingrate’s  part ! 

Once  more  snould  I have  made  those  bowers  resound. 
By  intermingling  strains  of  thankfulness 
With  their  own  thoughtless  melodies;  at  least 
It  might  have  well  beseemed  me  to  repeat 
Some  simply  fashioned  tale,  to  tell  again. 

In  slender  accents  of  sweet  verse,  some  tale 
That  did  bewitch  me  then,  and  soothes  me  now. 

O Friend!  O Poet!  brother  of  my  soul. 

Think  not  that  I could  pass  along  untouched 
By  these  remembrances.  Yet  wherefore  speak  I 
Why  call  upon  a few  weak  words  to  say 
What  is  already  written  in  the  hearts 
Of  all  that  breathe!  — what  in  the  path  of  all 
Drops  daily  from  tlie  tongne  of  every  child, 

W’herevcr  man  is  found ! The  trickling  tear 
Upon  the  cheek  of  listening  Infancy 
Proclaims  it,  and  the  insuperable  look 
That  drinks  as  if  it  never  could  be  full. 

That  portion  of  my  story  I sliall  leave 
There  registered  : whatever  else  of  power 
Or  pleasure  sown,  or  fostered  thus,  may  be 
Peculiar  to  myself,  let  that  remain 
Where  still  it  works,  though  hidden  from  all  search 
Among  the  depths  of  time.  Yet  is  it  just 
That  here,  in  memory  of  all  books  which  lay 
Their  sure  foundations  in  the  heart  of  man. 

Whether  by  native  prose,  or  numerous  verse. 

That  in  the  name  of  all  inspired  souls. 

From  Horner  the  great  Thunderer,  from  the  voice 
That  roars  along  the  bed  of  Jewish  song. 

And  that  more  varied  and  elaborate. 

Those  trumpet-tones  of  harmony  that  shake 
Our  shores  in  England, — from  those  loftiest  notes 
Down  to  the  low  and  wren-like  war’olings,  made 
For  cottagers  and  spinners  at  the  wheel. 

And  sun-burnt  travellers  resting  their  tired  limbs. 
Stretched  under  wayside  hedge-rows,  ballad  tunes. 
Food  for  the  hungry  ears  of  little  ones. 

And  of  old  men  who  have  survived  their  joys; 

’Tis  just  tliat  in  behalf  of  these,  the  works. 

And  of  the  men  that  framed  them,  whether  known. 
Or  sleeping  nameless  in  their  scattered  graves. 

That  1 should  here  assert  their  rights,  attest 
Theit  honours  ar.d  should,  once  for  all,  pronounce 


Their  benediction  ; speak  of  them  as  Powers 
For  ever  to  be  hallowed ; only  less. 

For  what  we  are  and  what  we  may  become. 

Than  Nature's  self,  which  is  the  breath  of  God, 

Or  His  pure  Word  by  miracle  revealed. 

Rarely  and  with  reluctance  would  I stoop 
To  transitory  themes  ; yet  I rejoice, 

And,  by  these  thoughts  admonished,  will  pour  out 
Thanks  with  uplifted  heart,  that  I was  reared 
Safe  from  an  evil  which  these  days  have  laid 
Upon  the  children  of  the  land,  a pest 
That  might  have  dried  me  up,  body  and  soul. 

This  verse  is  dedicate  to  Nature’s  self. 

And  things  that  teach  as  Nature  teaches:  then, 

Oh ! where  had  been  the  Man,  the  Poet  where. 

Where  had  we  been,  we  two,  beloved  Friend  ! 

If  in  the  season  of  unperilous  choice. 

In  lieu  of  wandering,  as  we  did,  through  vales 
Rich  with  indigenous  produce,  open  ground 
Of  Fancy,  happy  pastures  ranged  at  will. 

We  had  been  followed,  hourly  watched,  and  noosed. 
Each  in  his  several  melancholy  walk 
Stringed  like  a poor  man’s  heifer  at  its  feed. 

Led  through  the  lanes  in  forlorn  servitude; 

Or  rather  like  a stalled  ox  debarred  * 

From  touch  of  growing  grass,  that  may  not  taste 
A flower  till  it  have  yielded  up  its  sweets 
A prelibation  to  the  mower’s  scythe. 

Behold  the  parent  hen  amid  her  brood. 

Though  fledged  and  feathered,  and  well  pleased  to  part 
And  straggle  from  her  presence,  still  a brood. 

And  she  herself  from  the  maternal  bond 
Still  undischarged ; yet  doth  she  little  more 
Than  move  with  them  in  tenderness  and  love, 

A centre  to  the  circle  which  they  make ; 

And  now  and  then,  alike  from  need  of  theirs 
And  call  of  her  own  natural  appetites. 

She  scratches,  ransacks  up  the  earth  for  food. 

Which  they  partake  at  pleasure.  Early  died 
My  honoured  Mother,  she  who  was  the  heart 
And  hinge  of  all  our  learnings  and  our  loves: 

She  left  us  destitute,  and,  as  we  might, 

I Trooping  together.  Little  suits  it  me 
j To  break  upon  the  sabbath  of  her  rest 
With  any  thought  that  looks  at  others’  blame; 

Nor  would  I praise  lier  but  in  perfect  love, 
j Hence  am  I checked  : but  let  me  boldly  say, 
i In  gratitude,  and  for  the  sake  of  truth, 

{ Unheard  by  her,  tliat  she,  not  falsely  taught, 

I Fetcliing  her  goodness  rather  from  times  past, 

Than  shaping  novelties  for  times  to  come, 

^ Had  no  presumption,  no  such  jealousy. 

Nor  did  by  habit  of  her  thoughts  mistrust 
I Our  nature,  but  had  virtual  faith  that  He 
* Wlio  fills  the  mother’s  breast  with  innocent  raiik, 

] Doth  also  for  our  nobler  part  provide, 

1 Under  His  great  correction  and  control, 


THE  PRELUDE. 


499 


As  innocent  instincts,  and  as  innocent  food  ; 

Or  draws  for  minds  that  are  left  free  to  trust 
In  the  simplicities  of  opening  life 
Sweet  honey  out  of  spurned  or  dreaded  weeds. 
This  was  her  creed,  and  therefore  she  was  pure 
From  anxious  fear  of  error  or  mishap. 

And  evil,  overweeningly  so  called  ; 

Was  not  puffed  up  by  false  unnatural  hopes. 

Nor  selfish  with  unnecessary  cares. 

Nor  with  impatience  from  the  season  asked 
More  than  its  timely  produce ; rather  loved 
The  hours  for  what  they  are,  tlian  from  regard 
Glanced  on  their  promises  in  restless  pride. 

Such  was  she  — not  from  faculties  more  strong 
Than  others  have,  but  from  the  times,  perhaps, 
And  spot  in  which  she  lived,  and  through  a grace 
Of  modest  meekness,  simple-mindedness, 

A heart  that  found  benignity  and  hope. 

Being  itself  benign. 

My  drift  I fear 

Is  scarcely  obvious;  but  that  common  sense 
May  try  this  modern  system  by  its  fruits. 

Leave  let  me  take  to  place  before  her  sight 
A specimen  pourtrayed  with  faithful  hand. 

Full  early  trained  to  worship  seemliness. 

This  model  of  a child  is  never  known 
To  mix  in  quarrels;  that  were  far  beneath 
Its  dignity;  with  gifts  he  bubbles  o’er 
As  generous  as  a fountain;  selfishness 
May  not  come  near  him,  nor  the  little  throng 
Of  flitting  pleasures  tempt  him  from  his  path  ; 
The  wandering  beggars  propagate  his  name. 
Dumb  creatures  find  him  tender  as  a nun. 

And  natural  or  supernatural  fear. 

Unless  it  leap  upon  him  in  a dream. 

Touches  him  not.  To  enhance  the  wonder,  see 
How  arch  his  notices,  how  nice  his  sense 
Of  the  ridiculous;  not  blind  is  he 
To  the  broad  follies  of  the  licensed  world. 

Yet  innocent  himself  withal,  though  shrewd. 

And  can  read  lectures  upon  innocence ; 

A miracle  of  scientific  lore. 

Ships  he  can  guide  across  the  pathless  sea. 

And  tell  you  all  their  cunning;  he  can  read 
The  inside  of  the  earth,  and  spell  the  stars; 

He  knows  the  policies  of  foreign  lands; 

Can  string  you  names  of  districts,  cities,  towns. 
The  whole  world  over,  tight  as  beads  of  dew 
Upon  a gossamer  thread ; he  sifts,  he  weighs; 

All  things  are  put  to  question  ; he  must  live 
Knowing  that  he  grows  wiser  every  day 
Or  else  not  live  at  all,  and  seeing  too 
Each  little  drop  of  wisdom  as  it  falls 
Into  the  dimpling  cistern  of  his  heart: 

For  this  unnatural  growth  the  trainer  blame. 

Pity  the  tree. — Poor  human  vanity, 

Wert  thou  extinguished,  little  would  be  left 
Which  he  could  truly  love;  but  how  escape! 
For,  ever  as  a thought  of  purer  birth 


Rises  to  lead  him  toward  a better  clime. 

Some  intermeddler  still  is  on  the  watch 
To  drive  him  back,  and  pound  him,  like  a stray. 
Within  the  pinfold  of  his  own  conceit. 

Meanwhile  old  grandame  earth  is  grieved  to  find 
The  playthings,  which  her  love  designed  for  him, 
Unlhought  of;  in  their  woodland  beds  the  flowers 
I Weep,  and  the  river,  sides  are  all  forlorn. 

Oh  ! give  us  once  again  the  wishing  cap 
Of  Fortnnatus,  and  the  invisible  coat 
Of  Jack  the  Giant-Killer,  Robin  Hood, 

I And  Sabra  in  the  forest  with  St.  George ! 
j The  child,  whose  love  is  here,  at  least,  doth  reap 
One  precious  gain,  that  he  forgets  himself. 

These  mighty  workmen  of  our  later  age. 

Who,  with  a broad  highway,  have  overbridged 
The  froward  chaos  of  futurity. 

Tamed  to  their  bidding;  they  who  have  the  skill 
To  manage  books,  and  things,  and  make  them  act 
On  infant  minds  as  surely  as  the  sun 
Deals  with  a flower;  the  keepers  of  our  time. 

The  guides  and  wardens  of  our  faculties. 

Sages  who  in  their  prescience  would  control 
All  accidents,  and  to  the  very  road 
Which  they  have  fashioned  would  confine  us  down, 
Like  engines;  when  will  their  presumption  learn. 
That  in  the  unreasoning  progress  of  the  world 
A wiser  spirit  is  at  work  for  us, 

A better  eye  than  theirs,  most  prodigal 
Of  blessings,  and  most  studious  of  our  good. 

Even  in  what  seem  our  most  unfruitful  hours! 

* There  was  a Boy:  ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs 
And  islands  of  Winander ! - — man}’  a time 
At  evening,  when  the  earliest  stars  began 
To  move  along  the  edges  of  the  hills. 

Rising  or  setting,  would  he  stand  alone 
Beneath  the  trees  or  by  the  glimmering  lake, 

! And  there,  with  fingers  interwoven,  both  hands 
I Pressed  closely  palm  to  palm,  and  to  his  mouth 
j Uplifted,  he,  as  through  an  instrument, 

I Blew  mimic  bootings  to  the  silent  owls. 

That  they  might  answer  him ; and  they  would  shout 
Across  the  watery  vale,  and  shout  again. 

Responsive  to  his  call,  with  quivering  peals. 

And  long  halloos  and  screams,  and  echoes  loud. 
Redoubled  and  redoubled,  concourse  wild 
Of  jocund  din  ; and,  when  a lengthened  pause 
Of  silence  came  and  baffled  his  best  skill. 

Then  sometimes,  in  that  silence  while  he  hung 
Listening,  a gentle  shock  of  mild  surprise 
Has  carried  far  into  his  heart  the  voice 
Of  mountain  torrents;  or  the  visible  scene 
Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind. 

With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

I Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven,  received 
j Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake. 

I * See  ante,  p.  163. 


500 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


This  Boy  was  taken  from  his  mates,  and  died 
In  childhood,  ere  he  was  full  tvvelve  years  old. 

Fair  is  the  spot,  most  beautiful  the  vale 

Where  he  was  born ; the  grassy  churchyard  hangs 

Upon  a slope  above  the  village  school. 

And  through  that  churchyard  when  my  way  has  led 
On  summer  evenings,  1 believe  that  there 
A long  half  hour  together  I have  stood 
Mule,  looking  at  the  grave  in  which  he  lies  ! 

Even  now  appears  before  the  mind’s  clear  eye 
Tliat  self-same  village  church  ; I see  her  sit 
(The  throned  Lady  whom  erewhile  we  hailed) 

On  her  green  hill,  forgetful  of  this  Boy 
Who  slumbers  at  her  feet^ — forgetful,  too, 

Of  all  her  silent  neighbourhood  of  graves. 

And  listening  only  to  the  gladsome  sounds 
That,  from  the  rural  school  ascending,  play 
Beneath  her  and  about  her.  jMay  she  long 
Behold  a race  of  young  ones  like  to  those 
With  whom  I herded  ! — (easily,  indeed. 

We  might  have  fed  upon  a fatter  soil 
Of  arts  and  letters  — but  be  that  forgiven)  — 

A race  of  real  children  ; not  too  wise. 

Too  learned,  or  too  good ; but  wanton,  fresh. 

And  bandied  up  and  down  by  love  and  hate  ; 

Not  unresentful  where  self-justified  ; 

Fierce,  moody,  patient,  venturous,  modest,  shy ; 

Mad  at  their  sports  like  withered  leaves  in  winds; 
Though  doing  wrong  and  suffering,  and  full  oft 
Bending  beneath  our  life’s  mysterious  weight 
Of  pain,  and  doubt,  and  fear,  yet  yielding  not 
In  happiness  to  the  happiest  upon  earth. 

Simplicity  in  habit,  truth  in  speech. 

Bo  these  the  daily  strengtheners  of  their  minds; 

May  books  and  Nature  be  their  early  joy  ! 

And  knowledge,  rightly  honoured  with  that  name  — 
Knowledge  not  purchased  by  the  loss  of  power ! 

Well  do  I call  to  mind  the  very  week 
When  I was  first  intrusted  to  the  care 
Of  that  sweet  Valley;  when  its  paths,  its  shores. 

And  brooks  were  like  a dream  of  novelty 
To  my  half-in.fant  thoughts;  that  very  week, 

While  I was  roving  up  and  down  alone, 

Seeking  I knew  not  what,  I chanced  to  cross 
One  of  those  open  fields,  which,  shaped  like  ears. 
Make  green  peninsulas  on  Esthwaite’s  Lake: 

Twilight  was  coining  on,  yet  through  the  gloom 

Appeared  distinctly  on  the  opposite  shore 

A heap  of  garments,  as  if  left  by  one 

Who  might  have  there  been  bathing.  Long  I watched. 

But  no  one  owned  them  ; meanwhile  the  calm  lake 

Grew  dark  with  all  the  shadows  on  its  breast. 

And,  now  and  then,  a fish  up-leaping  snapped 
The  breathless  stillness.  The  succeeding  day. 

Those  unclaimed  garments  telling  a plain  tale 
Drew  to  the  spot  an  anxious  crowd  ; some  looked 
In  passive  expectation  from  the  shore. 

While  from  a boat  others  hung  o’er  the  deep. 


Sounding  with  grappling  irons  and  long  poles. 

At  last,  the  dead  man,  ’mid  that  beauteous  scene 
Of  trees  and  hills  and  water,  bolt  upright 
Rose,  with  his  ghastly  face,  a spectre  shape 
Of  terror ; yet  no  soul-debasing  fear. 

Young  as  I was,  a child  not  nine  years  old, 

Possessed  me,  for  my  inner  eye  had  seen 
Such  sights  before,  among  the  shining  streams 
Of  faery  land,  the  forest  of  romance. 

'I'heir  spirit  hallowed  the  sad  spectacle 
With  decoration  of  ideal  grace; 

A dignity,  a smoothness,  like  the  works 
Of  Grecian  art,  and  purest  poesy. 

A precious  treasure  had  I long  possessed, 

A little  yellow,  canvas-covered  book, 

A slender  abstract  of  the  Arabian  tales  ; 

And,  from  companions  in  a new  abode, 

When  first  I learnt,  that  this  dear  prize  of  mine 
Was  but  a block  hewn  from  a mighty  quarry  — 

That  there  were  four  large  volumes,  laden  all 
With  kindred  matter,  ’twas  to  me,  in  truth, 

A promise  scarcely  earthly.  Instantly, 

With  one  not  richer  than  myself,  I made 
A covenant  that  each  should  lay  aside 
The  moneys  he  possessed,  and  hoard  up  more. 

Till  our  joint  savings  had  amassed  enough 
To  make  this  book  our  own.  Through  several  months 
In  spite  of  all  temptation,  we  preserved 
Religiously  that  vow;  but  firmness  failed. 

Nor  were  we  ever  masters  of  our  wish. 

And  when  thereafter  to  my  father’s  house 
1 The  holidays  returned  me,  there  to  find 
i That  golden  store  of  books  which  I had  left. 

What  joy  was  mine ! How  often  in  the  course 

Of  those  glad  respites,  though  a soft  west  wind 

Ruffled  the  waters  to  the  angler’s  wish 

For  a whole  day  together,  have  I lain 

Down  by  thy  side,  O Derwent ! murmuring  stream. 

On  the  hot  stones,  and  in  the  glaring  sun. 

And  there  have  read,  devouring  as  I read. 

Defrauding  the  day’s  glory,  desperate  ! 

Till  with  a sudden  bound  of  smart  reproach. 

Such  as  an  idler  deals  with  in  his  shame, 

I to  the  sport  betook  myself  again. 

A gracious  spirit  o’er  this  earth  presides, 

And  o’er  the  heart  of  man  : invisibly 
It  comes,  to  works  of  unreproved  delight, 

And  tendency  benign,  directing  those 
Who  care  not,  know  not,  think  not  what  they  da 
The  tales  that  charm  away  the  wakeful  night 
In  Araby,  romances;  legends  penned 
For  solace  by  dim  light  of  monkish  lamps; 

Fictions,  for  ladies  of  their  love,  devised 
By  youthful  squires;  adventures  endless,  spun 
By  the  dismantled  warrior  in  old  age. 

Out  of  the  bowels  of  those  very  schemes 


HE  PRELUDE. 


501 


In  which  his  youth  did  first  extra vagate  ; 

These  spread  like  day,  and  something  in  the  shape 
Of  these  will  live  till  man  shall  be  no  more. 

Dumb  yearnings,  hidden  appetites  are  ours, 

And  Ihey  must  have  their  food.  Our  childhood  sits, 
Our  simple  childliood,  sits  upon  a throne 
That  hath  more  power  than  all  the  elements. 

I guess  not  what  tliis  tells  of  Being  past, 

Nor  what  it  augurs  of  the  life  to  come;* 

But  so  it  is,  and,  in  that  dubious  hour. 

That  twilight  wlten  we  first  begin  to  see 
This  dawning  earth,  to  recognize,  expect. 

And  in  the  long  probation  that  ensues. 

The  time  of  trial,  ere  we  learn  to  live 
In  reconcilement  witii  our  stinted  powers; 

To  endure  this  state  of  meagre  vassalage. 

Unwilling  to  forego,  confess,  submit, 

Uneasy  and  unsettled,  }mke-fellows 
To  custom,  mettlesome,  and  not  yet  tamed 
And  humbled  down  ; oh ! then  we  feel,  we  feel. 

We  know  where  we  have  friends.  Ye  dreamers,  then, 
Forgers  of  daring  tales!  we  bless  you  then, 

Impostors,  drivellers,  dotards,  as  the  ape 
Philosophy  will  call  you:  then  we  feel 
With  what,  and  how  great  might  ye  are  in  league, 
Who  make  our  wish,  our  power,  our  thought  a deed. 
An  empire,  a possession,  — ye  whom  time 
And  seasons  serve;  all  Faculties  to  whom 
Earth  crouches,  the  elements  are  potter’s  clay, 
Space*like  a heaven  filled  up  with  northern  lights. 
Here,  nowhere,  there,  and  every  where  at  once. 

Relinquishing  this  lofty  eminence 
For  ground,  though  humbler,  not  the  less  a tract 
Of  the  same  isthmus,  which  our  spirits  cross 
In  progress  from  their  native  continent 
To  earth  and  human  life,  the  Song  might  dwell 
On  that  delightful  time  of  growing  youth. 

When  craving  for  the  marvellous  gives  way 
To  strengthening  love  for  things  that  we  have  seen  ; 
When  sober  truth  and  steady  sympathies. 

Offered  to  notice  by  less  daring  pens. 

Take  firmer  hold  of  us,  and  words  themselves 
Move  us  with  conscious  pleasure. 

I am  sad 

At  thought  of  raptures  now  for  ever  flown  ; 

Almost  to  tears  I sometimes  could  be  sad 
To  think  of,  to  read  over,  many  a page. 

Poems  withal  of  name,  which  at  that  time 
Did  never  fail  to  entrance  me,  and  are  now 
Dead  in  my  eyes,  dead  as  a theatre 


[See  “ Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recol- 
lections of  Early  Childhood  ante,  p.  470. — H.  R.] 


Fresh  emptied  of  spectators.  Twice  five  years 
Or  less  I might  have  seen,  when  first  my  mind 
I With  conscious  pleasure  opened  to  the  charm 
Of  words  in  tuneful  order,  found  them  sweet 
For  their  own  sakcs,  a passion,  and  a power; 

And  phrases  pleased  me  chosen  for  delight. 

For  pomp,  or  love.  Oft,  in  the  public  roads 
Yet  unfrequented,  while  the  morning  light 
Was  yellowing  the  hill  tops,  I went  abroad 
Wjth  a dear  friend,  and  for  the  better  part 
Of  two  delightful  hours  we  strolled  along 
By  the  still  borders  of  the  misty  lake. 

Repeating  favourite  verses  with  one  voice. 

Or  conning  more,  as  happy  as  the  birds 

That  round  us  chaunted.  Well  might  we  be  glad. 

Lifted  above  the  ground  by  airy  fancies, 

More  bright  than  madness  or  the  dreams  of  wine; 
And,  though  full  oft  the  objects  of  our  love 
' Were  false,  and  in  their  splendour  overwrought, 
j Yet  was  there  surely  then  no  vulgar  power 
Working  within  us,  — nothing  less,  in  truth, 

, Than  that  most  noble  attribute  of  man, 
j Though  yet  untutored  and  inordinate, 
j That  wish  for  something  loftier,  more  adorned, 
j Than  is  the  common  aspect,  daily  garb. 

Of  human  life.  What  wonder,  then,  if  sounds 
I Of  exultation  echoed  through  the  groves ! 
j For  images,  and  sentiments,  and  words. 

And  every  thing  encountered  or  pursued 
In  that  delicious  world  of  poesy. 

Kept  holiday,  a never-ending  show. 

With  music,  incense,  festival,  and  flowers! 

Here  must  we  pause : this  only  let  me  add. 

From  heart-experience,  and  in  humblest  sense 
Of  modesty,  that  he,  who  in  his  youth 
A daily  wanderer  among  woods  and  fields 
With  living  Nature  hath  been  intimate. 

Not  only  in  that  raw  unpractised  time 
Is  stirred  to  ecstasy,  as  others  are. 

By  glittering  verse;  but  further,  doth  receive. 

In  measure  only  dealt  out  to  himsellj 
Knowledge  and  increase  of  enduring  joy 
From  the  great  Nature  that  exists  in  works 
Of  mighty  Poets.  Visionary  power 
Attends  the  motions  of  the  viewless  winds. 
Embodied  in  the  mystery  of  words: 

There,  darkness  makes  abode,  and  all  the  host 
Of  shadowy  things  work  endless  changes,  — there, 
As  in  a mansion  like  their  proper  home. 

Even  forms  and  substances  are  cireumfused 
By  that  transparent  veil  with  light  divine. 

And,  through  the  turnings  intricate  of  verse. 
Present  themselves  as  objects  recognized. 

In  flashes,  and  with  glory  not  their  own. 


BOOK  SIXTH. 


CAMBRIDGE  AND  THE  ALPS 


The  leaves  were  fading’  when  to  Esthwaite’s  banks 
And  the  simplicities  of  cottage  life 
I bade  farewell ; and  one  among  the  youth 
Who,  summoned  by  that  season,  reunite 
As  scattered  birds  troop  to  the  fowler’s  lure. 

Went  back  to  Granta’s  cloisters,  not  so  prompt 
Or  eager,  though  as  gay  and  undepressed 
In  mind,  as  when  I thence  had  taken  flight 
A few  sliort  months  before.  I turned  my  face 
Without  repining  from  the  coves  and  heights 
(,'lotlied  in  the  sunshine  of  the  withering  fern ; 

(Quitted,  not  loth,  the  mild  magnihcence 
Of  calmer  lakes  and  louder  streams;  and  you, 
Frank-hearted  maids  of  rocky  Cumberland, 

You  and  your  not  unwelcome  days  of  mirth. 
Relinquished,  and  your  niglits  of  revelry. 

And  in  my  own  unlovely  cell  sat  down 
In  lightsome  mood  — sucli  privilege  has  youth 
That  cannot  take  long  leave  of  pleasant  thoughts. 

The  bonds  of  indolent  society 
Relaxing  in  their  hold,  henceforth  I lived 
filore  to  myself.  Tw’o  winters  may  be  passed 
V/ithout  a separate  notice:  many  books 
Were  skimmed,  devoured,  or  studiously  perused. 

But  with  no  settled  plan.  I was  detached 
Internally  from  academic  cares; 

Yet  independent  study  seemed  a course 
Of  hardy  disobedience  towards  friends 
And  kindred,  proud  rebellion  and  unkind. 

This  spurious  virtue,  rather  let  it  bear 
A name  it  now  deserves,  this  cowardice. 

Gave  treacherous  sanction  to  that  over-love 

Of  freedom  which  encouraged  me  to  turn 

From  regulations  even  of  my  own 

As  from  restraints  and  bonds.  Yet  who  can  tel!  — 

Who  knows  what  thus  may  have  been  gained,  both  then 

And  at  a later  season,  or  preserved  : 

What  love  of  nature,  what  original  strength 
Of  contemplation,  what  intuitive  truths. 

The  deepest  and  the  best,  what  keen  research. 
Unbiassed,  tmbevvildered,  and  unawed  1 

Tlie  Poet’s  soul  was  with  me  at  that  time; 

Sweet  meditations,  the  still  overflow 
Of  present  happiness,  while  future  years 
Lacked  not  anticipations,  tender  dreams. 

No  few  of  which  have  since  been  realized  ; 


And  some  remain,  hopes  fb='  my  fetcre  I'te, 

Four  years  and  thirty,  tc’d  th’s  very  vseek 
Have  I been  now  a sojourner  on  earth. 

By  sorrow  not  unsmitten  ; yet  for  me 
Life’s  morning  radiance  hath  not  left  the  HIN, 
Her  dew  is  on  the  flowers.  Those  were  the  day* 
Which  also  first  emboldened  me  to  trust 
With  firmness,  hitherto  but  lightly  touclied 
By  such  a daring  thought,  that  I might  leave 
Some  monument  behind  me  which  pure  hearts 
Should  reverence.  The  instinctive  humbleness. 
Maintained  even  by  the  very  name  and  thought 
Of  printed  books  and  authorship',  began 
To  melt  away;  and  further,  the  dread  awe 
Of  mighty  names  was  softened  down  and  seemed 
Approachable,  admitting  fellowship 
Of  modest  sympathy.  Such  aspect  now. 

Though  not  familiarly,  my  mind  put  on, 

Content  to  observe,  to  achieve,  and  to  enjoy. 

All  winter  long,  whenever  free  to  choose. 

Did  I by  night  frequent  the  College  groves 
And  tributary  walks : the  last,  and  oft 
The  only  one,  who  had  been  lingering  there 
Through  hours  of  silence,  till  the  porter’s  bell, 

A punctual  follower  on  the  stroke  of  nine. 

Rang  with  its  blunt  unceremonious  voice. 
Inexorable  summons  ! Lofty  elms. 

Inviting  shades  of  opportune  recess. 

Bestowed  composure  on  a neighbourhood 
Unpeaceful  in  itself.  A single  tree 
With  sinuous  trunk,  boughs  exquisitely  wreathed. 
Grew  there;  an  ash  which  Winter  for  hinvself 
Decked  as  in  pride,  and  with  outlandish  grace: 
Up  from  the  ground,  and  almost  to  the  top. 

The  trunk  and  every  master  branch  were  green 
With  clustering  ivy,  and  the  liglitsome  twigs 
And  outer  spray  profusely  tipped  with  seeds 
That  hung  in  yellow  tassels,  while  the  air 
Stirred  them,  not  voiceless.  Often  have  I stood 
Foot-bound  uplooking  at  this  lovely  tree 
Beneath  a frosty  moon.  The  hemisphere 
Of  magic  fiction,  verse  of  mine  perchance 
May  never  tread  ; but  scarcely  Spenser’s  self 
Could  have  move  tranquil  visions  in  his  youth, 

Or  could  more  bright  appearances  create 
Of  human  forms  with  superhuman  powers. 

Than  I beheld  loitering  on  calm  clear  nights 
Alone,  beneath  this  fairy  work  of  earth. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


503 


On  the  vague  reading  of  a truant  youth 
’Twere  idle  to  descant.  My  inner  judgment 
Not  seldom  differed  from  my  taste  in  books, 

As  if  it  appertained  to  another  mind, 

And  yet  the  books  which  then  I valued  most 
Are  dearest  to  me  now  ; for,  having  scanned. 

Not  heedlessly,  the  laws,  and  watched  the  forms 
Of  Nature,  in  that  knowledge  I possessed 
A standard,  often  usefully  applied. 

Even  when  unconsciously,  to  things  removed 
From  a familiar  sympathy.  — In  fine, 

I was  a better  judge  of  thoughts  than  words, 
Misled  in  estimating  words,  not  only 
By  common  inexperience  of  youth, 

But  by  the  trade  in  classic  niceties. 

The  dangerous  craft  of  culling  term  and  phrase 
From  languages  that  want  the  living  voice 
To  carry  meaning  to  the  natural  heart ; 

To  tell  us  what  is  passion,  what  is  truth. 

What  reason,  what  simplicity  and  sense. 

Yet  may  we  not  entirely  overlook 
The  pleasure  gathered  from  the  rudiments 
Of  geometric  science.  Though  advanced 
In  these  inquiries,  with  regret  I speak, 

No  farther  than  the  threshold,  there  I found 
Both  elevation  and  composed  delight: 

With  Indian  awe  and  wonder,  ignorance  pleased 
With  its  own  struggles,  did  I meditate 
On  the  relation  those  abstractions  bear 
To  Nature’s  laws,  and  by  what  process  led. 

Those  immaterial  agents  bowed  their  heads 
Duly  to  serve  the  mind  of  earth-born  man; 

From  star  to  star,  from  kindred  sphere  to  sphere, 
From  system  on  to  system  without  end. 

Mors  frequently  from  the  same  source  I drew 
A pleasure  quiet  and  profound,  a sense 
Of  permanent  and  universal  sway, 

And  paramount  belief;  there,  recognized 
A type,  for  finite  natures,  of  the  one 
Supreme  Existence,  the  surpassing  life 
Which  — to  the  boundaries  of  space  and  time. 

Of  melancholy  space  and  doleful  time, 

Superior,  and  incapable  of  change. 

Nor  touched  by  welterings  of  passion  — is. 

And  hath  the  name  of,  God.  Transcendent  peace 
And  silence  did  await  upon  these  thoughts 
That  were  a frequent  comfort  to  my  youth. 

’Tis  told  by  one  whom  stormy  waters  threw. 
With  fellow-sufferers  by  the  shipwreck  spared. 
Upon  a desert  coa.st,  that  having  brouglit 
To  land  a single  volume,  saved  by  chance, 

A treatise  of  Geometry,  he  wont. 

Although  of  food  and  clothing  destitute. 

And  beyond  common  wretchedness  depressed. 

To  part  from  company  and  take  this  book 
'Then  first  a self-taught  puoil  in  its  truths') 


1 To  spots  remote,  and  draw  his  diagrams 
With  a long  staff  upon  the  sand,  and  thus 
I Did  oft  beguile  his  sorrow,  and  almost 
Forget  his  feeling:  so  (if  like  effect 
j From  the  same  cause  produced,  ’mid  outward  things 
So  different,  may  rightly  be  compared). 

So  was  it  then  with  me,  and  so  will  be 
With  Poets  ever.  Mighty  is  the  charm 
Of  those  abstractions  to  a mind  beset 
[ With  images,  and  haunted  by  herself, 
j And  specially  delightful  unto  me 
Was  that  clear  synthesis  built  up  aloft 
So  gracefully  ; even  then  when  it  appeared 
Not  more  than  a mere  plaything,  or  a toy 
To  sense  embodied:  not  the  tiling  it  is 
In  verity,  an  independent  world. 

Created  out  of  pure  intelligence. 

Such  dispositions  then  were  mine  unearned 
By  aught,  I fear,  of  genuine  desert  — 

Mine,  throug'h  heaven’s  grace  and  inborn  aptitudes. 
And  not  to  leave  the  story  of  that  time 
Imperfect,  with  these  habits  must  be  joined. 

Moods  melancholy,  fits  of  spleen,  that  loved 
A pensive  sky,  sad  days,  and  piping  winds. 

The  twilight  more  than  dawn,  autumn  than  spring; 
I A treasured  and  luxurious  gloom  of  choice 
! And  inclination  mainly,  and  the  mere 
Redundancy  of  youth’s  con  ten  ted  ness.* 

— To  time  thus  spent,  add  multitudes  of  hours 
Pilfered  away,  by  what  the  Bard  who  sang 
Of  the  Enchanter  Indolence  hath  called 
“Good-natured  lounging,”!  ®nd  behold  a map 
Of  my  collegiate  life  — far  less  intense 
Than  duty  called  for,  or,  without  regard 
To  duty,  might  have  sprung  up  of  itself 
By  change  of  accidents,  or  even,  to  speak 
Without  unkindness,  in  another  place. 

Yet  why  take  refuge  in  that  plea  1 — the  fault. 

This  I repeat,  was  mine;  mine  be  the  blame. 

In  summer,  making  quest  for  works  of  art. 

Or  scenes  renowned  for  beauty,  I explored 
That  streamlet  whose  blue  current  works  its  way 
Between  romantic  Dovedale’s  spiry  rocks ; 

Pried  into  Yorkshire  dales,  or  iiidden  tracts 
Of  my  own  native  region,  and  was  blest 
Between  tiiese  sundry  wanderings  with  a joy 
Above  all  joys,  that  seemed  another  morn 
j Risen  on  mid  noon ; blest  with  the  presence.  Friend 
I Of  that  sole  Sister,  her  who  hath  been  long 
Dear  to  thee  also,  thy  true  friend  and  mine, 

! Now,  after  separation  desolate. 

Restored  to  me  — such  absence  that  she  seemed 
A gift  then  first  bestowed.  The  varied  banks 
Of  Einont,  hitherto  unnamed  in  song. 


* [See  “ Ode  to  Lycoris,”  ante,  p.  405.  — II.  R.l 
I t [See  Thomson’s  “ Castle  oflndolence.”  1. 15. — H.  R.] 


504 


WORDSWOUTH’ S POETICAL  WOEKS. 


And  that  monastic  castle,*  ’mid  tall  trees, 
Low-standing  by  the  margin  of  tlie  stream, 

A mansion  visited  (as  fame  reports) 

By  Sidney,  where,  in  sight  of  our  Ilelvellyn, 

Or  stormy  Cross-fell,  snatches  he  might  pen 

Of  his  Arcadia,  by  fraternal  love 

Inspired;  — tiial  river  and  those  mouldering  towers 

Have  seen  us  side  by  side,  when,  having  clomb 

The  darksome  windings  of  a broken  stair. 

And  crept  along  a ridge  of  fractured  wall. 

Not  witliont  trembling,  we  in  safety  looked 
Forth,  through  some  Gothic  window’s  open  space 
And  gathered  with  one  mind  a rich  reward 
From  the  far-stretching  landscape,  by  the  light 
Of  morning  beautified,  or  purple  eve; 

Or,  not  less  pleased,  lay  on  some  turret’s  head. 
Catching  from  tufts  of  grass  and  hare-bell  flowers 
Their  faintest  whisper  to  the  passing  breeze. 

Given  out  while  mid-day  heat  oppressed  the  plains. 

Another  maid  there  was,  who  also  shed 
A gladness  o’er  that  season,  then  to  me, 

By  her  e.xulting  outside  look  of  youth 

And  placid  under-countenance,  first  endeared; 

That  other  spirit,  Coleridge ! who  is  now 
So  near  to  us,  that  meek  confiding  heart, 

So  reverenced  by  us  both.  O’er  paths  and  fields 
In  all  that  neighbourhoo<i,  through  narrow  lanes 
Of  eglantine,  and  through  the  shady  woods, 

And  o’er  the  Border  Beacon,  and  the  waste 
Of  naked  pools,  and  common  crags  that  lay 
Exposed  on  the  bare  fell,  were  scattered  love. 

The  spirit  of  pleasure,  and  youth’s  golden  gleam. 

O Friend  ! we  had  not  seen  thee  at  that  time. 

And  yet  a power  is  on  me,  and  a strong 
Confusion,  and  I seem  to  plant  thee  there. 

Far  art  thou  wandered  now  in  search  of  health 
And  milder  breezes,  — melancholy  lot! 

But  thou  art  with  us,  with  us  in  the  past. 

The  present,  with  us  in  the  times  to  come. 

There  is  no  grief,  no  sorrow,  no  despair. 

No  languor,  no  dejection,  no  dismay. 

No  absence  scarcely  can  there  be,  for  those 
Who  love  as  we  do.  Speed  thee  well ! divide 
With  us  thy  pleasure ; thy  returning  strength. 
Receive  it  daily  as  a joy  of  ours  ; 

Share  with  us  thy  fresh  spirits,  whether  gift 
Of  gales  Etesian  or  of  tender  thoughts. 

I,  too.  have  been  a wanderer;  but,  alas! 

How  different  the  fate  of  different  men. 

Though  mutually  unknown,  yea  nursed  and  reared 
As  if  in  several  elements,  we  were  framed 
To  bend  at  last  to  the  same  discipline. 

Predestined,  if  two  beings  ever  were. 

To  seek  the  same  delights,  and  have  one  health. 
One  happiness.  Throughout  this  narrative, 

* [Brougham  Castle.  — H.  R.] 


' Else  sooner  ended,  I have  borne  in  mind 
! For  whom  it  registers  the  birth,  and  marks  the  growth, 
Of  gentleness,  simplicity,  and  truth. 

And  joyous  loves,  tiiat  hallow  innocent  days 
Of  peace  and  self-command.  Of  rivers,  fields. 

And  groves  I speak  to  thee,  my  Friend ! to  thee, 

Who,  yet  a liveried  schoolboy,  in  the  depths 
Of  the  huge  city,  on  the  leaded  roof 
Of  that  wide  edifice,  thy  school  and  home,f 
Wert  used  to  lie  and  gaze  upon  the  clouds 
Moving  in  heaven ; or,  of  that  pleasure  tired. 

To  shut  thine  eyes,  and  by  internal  light 
Se^  trees  and  meadows,  and  thy  native  stream. 

Far  distant,  thus  beheld  from  year  to  year 
Of  a long  exile.  Nor  could  I forget, 

1 In  this  late  portion  of  my  argument. 

That  scarcely,  as  my  term  of  pupilage 
Ceased,  had  I left  those  academic  bowers 
When  thou  wert  thither  guided.  From  the  heart 
Of  London,  and  from  cloisters  there,  thou  earnest. 

And  didst  sit  down  in  temperance  and  peace, 

A rigorous  student.  What  a stormy  course 
Then  followed.  Oh  ! it  is  a pang  that  calls 
For  utterance,  to  think  what  easy  change 
Of  circumstances  might  to  thee  have  spared 
A world  of  pain,  ripened  a thousand  hopes. 

For  ever  withered.  Through  this  retrospect 
Of  my  collegiate  life  I still  have  had 
Thy  after-sojourn  in  the  .self-same  place 
Present  before  my  eyes,  have  played  with  times 
And  accidents  as  children  do  with  cards. 

Or  as  a man,  who,  wlien  his  house  is  built, 

A frame  locked  up  in  wood  and  stone,  doth  still. 

As  impotent  fancy  prompts,  by  his  fireside, 

Rebuild  it  to  his  liking.  I have  thought 
Of  thee,  thy  learning,  gorgeous  eloquence. 

And  all  the  strength  and  plumage  of  thy  youth. 

Thy  subtle  speculations,  toils  abstruse 
j Among  the  schoolmen,  and  Platonic  forms 
Of  wild  ideal  [rageantry,  shaped  out 
From  things  well-matched  or  ill,  and  words  for  things. 
The  self-created  sustenance  of  a mind 
Debarred  from  Nature’s  living  images. 

Compelled  to  be  a life  unto  herself. 


[t  Christ’s  Hospital,  or  the  London  Blue-coat  Orphan 
School. — See  Charles  Lamb’s  “ Christ  Hospital  Five  and 
Thirty  Years  ago.” 

“ Come  back  into  memory,  like  as  thou  wert  in  the  day- 
spring of  thy  fancies,  with  hope  like  a fiery  column  before 
thee,  the  dark  pillar  not  yet  turned  — Samuel  Taylor  Col- 
eridge— Logician,  Metaphysician,  Bard!  — How  have  I 
seen  the  casual  pa.sser  through  the  cloisters  stand  still,  in- 
trance'd  with  admiration  (while  he  weighed  the  dispropor- 
tion between  the  speech  and  the  pnrh  of  the  young  Aliran- 
dula)  to  hear  thee  unfold  in  thy  deep  and  sweet  intonations 
the  mysteries  of  lamblichus,  or  Plotinus  (for  even  in  those 
years  thou  waxedst  not  pale  at  such  philosophic  draughts), 
or  reciting  Homer  in  his  Greek,  or  Pindar — while  the  walls 
of  the  old  Grey  Friars  re-echoed  to  the  accents  of  the 
1 inspired  eharily-hoy  Essays  of  Elia,  p.  4C.  •— H.  R.] 


THE  PRELUDE. 


505 


And  unrelentingly  possessed  by  thirst 
Of  greatness,  love,  and  beauty.  Not  alone. 

Ah  ! surely  not  in  singleness  of  lieart 
Should  1 have  seen  the  light  of  evening  fade 
From  smooth  Cam’s  silent  waters : had  we  met. 
Even  at  tliat  early  time,  needs  must  I trust 
In  the  belief,  that  my  maturer  age. 

My  calmer  habits,  and  more  steady  voice. 

Would  vvitli  an  influence  benign  liave  .soothed. 

Or  chased  away,  the  airy  wretchedness 
That  battened  on  thy  youtli.  But  thou  hast  trod 
A march  of  glory,  which  doth  put  to  shame 
These  vain  regrets ; health  suffers  in  thee,  else 
Such  grief  for  thee  would  be  the  weakest  thought 
That  ever  harboured  in  the  breast  of  man. 

A passing  word  erewhile  did  lightly  touch 
On  wanderings  of  my  own,  that  now  embraced 
With  livelier  hope  a region  wider  far. 

When  the  third  summer  freed  us  from  restraint, 
A youthful  friend,  he  too  a mountaineer. 

Not  slow  to  share  my  wishes,  took  his  staff. 

And  sallying  forth,  we  journeyed  side  by  side. 
Bound  to  the  distant  Alps.*  A hardy  slight 
Did  this  unprecedented  course  imply 
Of  college  studies  and  their  set  rewards  ; 

Nor  had,  in  truth,  the  scheme  been  formed  by  me 
Without  uneasy  forethought  of  the  pain. 

The  censures,  and  ill-omening  of  those 
To  whom  my  worldly  interests  were  dear. 

But  Nature  then  was  sovereign  in  tny  mind. 

And  mighty  forms,  seizing  a youthful  fancy. 

Had  given  a charter  to  irregular  hopes. 

In  any  age  of  uneventful  calm 

Among  the  nations,  surely  would  my  heart 

Have  been  possessed  by  similar  desire ; 

But  Europe  at  that  time  was  thrilled  with  joy 
France  standing  on  the  top  of  golden  hours, 

And  human  nature  seeming  born  again. 

Lightly  equipped,  and  but  a few  brief  looks 
Cast  on  the  white  cliffs  of  our  native  shore 
From  the  receding  vessel’s  deck,  we  chanced 
To  land  at  Calais  on  the  very  eve 
Of  that  great  federal  day;  and  there  we  saw. 

In  a mean  city,  and  among  a few. 

How  bright  a face  is  worn  when  joy  of  one 
Is  joy  for  tens  of  millions. f Southward  thence 
We  held  our  way,  direct  through  hamlets,  towns, 
Gaudy  with  reliques  of  that  festival. 

Flowers  left  to  wither  on  triumphal  arcs. 

And  window-garlands.  On  the  public  roads. 

And,  once,  three  days  successively,  through  paths 
By  which  our  toilsome  journey  was  abridged. 
Among  sequestered  villages  we  walked. 


[*  See  “Descriptive  Sketches:”  ante,  p.  29. — H.  R.] 
rt  See  ante,  p.  253.  — H.  R.] 

30 


And  found  benevolence  and  blessedness 

Spread  like  a fragrance  every  where,  when  spring 

Hath  left  no  corner  of  the  land  untouched  : 

Where  elms  for  many  and  many  a league  in  files 
I With  their  thin  umbrage,  on  the  stately  roads 
Of  that  great  kingdom,  rustled  o’er  our  heads. 

For  ever  near  us  as  we  paced  along: 

How  sweet  at  such  a time,  with  such  delight 
On  every  side,  in  prime  of  youthful  strength. 

To  feed  a Poet’s  tender  melancholy 
And  fond  conceit  of  sadness,  with  the  sound 
Of  undulations  varying  as  might  please 
The  wind  that  swayed  them  ; once,  and  more  than  once, 
Unhoused  beneath  the  evening  star  we  saw 
Dances  of  liberty,  and,  in  late  hours 
Of  darkness,  dances  in  the  open  air 
I Deftly  prolonged,  though  grey-haired  lookers  on 
' Might  waste  their  breath  in  chiding. 


Underhills  — 

The  vine-clad  hills  and  slopes  of  Burgundy, 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  gentle  Saone 
I We  glided  forward  with  the  flowing  stream. 

Swift  Rhone ! thou  wert  l\\(*wings  on  which  we  cut 
A winding  passage  with  majestic  ease 
Between  thy  lofty  rocks.  Enchanting  show 
Those  woods  and  farms  and  orchards  did  present, 
And  single  cottages  and  lurking  towns. 

Reach  after  reach,  succession  without  end 
Of  deep  and  stately  vales!  A lonely  pair 
Of  strangers,  till  day  closed,  we  sailed  along. 
Clustered  together  with  a merry  crowd 
Of  those  emancipated,  a blithe  host 
Of  travellers,  chiefly  delegates  returning 


From  the  great  spousals  newly  solemnized 
At  their  chief  city,  in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

Like  bees  they  swarmed,  gaudy  and  gay  as  bees ; 
Some  vapoured  in  the  unruliness  of  joy. 

And  with  their  swords  flourished  as  if  to  fight 
The  saucy  air.  In  this  proud  company 
We  landed  — took  with  them  our  evening  meal. 
Guests  welcome  almost  as  the  angels  were 
To  Abraham  of  old.  The  supper  done. 

With  flowing  cups  elate  and  happy  thoughts 
We  rose  at  signal  given,  and  formed  a ring 
And,  hand  in  hand,  danced  round  and  round  the 
AH  hearts  were  open,  every  tongue  wao  loud 
With  amity  and  glee;  we  bore  a name 
Honoured  iu  France,  the  name  of  Englishreeii, 
And  hospitably  did  they  give  us  hail. 

As  their  forerunners  in  a glorious  coiirse; 

And  round  and  round  tlie  board  we  danced  again. 
With  these  blithe  friends  our  voyage  we  reneweii 
At  early  dawn.  The  monastery  bells 
Made  a sweet  jingling  in  our  youthful  ears, 

The  rapid  river  flowing  without  noise. 

And  each  uprising  or  receding  spire 
Spake  with  a sense  of  peace,  at  intervals 
Touching  the  heart  amid  the  boisterous  crew 
By  whom  we  were  encompassed.  Taking  leave 
‘ 43 


506 


WORDSWORTH’S  P 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S . 


Of  this  glad  throng,  foot-travellers  side  by  side, 
Measuring  our  steps  in  quiet,  we  pursued 
Our  journey,  and  ere  twice  the  sun  had  set 
Beheld  the  Convent  of  Chartreuse,  and  there 
Rested  within  an  awful  solitude : 

Yes,  for  even  then  no  other  than  a place 

Of  soul-affecting  solitude  appeared 

That  far-famed  region,  though  our  eyes  had  seen. 

As  toward  the  sacred  mansion  we  advanced. 

Arms  flashing,  and  a military  glare 
Of  riotous  men  commissioned  to  expel 
The  blameless  inmates,  and  belike  subvert 
That  frame  of  social  being,  which  so  long 
Had  bodied  forth  the  ghostliness  of  things 
In  silence  visible  and  perpetual  calm. 

— “Stay,  stay  your  sacrilegious  hands  !”  — The  voice 
Was  Nature’s  uttered  from  lier  Alpine  throne ; 

I heard  it  then  and  seem  to  hear  it  now  — 

“ Your  impious  work  forbear,  perish  what  may, 

Let  this  one  temple  last,  be  this  one  spot 
^ Of  earth  devoted  to  eternity  !” 

She  ceased  to  speak,  but  while  St.  Bruno’s  pines 
Waved  their  dark  tops,  nqt  silent  as  they  waved. 

And  while  below,  along  their  several  beds. 

Murmured  the  sister  streams  of  Life  and  Death, 

Thus  by  conflicting  passions  pressed,  my  heart 
Responded  ; “ Honour  to  the  patriot’s  zeal ! 

Glory  and  hope  to  new-born  Liberty  ! 

Hail  to  the  mighty  projects  of  the  time! 

Discerning  sword  that  Justice  wields,  do  thou 
Go  forth  and  prosper ; and,  ye  purging  fires, 

Up  to  the  loftiest  towers  of  Pride  ascend, 

Fanned  by  the  breath  of  angry  Providence. 

But  oh ! if  Past  and  Future  be  the  wings 
On  whose  support  harmoniously  conjoined 
Jloves  the  great  spirit  of  human  knowledge,  spare 
These  courts  of  mystery,  where  a step  advanced 
Between  the  portals  of  the  shadowy  rocks 
Leaves  far  behind  life’s  treacherous  vanities, 

For  penitential  tears  and  trembling  hopes 
Exchanged  — to  equalize  in  God’s  pure  sight 
Monarch  and  peasant:  be  the  house  redeemed 
With  its  unworldly  votaries,  for  the  sake 
Of  conquest  over  sense,  hourly  achieved 
Through  faith  and  meditative  reason,  resting 
Upon  the  word  of  heaven-imparted  truth. 

Calmly  triumphant ; and  for  humbler  claim 

Of  that  imaginative  impulse  sent 

From  these  majestic  floods,  yon  shining  cliffs, 

The  untransmuted  shapes  of  many  worlds, 

Cerulean  ether’s  pure  inhabitants, 

These  forests  unapproachable  by  death, 

That  shall  endure  as  long  as  man  endures 
To  think,  to  hope,  to  worship,  and  to  feel, 

To  struggle,  to  bo  lost  within  himself 
In  trepidation,  from  the  blank  abyss 
To  look  witli  bodily  eyes,  and  be  consoled.” 

Not  seldom  e.ince  that  moment  have  I wished 
That  t/iOU,  O friend  ! the  trouble  or  the  calm 


Hadst  shared,  when,  from  profane  regards  apart, 

In  sympathetic  reverence  we  trod 
The  floors  of  those  dim  cloisters,  till  that  hour, 
j From  their  foundation,  strangers  to  the  presence 
Of  unrestricted  and  unthinking  man. 

Abroad,  how  cheeringly  the  sunshine  lay 
Upon  the  open  lawns!  Vallombre’s  groves 
j Entering,  we  fed  the  soul  with  darkness;  thence 
j Issued,  and  with  uplifted  eyes  beheld, 

I In  different  quarters  of  the  bending  sky, 

I The  cross  of  Jesus  stand  erect,  as  if 
; Hands  of  angelic  powers  had  fixed  it  there, 

[ Memorial  reverenced  by  a thousand  storms  ; 

Yet  then,  from  the  undiscriminating  sweep 
And  rage  of  one  State-whirlwind,  insecure. 

’Tis  not  my  present  purpose  to  retrace 
That  variegated  journey  step  by  step. 

A march  it  was  of  military  speed, 

And  Earth  did  change  her  images  and  forms 
Before  us,  fast  as  clouds  are  changed  in  heaven. 

Day  after  day,  up  early  and  dowm  late. 

From  hill  to  vale  we  dropped,  from  vale  to  hill 
Mounted  — from  province  on  to  province  swept, 

Keen  hunters  in  a chase  of  fourteen  weeks, 

Eager  as  birds  of  prey,  or  as  a ship 

Upon  the  stretch,  when  winds  are  blowing  fair: 

Sweet  coverts  did  we  cross  of  pastoral  life, 

Enticing  valleys,  greeted  them  and  left 
Too  soon,  while  yet  the  very  flash  and  gleam 
Of  salutation  were  not  passed  away. 

Oh ! sorrow  for  the  youth  who  could  have  seen 
Unchastened,  unsubdued,  unawed,  unraised 
To  patriarchal  dignity  of  mind. 

And  pure  simplicity  of  wish  and  will. 

Those  sanctified  abodes  of  peaceful  man. 

Pleased  (though  to  hardship  born,  and  compassed  round 
With  danger,  varying  as  the  seasons  change). 

Pleased  with  his  daily  task,  or,  if  not  pleased, 
Contented,  from  the  moment  tliat  the  dawn 
(Ah  ! surely  not  without  attendant  gleams 
Of  soul-illumination)  calls  him  forth 
To  industry,  by  glistenings  flung  on  rocks, 

Whose  evening  shadows  lead  him  to  repose. 

Well  might  a stranger  look  with  bounding  heart 
Down  on  a green  recess,  the  first  I saw 
Of  those  deep  haunts,  an  aboriginal  vale, 

Quiet  and  lorded  over  and  po.«sessed 
By  naked  huts,  wood-built,  and  sown  like  tents 
Or  Indian  cabins  over  the  fresh  lawns 
I And  by  the  river  side. 

That  very  day 

From  a bare  ridge  we  also  first  beheld 
Unveiled  the  summit  of  Mont  Blanc,  and  grieved 
To  have  a soulless  image  on  the  eye 
That  had  usurped  upon  a living  thought 
That  never  more  could  be.  The  wondrous  Vale 
, Of  Chamouny  stretched  far  below,  and  soon 


THE  PHELUDE. 


507 


With  its  dumb  cataracts  and  streams  of  ice, 

A motionless  array  of  mighty  waves, 

Five  rivers  broad  and  vast,  made  rich  amends. 

And  reconciled  us  to  realities; 

There  small  birds  warble  from  the  leafy  trees. 

The  eagle  soars  high  in  the  clement. 

There  doth  the  reaper  bind  the  yellow  sheaf. 

The  maiden  spread  the  haycock  in  the  sun, 

While  Winter  like  a well-tamed  lion  walks. 
Descending  from  the  mountain  to  make  sport 
Among  the  cottages  by  beds  of  flowers. 

Whate'er  in  this  wide  circuit  we  beheld. 

Or  heard,  was  fitted  to  our  unripe  state 
O intellect  and  heart.  With  such  a book 
Before  our  eyes,  we  could  not  choose  but  read 
Lessons  of  genuine  brotherhood,  the  plain 
And  universal  reason  of  mankind, 

The  truths  of  young  and  old.  Nor,  side  by  side 
Pacing,  two  social  pilgrims,  or  alone 
Each  with  his  humour,  could  we  fail  to  abound 
In  dreams  and  fictions,  pensively  composed : 
Dejection  taken  up  for  pleasure’s  sake. 

And  gilded  sympathies,  the  willow  wreath. 

And  sober  posies  of  funereal  flowers. 

Gathered  among  those  solitudes  sublime 
From  formal  gardens  of  the  lady  Sorrow, 

Did  sweeten  many  a meditative  hour. 

Yet  still  in  me  with  those  soft  luxuries 
Mixed  something  of  stern  mood,  an  under-thirst 
Of  vigour  seldom  utterly  allayed. 

And  from  that  source  how  different  a sadness 
Would  issue,  let  one  incident  make  known. 

When  from  the  Vallais  we  had  turned,  and  clomb 
Along  the  Simplon’s  steep  and  rugged  road. 
Following  a band  of  muleteers,  we  reached 
A halting-place,  where  all  together  took 
Their  noontide  meal.  Hastily  rose  our  guide. 
Leaving  us  at  the  board  ; awhile  we  lingered. 

Then  paced  the  beaten  downward  way  that  led 

Right  to  a rough  stream’s  edge,  and  there  broke  off; 

The  only  track  now  visible  was  one 

That  from  the  torrent’s  further  brink  held  forth 

Conspicuous  invitation  to  ascend 

A lofty  mountain.  After  brief  delay 

Crossing  the  unbridged  stream,  that  road  we  took. 

And  clomb  with  eagerness,  till  anxious  fears 

Intruded,  for  we  failed  to  overtake 

Our  comrades  gone  before.  By  fortunate  chance. 

While  every  moment  added  doubt  to  doubt, 

A peasant  met  us,  from  whose  mouth  we  learned 
That  to  the  spot  which  had  perplexed  us  first 
We  must  descend,  and  there  should  find  the  road. 
Which  in  the  stony  channel  of  the  stream 
Lay  a few  steps,  and  then  along  its  banks; 

And,  that  our  future  course,  all  plain  to  sight. 

Was  downwards,  with  the  current  of  that  stream. 
Loth  to  believe  what  we  so  grieved  to  hear. 


' For  still  we  had  hopes  that  pointed  to  the  clouds, 
I We  questioned  him  again,  ai\d  yet  again  ; 

I But  every  word  that  from  the  peasant’s  lips 
Came  in  reply,  translated  by  our  feelings. 

Ended  in  this,  — thal  we  had  crossed  the  Alps. 


i 


Imagination  — here  the  Power  so  called 
Through  sad  incompetence  of  human  speech, 
That  awful  Power  rose  from  the  mind’s  abyss 
Like  an  unfathered  vapour  that  enwraps, 

At  once,  some  lonely  traveller.  I was  lost ; 
Halted  without  an  effort  to  break  through  ; 

But  to  my  conscious  soul  I tiow  can  say  — 

I recognize  thy  glory in  such  strength'N. 

Of  usurpation,  when  the  light  of  sense 
Goes  out,  but  with  a flash  that  has  revealed 
The  invisible  world,  doth  greatness  make  abode, 
There  harbours  ; whether  we  be  young  or  old. 
Our  destiny,  our  being’s  heart  and  home. 

Is  with  infinitude,  and  only  there; 

With  hope  it  is,  hope  that  can  never  die, 

Eflbrt,  and  expectation,  and  desire. 

And  something  evermore  about  to  be. 

Under  such  banners  militant,  the  .soul 
Seeks  for  no  trophies,  struggles  for  no  spoils 
That  may  attest  her  prowess,  blest  in  thoughts 
That  are  their  own  perfection  and  reward. 
Strong  in  herself  and  in  beatitude 
That  hides  her,  like  the  mighty  flood  of  Nile 
Poured  from  his  fount  of  Abyssinian  clouds 
To  fertilize  the  whole  Egyptian  plain. 


The  melancholy  slackening  that  ensued 
Upon  those  tidings  by  the  peasant  given 
Was  soon  dislodged.  Downwards  we  hurried  fast. 
And,  with  the  half-shaped  road  which  we  had  missed. 
Entered  a narrow  chasm.  * The  brook  and  road 
Were  fellow-travellers  in  this  gloomy  strait, 

And  with  them  did  we  journey  several  hours 
At  a slow  pace.  The  immeasurable  height 
Of  woods  decaying,  never  to  be  decayed, 

I The  stationary  blasts  of  waterfalls, 

And  in  the  narrow  rent  at  every  turn 

Winds  thwarting  winds,  bewildered  and  forlorn, 

I The  torrents  shooting  from  the  clear  blue  sky, 

The  rocks  that  muttered  close  upon  our  ears. 

Black  drizzling  crags  that  spake  by  the  way-side 
As  if  a voice  were  in  them,  the  sick  sight 
And  giddy  prospect  of  the  raving  stream. 

The  unfettered  clouds  and  region  of  the  Heavens, 
Tumult  and  peace,  the  darkness  and  the  light  — 
Were  all  like  workings  of  one  mind,  the  features 
Of  the  same  face,  blossoms  upon  one  tree ; 

Characters  of  the  great  Apocalypse,  \ 

The  types  and  symbols  of  Eternity,  7 
Of  first,  and  last,  and  midst,  and  without  end. 


See  ante,  p.  211. 


508 


WOEDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


That  night  our  lodging  was  a house  that  stood 
Alone  within  the  valley,  at  a point 
Where,  tumbling  from  alofl,  a torrent  swelled 
The  rapid  stream  whose  margin  we  had  trod; 

A dreary  mansion,  large  beyond  all  need, 

With  high  and  spacious  rooms,  deafened  and  stunned 
By  noise  of  waters,  making  innocent  sleep 
Lie  melancholy  among  weary  bones. 

Uprisen  betimes  our  journey  we  renewed, 

Led  by  the  stream,  ere  noon-day  magnified 
Into  a lordly  river,  broad  and  deep. 

Dimpling  along  in  silent  majesty, 

With  mountains  for  its  neighbours,  and  in  view 
Of  distant  mountains  and  their  snowy  tops. 

And  thus  proceeding  to  Locarno’s  Lake, 

Fit  resting-place  for  such  a visitant. 

Locarno!  spreading  out  in  width  like  Heaven, 

How  dost  thou  cleave  to  the  poetic  heart, 

Bask  in  the  sunshine  of  the  memory  ; 

And  Como ! thou,  a treasure  whom  the  earth 
Keeps  to  herself,  confined  as  in  a depth 
Of  Abyssinian  privacy.  I spake 
Of  thee,  thy  chestnut  woods,  and  garden  plots 
Of  Indian  corn  tended  by  dark-eyed  maids; 

Thy  lofty  steeps,  and  patliways  roofed  with  vines. 
Winding  from  house  to  house,  from  town  to  town, 
Sole  link  that  binds  them  to  each  other ; walks. 
League  after  league,  and  cloistered  avenues. 

Where  silence  dwells  if  music  be  not  there: 

While  yet  a youth  undisciplined  in  verse. 

Through  fond  ambition  of  that  hour,  I strove 
To  chaunt  your  praise;  nor  can  approach  you  now 
Ungreeted  by  a more  melodious  Song, 

Where  tones  of  Nature  smoothed  by  learned  art 
May  flow  in  lasting  current.  Like  a breeze 
Or  sunbeam  over  your  domain  I passed 
In  motion  without  pause;  but  ye  have  left 
Your  beauty  with  me,  a serene  accord 
Of  forms  and  colours,  passive,  yet  endowed 
In  their  submissiveness  with  power  as  sweet 
And  gracious,  almost  might  I dare  to  say. 

As  virtue  is,  or  goodness;  sweet  as  love. 

Or  the  remembrance  of  a generous  deed. 

Or  mildest  visitations  of  pure  thought. 

When  God,  the  giver  of  all  joy,  is  thanked 
Religiously,  in  silent  blessedness; 

Sweet  as  this  last  herself,  for  such  it  is. 


With  those  delightful  pathways  we  advanced. 
For  two  days’  space,  in  presence  of  the  Lake, 
That,  stretching  far  among  the  Alps,  assumed 
A character  more  stern.  The  second  night. 

From  sleep  awakened,  and  misled  by  sound 
Of  the  church  clock  telling  the  hours  with  strokes 
Whose  import  tlien  we  had  not  learned,  we  rose 
By  moonlight,  doubting  not  that  day  was  nigh. 

And  that  meanwhile,  by  no  uncertain  path. 

Along  the  winding  margin  of  the  lake. 

Led,  as  before,  we  should  behold  the  scene 


Hushed  in  profound  repose.  We  left  the  town 
Of  Gravedona  with  this  hope;  but  soon 
Were  lost,  bewildered  among  woods  immense. 

And  on  a rock  sate  down,  to  wait  for  day. 

An  open  place  it  was,  and  overlooked. 

From  high,  the  sullen  water  far  beneath. 

On  which  a dull  red  image  of  the  moon 
Lay  bedded,  changing  oftentimes  its  form 
Like  an  uneasy  snake.  From  hour  to  hour 
We  sate  and  sate,  wondering,  as  if  the  night 
Had  been  ensnared  by  witchcraft.  On  the  rock 
At  last  we  stretched  our  weary  limbs  for  sleep. 
But  could  not  sleep,  tormented  by  the  stings 
Of  insects,  which,  with  noise  like  that  of  noon. 
Filled  all  the  woods;  the  cry  of  unknown  birds; 
The  mountains  more  by  blackness  visible 
And  their  own  size,  than  any  outward  light; 

The  breathless  wilderness  of  clouds;  the  clock 
That  told,  with  unintelligible  voice. 

The  widely  parted  hours;  the  noise  of  streams. 
And  sometimes  rustling  motions  nigh  at  hand. 
That  did  not  leave  us  free  from  personal  fear ; 
And,  lastly,  the  withdrawing  moon,  tliat  set 
Before  u.s,  while  slie  still  was  high  in  heaven ; — 
These  were  our  food ; and  such  a summer’s  night 
Followed  that  pair  of  golden  days  that  shed 
On  Como’s  Lake,  and  all  that  round  it  lay. 

Their  fairest,  softest,  happiest  influence. 

But  here  I must  break  off,  and  bid  farewell 
To  days,  each  offering  some  new  sight,  or  fraught 
With  some  untried  adventure,  in  a course 
Prolonged  till  sprinklings  of  autumnal  snow 
Checked  our  unwearied  steps.  Let  this  alone 
Be  mentioned  as  a parting  word,  that  not 
In  hollow  exultation,  dealing  out 
Hyperboles  of  praise  comparative  ; 

Not  rich  one  moment  to  be  poor  for  ever ; 

Not  prostrate,  overborne,  as  if  the  mind 
Herself  were  notliing,  a mere  pensioner 
On  outward  forms  — did  we  in  presence  stand 
Of  that  magnificent  region.  On  tlie  front 
Of  this  whole  Song  is  written  that  my  heart 
Must,  in  sucli  Temple,  needs  have  offered  up 
A different  worship.  Finally,  whate’er 
I saw,  or  heard,  or  felt,  was  but  a stream 
That  flowed  into  a kindred  stream ; a gale 
Confederate  with  the  current  of  the  soul. 

To  speed  my  voyage;  every  sound  or  sight. 

In  its  degree  of  power,  administered 
To  grandeur  or  to  tenderness,  — to  the  one 
Directly,  but  to  tender  thoughts  by  means 
Less  often  instantaneous  in  effect; 

Led  me  to  these  by  paths  that,  in  the  main. 

Were  more  circuitous,  but  not  less  sure 
Duly  to  reach  the  point  marked  out  by  Heaven. 

Oh,  most  beloved  Friend  ! a glorious  time, 

A happy  time  that  was;  triumphant  looks 
I Were  then  the  common  language  of  all  eyes; 


THE  PRELUDE. 


509 


As  if  awaked  from  sleep,  the  Nations  hailed 
Their  great  expectancy  : the  fife  of  war 
Was  then  a spirit-stirring  sound  indeed, 

A black-bird’s  whistle  in  a budding  grove. 

We  left  the  Swiss  exulting  in  the  fate 

Of  their  near  neiglibours;  and,  when  shortening  fast 

Our  pilgrimage,  nor  distant  far  from  home, 

We  crossed  the  Brabant  armies  on  the  fret 
For  battle  in  tlie  cause  of  Liberty. 

A stripling,  scarcely  of  the  household  then 
Of  social  life,  I looked  upon  these  things 


As  from  a distance;  heard,  and  saw,  and  felt. 

Was  touched,  but  with  no  intimate  concern  ; 

I seemed  to  move  along  tliem,  as  a bird 
Moves  through  the  air,  or  as  a fish  pursues 
Its  sport,  or  feeds  in  its  proper  element; 

I wanted  not  that  joy,  I did  not  need 
Such  help;  the  ever-living  universe. 

Turn  where  I might,  was  opening  out  its  glories. 

And  the  independent  spirit  of  pure  youth 

Called  forth,  at  every  season,  new  delights 

Spread  round  my  steps  like  sunshine  o’er  green  fields. 


BOOK  SEVENTH. 


KESIDENCE  IN  LONDON. 


Six  changeful  years  have  vanished  since  I first 
Poured  out  (saluted  by  that  quickening  breeze 
Which  met  me  issuing  from  the  City’s*  walls) 

A glad  preamble  to  tliis  Verse:  1 sang 

Aloud,  with  fervour  irresistible 

Of  short-lived  transport,  like  a torrent  bursting. 

From  a black  thunder-cloud,  down  Scafell’s  side 
To  rush  and  disappear.  But  soon  broke  forth 
(So  willed  the  Muse)  a less  impetuous  stream. 

That  flowed  awhile  with  unabating  strength. 

Then  stopped  for  years;  not  audible  again 
Before  last  primrose-time.  BelovM  Friend  ! 

The  assurance  which  then  cheered  some  lieavy  thoughts 
On  thy  departure  to  a foreign  land 
Has  failed  ; too  slow'ly  moves  the  promised  work. 
Tlirough  the  whole  summer  have  I been  at  rest. 

Partly  from  voluntary  holiday. 

And  part  through  outward  hindrance.  But  I heard. 
After  the  hour  of  sunset  yester-even. 

Sitting  within  doors  between  light  and  dark, 

A choir  of  redbreasts  gathered  .somewhere  near 
My  threshold,  — minstrels  from  the  distant  woods 
Sent  in  on  Winter’s  service,  to  announce. 

With  preparation  artful  and  benign. 

That  the  rough  lord  had  left  the  surly  North 
On  his  accustomed  journey.  The  delight. 

Due  to  this  timely  notice,  unawares 
Smote  me,  and,  listening,  I in  whispers  said, 

“Ye  heartsome  Choristers,  ye  and  I w'ill  be 
Associates,  and,  unscared  by  blustering  winds. 

Will  chaunt  together.”  Thereafter,  as  the  shades 
Of  twilight  deepened,  going  forth,  I spied 
A glow-worm  underneath  a dusky  plume 
Or  canopy  of  yet  unwithered  fern. 

Clear-shining,  like  a hermit’s  taper  seen 


Through  a thick  forest.  Silence  touched  me  here 
No  less  than  sound  had  done  before;  the  child 
Of  summer,  lingering,  shining,  by  herself. 

The  voiceless  w’orm  on  the  unfrequented  hills, 

Seemed  sent  on  the  same  errand  with  the  choir 
Of  Winter  that  had  warbled  at  my  door. 

And  the  whole  year  breathed  tenderness  and  love. 

The  last  night’s  genial  feeling  overflowed 
Upon  this  morning,  and  my  favourite  grove, 

Tossing  in  sunshine  its  dark  boughs  aloft. 

As  if  to  make  the  strong  wind  visible. 

Wakes  in  me  agitations  like  its  own, 

A spirit  friendly  to  the  Poet’s  task. 

Which  we  will  now  resume  with  lively  hope. 

Nor  checked  by  aught  of  tamer  argument 
That  lies  before  us,  needful  to  be  told. 

Returned  from  that  excursion,j-  soon  I bade 
Farewell  for  ever  to  the  sheltered  seats 
Of  gowned  students,  quitted  hall  and  bower. 

And  every  comfort  of  that  privileged  ground, 

Well  pleased  to  pitch  a vagrant  tent  among 
The  unfenced  regions  of  society. 

Yet,  undetermined  to  what  course  of  life 
I should  adhere,  and  seeming  to  possess 
A little  space  of  intermediate  time 
At  full  command,  to  London  first  I turned. 

In  no  disturbance  of  excessive  hope. 

By  personal  ambition  unenslaved. 

Frugal  as  there  was  need,  and,  though  self-willed. 
From  dangerous  passions  free.  Three  years  had  flown 
Since  I had  felt  in  heart  and  soul  the  sliock 
Of  the  huge  town’s  first  presence,  and  had  paced 


The  City  of  Goslar,  in  Lower  Saxony. 


See  p.  505. 

43* 


510 


WOEDSWOETH’S  POETICAL  WOEKS. 


Her  endless  streets,  a transient  visitant ; 

Now,  fixed  amid  that  concourse  of  mankind 
Where  Pleasure  whirls  about  incessantly. 

And  life  and  labour  seem  but  one,  I filled 
An  idler’s  place;  an  idler  well  content 
To  have  a house  (what  matter  for  a home?) 

That  owned  him  ; livings  cheerfully  abroad 
With  unchecked  fancy  ever  on  the  stir. 

And  all  my  young  affections  out  of  doors. 

There  was  a time  when  whatsoe’er  is  feigned 
Of  airy  palaces,  and  gardens  built 
By  Genii  of  romance;  or  hath  in  grave 
Authentic  history  been  set  forth  of  Rome, 

Alcairo,  Babylon,  or  Persepolis; 

Or  given  upon  report  by  pilgrim  friars. 

Of  golden  cities  ten  months’  journey  deep 
Among  Tartarian  wilds  — fell  short,  far  short. 

Of  what  my  fond  simplicity  believed 

And  thought  of  London  — held  me  by  a chain 

Less  strong  of  wonder  and  obscure  delight. 

Whether  the  bolt  of  childhood’s  Fancy  shot 
For  me  beyond  its  ordinary  mark, 

’Twere  vain  to  ask;  but  in  our  flock  of  boys 
Was  One,  a cripple  from  his  birth,  whom  chance 
Summoned  from  school  to  London ; fortunate 
And  envied  traveller!  When  the  Buy  returned. 

After  a short  absence,  curiously  I scanned 
His  mien  and  person,  nor  was  free,  in  sooth. 

From  disappointment,  not  to  find  some  change 
In  look  and  air,  from  that  new  region  brought. 

As  if  from  Fairy -land.  Much  I questioned  him; 

And  every  word  he  uttered,  on  my  ears 
Fell  flatter  than  a caged  parrot’s  note. 

That  answers  unexpectedly  awry. 

And  mocks  the  prompter’s  listening.  Marvellous  things 

Had  vanity  (quick  Spirit  that  appears 

Almost  as  deeply  seated  and  as  strong 

In  a Child’s  heart  as  fear  itself)  conceived 

For  my  enjoyment.  Would  that  I could  now 

Recall  what  then  I pictured  to  myself. 

Of  mitred  Prelates,  Lords  in  ermine  clad. 

The  King,  and  the  King’s  Palace,  and,  not  last. 

Nor  least.  Heaven  bless  him ! the  renowned  Lord 
Mayor ; 

Dreams  not  unlike  to  those  which  once  begat 
A change  of  purpose  in  young  Whittington, 

When  he,  a friendless  and  a drooping  boy, 

Sate  on  a stone,  and  heard  the  bells  speak  out 
Articulate  music.  Above  all,  one  thought 
Baffled  my  understanding:  how  men  lived 
Even  next-door  neighbours,  as  we  say,  yet  still 
Strangers,  not  knowing  each  the  other’s  name. 

O,  wondrous  power  of  words,  by  simple  faith 
Licensed  to  take  the  meaning  that  we  love ! 

Vauxhall  and  Ranelagh  I I then  had  heard 
Of  your  green  groves,  and  wilderness  of  lamps 
Dimming  the  stars,  and  fireworks  magical. 


And  gorgeous  ladies,  under  splendid  domes, 
Floating  in  dance,  or  warbling  high  in  air 
The  songs  of  spirits ! Nor  had  fancy  fed 
With  less  delight  upon  that  other  class 
Of  marvels,  broad-day  wonders  permanent: 

The  River  proudly  bridged ; the  dizzy  top 
And  Whispering  Gallery  of  St.  Paul’s;  the  tombs 
Of  Westminster;  the  Giants  of  Guildhall ; 
Bedlam,  and  those  carved  maniacs  at  the  gates, 
Perpetually  recumbent;  Statues  — man. 

And  the  horse  under  him  — in  gilded  pomp 
Adorning  flowery  gardens,  ’mid  vast  squares; 

The  Monument,  and  that  Chamber  of  the  Tower 
Where  England’s  sovereigns  sit  in  long  array, 
Their  steeds  bestriding, — every  mimic  shape 
Cased  in  the  gleaming  mail  the  monarch  wore. 
Whether  for  gorgeous  tournament  addressed. 

Or  life  or  death  upon  the  battle-field. 

Those  bold  imaginations  in  due  time 
Had  vanished,  leaving  others  in  their  stead  : 

And  now  I looked  upon  the  living  scene; 
Familiarly  perused  it;  oftentimes. 

In  spite  of  strongest  disappointment,  pleased 
Through  courteous  self-submission,  as  a tax 
Paid  to  the  object  by  prescriptive  right. 

Rise  up,  thou  monstrous  ant-hill  on  the  plain 
Of  a too  busy  world ! Before  me  flow. 

Thou  endless  stream  of  men  and  moving  things! 
Thy  every-day  appearance,  as  it  strikes  — 

With  wonder  heightened,  or  sublimed  by  awe  — 
On  strangers,  of  all  ages;  the  quick  dance 
Of  colours,  lights,  and  forms;  the  deafening  din; 
The  comers  and  the  goers  face  to  face; 

Face  after  face;  the  string  of  dazzling  wares. 

Shop  after  shop,  with  symbols,  blazoned  names. 
And  all  the  tradesman’s  honours  overhead : 

Here,  fronts  of  houses,  like  a title-page. 

With  letters  huge  Inscribed  from  top  to  toe. 
Stationed  above  the  door,  like  guardian  saints; 
There  allegoric  shapes,  female  or  male. 

Or  physiognomies  of  real  men, 

Land- warriors,  kings,  or  admirals  of  the  sea, 

Boyle,  Shakspeare,  Newton,  or  the  attractive  head 
Of  some  quack-doctor,  famous  in  his  day. 

Meanwhile  the  roar  continues,  till  at  length. 
Escaped  as  from  an  enemy,  we  turn 
Abruptly  into  some  sequestered  nook. 

Still  as  a sheltered  place  when  winds  blow  loud ! 
At  leisure,  thence,  through  tracts  of  thin  resort. 
And  sights  and  sounds  that  come  at  intervals. 

We  take  our  way.  A raree-show  is  here, 

With  children  gathered  round  ; another  street 
Presents  a company  of  dancing  dogs. 

Or  dromedary,  with  an  antic  pair 
Of  monkeys  on  his  back ; a minstrel  band 
Of  Savoyard.s ; or,  single  and  alone. 

An  English  ballad-singer.  Private  courts. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


511 


Gloomy  as  coffins,  and  unsightly  lanes 
Tlirillt'd  by  some  female  vender’s  scream,  belike 
The  very  shrillest  of  all  London  cries, 

May  then  entangle  our  impatient  steps; 

Conducted  through  those  labyrinths,  unawares, 

To  privileged  regions  and  inviolate, 

Where  from  their  airy  lodges  studious  lawyers 
Look  out  on  waters,  walks,  and  gardens  green. 

Thence  back  into  the  throng,  until  we  reach, 
Following  tlie  tide  that  slackens  by  degrees. 

Some  half-frequented  scene,  where  wider  streets 
Bring  straggling  breezes  of  suburban  air. 

Here  files  of  ballads  dangle  from  dead  walls ; 
Advertisements,  of  giant-size,  from  high 
Press  forward,  in  all  colours,  on  the  sight ; 

These,  bold  in  conscious  merit,  lower  down; 

That,  fronted  with  a most  imposing  word. 

Is,  perad  venture,  one  in  masquerade. 

As  on  the  broadening  causeway  we  advance. 

Behold,  turned  upwards,  a face  hard  and  strong 
In  lineaments,  and  red  with  over-toil. 

’Tis  one  encountered  here  and  every  where ; 

A travelling  cripple,  by  the  trunk  cut  short. 

And  stumping  on  his  arms.  In  sailor’s  garb 
Anotlier  lies  at  length,  beside  a range 
Of  well-formed  characters,  with  chalk  inscribed 
Upon  the  smooth  flat  stones:  the  Nurse  is  here. 

The  Bachelor,  that  loves  to  sun  himself. 

The  military  Idler,  and  the  Dame, 

That  field-ward  takesjier  walk  with  decent  steps. 

Now  homeward  through  the  thickening  hubbub, 
where 

See,  among  less  distinguishable  shapes, 

Tljg  begging  scavenger,  with  hat  in  hand  ; 

The  Italian,  as  he  thrids  his  way  with  care, 

Steadying,  far-seen,  a frame  of  images 
Upon  his  head  ; with  basket  at  his  breast 
The  Jew  ; the  stately  and  slow-moving  Turk, 

With  freight  of  slippers  piled  beneath  his  arm  ! 

Enough;  — the  mighty  concourse  I surveyed 
With  no  unthinking  mind,  well  pleased  to  note 
Among  the  crowd  all  specimens  of  man. 

Through  all  the  colours  which  the  sun  bestows, 

And  every  character  of  form  and  flice: 

The  Swede,  the  Russian;  from  the  genial  south. 

The  Frenchman  and  the  Spaniard;  from  remote 
America,  the  Ilunter-lndian  ; Moors, 

Malays,  Lascars,  the  Tartar,  the  Chinese, 

And  Negro  Ladies  in  white  muslin  gowns. 

At  leisure,  then,  I viewed,  from  day  to  day, 

The  spectacles  within  doors,  — birds  and  beasts 
Of  every  nature,  and  strange  plants  convened 
From  every  clime;  and,  next,  those  sights  that  ape 
The  absolute  presence  of  reality. 

Expressing,  as  in  mirror,  sea  and  land, 


And  what  eartl)  is,  and  what  she  has  to  sliow. 

I do  not  here  allude  to  subtlest  craft. 

By  means  refined  attaining  purest  ends, 

But  imitations,  fondly  made  in  plain 
Confession  of  man’s  weakness  and  his  loves. 

Whether  the  Painter,  whose  ambitious  skill 
Submits  to  nothing  less  than  taking  in 
A whole  horizon’s  circuit,  do  witli  power. 

Like  that  of  angels  or  commissioned  spirits. 

Fix  us  upon  some  lofiy  pinnacle. 

Or  in  a sliip  on  waters,  with  a world 
Of  life,  and  life-like  mockery  beneath. 

Above,  beliind,  far  stretching'  and  before  ; 

Or  more  meclianic  artist  represent 
By  scale  exact,  in  model,  wood  or  cla3% 

From  blended  colours  also  borrowing  help. 

Some  miniature  of  famous  spots  or  things, — 

St.  Peter’s  Church  ; or,  more  aspiring  aim. 

In  microscopic  vision,  Rome  herself; 

Or,  haply,  some  choice  rural  haunt,  — the  Falls 
Of  Tivoli:  and,  high  upon  that  steep. 

The  Sibyl’s  mouldering  Temple  ! every  tree. 

Villa,  or  cottage,  lurking  among  rocks 

Throughout  the  landscape ; tuft,  stone  scratch  minute— 

All  that  the  traveller  sees  when  he  is  there. 

And  to  these  exhibitions,  mute  and  still, 

Others  of  wider  scope,  where  living  men. 

Music,  and  shifting  pantomimic  scenes. 

Diversified  the  allurement.  Need  I fear 
To  mention  by  its  name,  as  in  degree. 

Lowest  of  these  and  humblest  in  attempt. 

Yet  richly  graced  with  honours  of  her  own, 

Half-rural  Sadler’s  Wells  1 Tliough  at  that  time 
Intolerant,  as  is  the  way  of  youth 
Unless  itself  be  pleased,  here  more  than  once 
Taking  my  seat,  I saw  (nor  blush  to  add. 

With  ample  recompense)  giants  and  dwarfs. 

Clowns,  conjurers,  posture-masters,  harlequins. 

Amid  the  uproar  of  the  rabblement. 

Perform  their  feats.  Nor  was  it  mean  delight 
To  watch  crude  Nature  work  in  untaught  minds; 

To  note  the  laws  and  progress  of  belief;  ^ 

Though  obstinate  on  this  way,  yet  on  that 
How  willingly  we  travel,  and  how  far ! 

To  have,  for  instance,  brought  upon  the  scene 
The  champion.  Jack  the  Giant-killer:  Lo! 

He  dons  his  coat  of  darkness;  on  the  stage 
Walks,  and  achieves  his  wonders,  from  the  eyo 
Of  living  Mortal  covert,  “as  the  moon 
Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave.” 

Delusion  bold!  and  how  can  it  be  wrought? 

The  garb  he  wears  is  black  as  death,  the  word 
“Invisible”  flames  forth  upon  his  chest. 

Here,  too,  were  “forms  and  pressures  of  the  Lihe,” 
Rough,  bold,  as  Grecian  comedy  displayed 
When  Art  was  young;  dramas  of  living  men, 

1 And  recent  things  yet  warm  with  life;  a sea-fight. 


512 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Shipvvreelc,  or  some  domestic  incident 
Divulged  by  Truth  and  magnified  by  Fame, 

Such  as  the  daring  brotherhood  of  late 

Set  forth,  too  serious  theme  for  that  light  place  — 

I mean,  O distant  Friend  ! a story  drawn 

From  our  own  ground,  — the  Maid  of  Buttermere, — 

And  how,  unfaithful  to  a virtuous  wife 

Deserted  and  deceived,  the  spoiler  came 

And  wooed  the  artless  daugliter  of  the  hills. 

And  wedded  her,  in  cruel  mockery 
Of  love  and  marriage  bonds.*  These  words  to  thee 
Must  needs  bring  back  tlie  moment  when  we  first. 
Ere  the  broad  world  rang  with  the  maiden’s  name. 
Beheld  her  serving  at  the  cottage  inn. 

Both  stricken,  as  she  entered  or  withdrew, 

With  admiration  of  her  modest  mien 
And  carriage,  marked  by  unexampled  grace. 

We  since  that  time  not  unfamiliarly 

Have  seen  her,  — her  discretion  have  observed. 

Her  just  opinions,  delicate  reserve. 

Her  patience  and  humility  of  mind 
Unspoiled  by  commendation  and  the  excess 
Of  public  notice  — an  ofi'ensive  light 
To  a meek  spirit  suffering  inwardly. 

From  this  memorial  tribute  to  my  theme 
I was  returning,  when  with  sundry  forms 
Commingled  — shapes  which  met  me  in  the  way 
That  we  must  tread  — thy  image  rose  again. 

Maiden  of  Buttermere!  She  lives  in  peace 
Upon  the  spot  where  she  was  born  and  reared ; 
Without  contamination  doth  she  live 
In  quietness,  without  anxiety; 

Beside  the  mountain  chapel,  sleeps  in  earth 
Her  new-born  infant,  fearless  as  a lamb 
That,  thither  driven  from  some  unsheltered  place. 
Rests  underneath  the  little  rock-like  pile 
When  storms  are  raging.  Happy  are  they  both  — 
Mother  and  child  ! — These  feelings,  in  themselves 
Trite,  do  yet  scarcely  seem  so  when  I think 
On  those  ingenuous  moments  of  our  youth 
Ere  we  have  learnt  by  use  to  slight  the  crimes 
And  sorrows  of  the  world.  Those  simple  days 
Are  now  my  theme ; and,  foremost  of  the  scenes. 
Which  yet  survive  in  memory,  appears 
One,  at  whose  centre  sat  a lovely  Boy, 

A sportive  infant,  who,  for  six  months’  space. 

Not  more,  had  been  of  age  to  deal  about 
Articulate  prattle  — Child  as  beautiful 
As  ever  clung  around  a mother’s  neck. 

Or  father  fondly  gazed  upon  with  pride. 

There,  too,  conspicuous  for  stature  tall 
And  large  dark  eyes,  beside  her  infant  stood 
The  mother;  but,  upon  her  cheeks  diffused. 

False  tints  too  well  accorded  with  the  glare 


[*  See  “Essays  on  Ilis  Own  Times,”  by  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge— edited  by  his  daughter,  Sara  Coleridge:  p.  585, 
and  notes,  p.  1022. — II.  R.] 


From  play-house  lustres  thrown  without  reserve 
On  every  object  near.  The  Buy  had  been 
The  pride  and  pleasure  of  all  lookers-on 
In  whatsoever  place,  but  seemed  in  this 
A sort  of  alien  scattered  from  the  clouds. 

Of  lusty  vigour,  more  than  infiintine 
He  was  in  limb,  in  cheek  a summer  rose 
Just  three  parts  blown  — a cottage-child  — if  e’er 
By  cottage  door  on  breezy  mountain  side. 

Or  in  some  sheltering  vale,  was  seen  a babe 
By  Nature’s  gifts  so  favoured.  Upon  a board 
Decked  with  refreshments  had  this  child  been  placed, 
His  little  stage  in  the  vast  theatre. 

And  there  he  sate  surrounded  with  a throng 
Of  chance  spectators,  chiefly  dissolute  men 
And  shameless  women,  treated  and  caressed ; 

Ate,  drank,  and  w'ith  the  fruit  and  glasses  played. 
While  oaths  and  laughter  and  indecent  speech 
Were  rife  about  him  as  the  songs  of  birds 
Contending  after  showers.  The  mother  now 
Is  fading  out  of  memory,  but  I see 
The  lovely  Boy  as  I beheld  him  then 
Among  the  wretched  and  the  falsely  gay. 

Like  one  of  those  who  walked  with  hair  unsinged 

Amid  the  fiery  furnace.  Charms  and  spells 

Muttered  on  black  and  spiteful  instigation 

Have  stopped,  as  some  believed,  the  kindliest  growths. 

Ah,  with  horu  different  spirit  might  a prayer 

Have  been  preferred,  that  this  fair  creature,  checked 

By  special  privilege  of  Nature’ s*love. 

Should  in  his  childhood  be  delaj^ied  for  ever ! 

But  with  its  universal  freight  the  tide 
Hath  rolled  along,  and  this  bright  innocent, 

Mary!  may  now  have  lived  till  he  could  look 
With  envy  on  thy  nameless  babe  that  sleeps. 

Beside  the  mountain  chapel,  undisturbed. 

Four  rapid  years  had  scarcely  then  been  told 
Since,  travelling  southward  from  our  pastoral  hills, 

I heard,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 

The  voice  of  woman  utter  blasphemy  — 

Saw  woman  as  she  is,  to  open  shame 
Abandoned,  and  the  pride  of  public  vice; 

I shuddered,  for  a barrier  seemed  at  once 
Thrown  in,  that  from  humanity  divorced 
Humanity,  splitting  the  race  of  man 
In  twain,  yet  leaving  the  same  outward  form. 

Distress  of  mind  ensued  upon  the  sight 
And  ardent  meditation.  Later  years 
Brought  to  such  spectacle  a milder  sadness. 

Feelings  of  pure  commiseration,  grief 
For  the  individual  and  the  overthrow 
Of  her  soul’s  beauty;  farther  I was  then 
But  seldom  led,  or  wished  to  go ; in  truth 
The  sorrow  of  the  passion  stopped  me  there. 

But  let  me  now,  less  moved,  in  order  take 
Our  argument.  Enough  is  said  to  show 
How  casual  incidents  of  real  life. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


513 


Observed  where  pastime  only  had  been  sought, 
Outweiglied,  or  put  to  fliglit,  the  set  events 
And  measured  passions  of  the  stage,  albeit 
By  Siddons  trod  in  the  fulness  of  her  power. 

Yet  was  the  theatre  my  dear  delight ; 

The  very  gilding,  lamps  and  painted  scrolls. 

And  all  the  mean  upholstery  of  the  place. 

Wanted  not  animation,  when  the  tide 
Of  pleasure  ebbed  but  to  return  as  fast 
W ith  the  ever-shifting  figures  of  the  scene. 

Solemn  or  gay ; whether  some  beauteous  dame 
Advanced  in  radiance  through  a deep  recess 
Of  thick  entangled  forest,  like  the  moon 
Opening  the  clouds  ; or  sovereign  king,  announced 
With  flourishing  trumpet,  came  in  full-blown  state 
Of  the  world’s  greatness,  winding  round  with  train 
Of  courtiers,  banners,  and  a length  of  guards; 

Or  captive  led  in  abject  weeds,  and  jinglino- 

His  slender  manacles  ; or  romping  girl 

Bounced,  leapt,  and  pawed  the  air;  or  mumbling  sire, 

A scare-crow  pattern  of  old  age  dressed  up 

In  all  the  tatters  of  infirmity 

All  loosely  put  together,  hobbled  in, 

ytumping  upon  a cane,  with  which  he  smites. 

From  time  to  time,  the  solid  boards,  and  makes  them 
Prate  somewhat  loudly  of  the  whereabout 
Of  one  so  overloaded  with  his  years. 

But  what  of  this  ! the  laugh,  the  grin,  grimace. 

The  antics  striving  to  outstrip  each  otlier. 

Were  all  received,  the  least  of  them  not  lost. 

With  an  unmeasured  welcome.  Through  the  night. 
Between  the  show,  and  many-headed  mass 
Of  the  spectators,  and  each  several  nook 
Filled  with  its  fray  or  brawl,  how  eagerly 
And  with  what  flashes,  as  it  were,  the  mind 
Turned  this  way  — that  way  ! sportive  and  alert 
And  watchful,  as  a kitten  when  at  play. 

While  winds  are  eddying  round  her,  among  straws 
And  rustling  leaves.  Enchanting  age  and  sweet ! 
Romantic  almost,  looked  at  through  a space. 

How  small,  of  intervening  years!  For  then. 

Though  surely  no  mean  progress  had  been  made 
In  meditations  holy  and  sublime. 

Vet  something  of  a girlish  childlike  gloss 
Of  novelty  survived  for  scenes  like  these ; 

Enjoyment  haply  handed  down  from  times 
When  at  a country  play-house,  some  rude  barn 
Tricked  out  for  that  proud  use,  if  I perchance 
Caught,  on  a summer  evening  through  a chink 
In  the  old  wall,  an  unexpected  glimpse 
Of  daylight,  the  bare  thought  of  where  I was 
Gladdened  me  more  than  if  I had  been  led 
Into  a dazzling  cavern  of  romance. 

Crowded  with  Genii  busy  among  works 
Not  to  be  looked  at  by  the  common  sun. 

The  matter  that  detains  us  now  may  seem. 

To  many,  neither  dignified  enough 

Nor  arduous,  yet  will  not  be  scorned  by  them, 

3P 


Who,  looking  inward,  have  observed  the  ties 
That  bind  the  perishable  hours  of  life 
Each  to  the  other,  and  the  curious  props 
By  which  the  world  of  memory  and  tiiought 
Exists  and  is  sustained.  More  lofty  themes. 

Such  as  at  least  do  wear  a prouder  face. 

Solicit  our  regard ; but  when  I think 
Of  these,  I feel  the  imaginative  power 
Languish  within  me;  even  then  it  slept. 

When,  pressed  by  tragic  suflerings,  the  heart 
Was  more  than  full ; amid  my  sobs  and  tears 
It  slept,  even  in  the  pregnant  season  of  youth. 

For  though  I was  most  passionately  moved 
And  yielded  to  all  changes  of  the  scene 
With  an  obsequious  promptness,  yet  the  storm 
Passed  not  beyond  the  suburbs  of  the  mind  ; 

Save  when  realities  of  act  and  mien. 

The  incarnation  of  the  spirits  that  move 
In  harmony  amid  the  Poet’s  world. 

Rose  to  ideal  grandeur,  or,  called  forth 
By  power  of  contrast,  made  me  recognize. 

As  at  a glance,  the  things  which  I had  shaped 
And  yet  not  shaped,  had  seen  and  scarcely  seen. 
When,  having  closed  the  mighty  Shakspeare’s  page, 
I mused,  and  thought,  and  felt,  in  solitude. 

Pass  we  from  entertainments,  that  are  such 
Professedly,  to  others  titled  higher. 

Yet,  in  the  estimate  of  youth  at  least. 

More  near  akin  to  those  than  names  imply, — 

I mean  the  brawls  of  lawyers  in  their  courts 
Before  the  ermined  judge,  or  that  great  stage 
Where  senators,  tongue-favoured  men,  perform. 
Admired  and  envied.  Oh  I the  beating  heart, 

When  one  among  the  prime  of  these  rose  up, 

One,  of  whose  name  from  childhood  we  had  heard 
Familiarly,  a household  term,  like  those. 

The  Bedfords,  Glosters,  Salsburys,  of  old 
Whom  the  fifth  Harry  talks  of.  Silence!  hush  ! 
This  is  no  trifler,  no  short-flighted  wit. 

No  stammerer  of  a minute,  painfully 
Delivered.  No!  the  Orator  hath  yoked 
The  Hours,  like  young  Aurora,  to  his  car: 

Thrice  welcome  Presence ! liow  can  patience  e’er 
Grow  weary  of  attending  on  a track 
That  kindles  with  such  glory  ! All  are  charmed. 
Astonished ; like  a hero  in  romance. 

He  winds  away  his  never-ending  horn  ; 

Words  follow  words,  sense  seems  to  follow  sense : 
What  memory  and  what  logic ! till  the  strain 
Transcendent,  superhuman  as  it  seemed. 

Grows  tedious  even  in  a young  man's  ear. 

Genius  of  Burke!  forgive  the  pen  seduced 
By  specious  wonders,  and  too  slow  to  tell 
Of  what  the  ingenuous,  what  bewildered  men. 
Beginning  to  mistrust  their  boastful  guides. 

And  wise  men,  willing  to  grow  wiser,  caught. 

Rapt  auditors ! from  thy  most  eloquent  tongue  — 


514 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Now  mute,  for  ever  mute  in  the  cold  grave. 

1 see  liim,  — old,  but  vigorous  in  age, — 

Stand  like  an  oak  vvliose  stag-horn  branches  start 
Out  of  its  leafy  brow,  the  more  to  awe 
The  younger  brethren  of  the  grove.  But  some  — 
While  he  forewarns,  denounces,  launches  forth. 
Against  all  systems  built  on  abstract  rights. 

Keen  ridicule;  the  majesty  proclaims 
Of  Institutes  and  Laws,  hallowed  by  time; 

Declares  the  vital  power  of  social  ties 
Endeared  by  Custom;  and  with  high  disdain. 
Exploding  upstart  Theory,  insists 
Upon  the  allegiance  to  which  men  are  born  — 

Some  — say  at  once  a froward  multitude  — 

• Murmur  (for  truth  is  hated,  where  not  loved) 

As  the  winds  fret  within  the  iEolian  cave. 

Galled  by  their  monarch’s  chain.  The  times  were  big 
With  ominous  change,  which,  night  by  night,  provoked 
Keen  struggles,  and  black  clouds  of  passion  raised  ; 
But  memorable  moments  intervened. 

When  Wisdom,  like  the  Goddess  from  Jove’s  brain. 
Broke  forth  in  armour  of  resplendent  words. 

Startling  the  Synod.  Could  a youth,  and  one 
In  ancient  story  versed,  whose  breast  had  heaved 
Under  the  weight  of  classic  eloquence. 

Sit,  see,  and  hear,  unthankful,  uninspired? 

Nor  did  the  Pulpit’s  oratory  fail 
To  acliieve  its  higher  triumph  — not  unfelt 
Were  its  admonishments,  nor  lightly  heard 
Tlie  awful  truths  delivered  thence  by  tongues 
Endowed  with  various  power  to  search  the  soul ; 

Yet  ostentation  domineering,  oft 

Poured  forth  harangues,  how  sadly  out  of  place ! — 

There  have  I seen  a comely  bachelor. 

Fresh  from  a toilet  of  two  hours,  ascend 
Ilis  rostrum,  with  serapliic  glance  look  up. 

And,  in  a tone  elaborately  low 

Beginning,  lead  his  voice  through  many  a maze 

A minuet  course;  and,  winding  up  his  mouth. 

From  time  to  time,  into  an  orifice 
Most  delicate,  a lurking  eyelet,  small. 

And  only  not  invisible,  again 
Open  it  out,  diffusing  thence  a smile 
Of  rapt  irradiation,  exquisite. 

Meanwhile  the  Evangelists,  Isaiah,  Job, 

Moses,  and  he  who  penned,  the  other  day. 

The  Death  of  Abel,  Shakspeare,  and  the  Bard 
Whose  genius  spangled  o’er  a gloomy  theme 
With  fancies  thick  as  his  inspiring  stars. 

And  Ossian  (doubt  not,  ’tis  the  naked  truth) 

Summoned  from  streamy  Morven  — each  and  all 
Would,  in  their  turns,  lend  ornaments  and  flowers 
To  entwine  the  crook  of  eloquence  that  helped 
This  pretty  Shepherd,  pride  of  all  the  plains. 

To  rule  and  guide  his  captivated  flock. 

1 glance  but  at  a few  conspicuous  marks. 

Leaving  a thousand  others,  that,  in  hall. 


Court,  theatre,  conventicle,  or  shop. 

In  public  room  or  private,  park  or  street. 

Each  fondly  reared  on  his  own  pedestal. 

Looked  out  for  admiration.  Folly,  vice. 
Extravagance  in  gesture,  mien,  and  dress. 

And  all  the  strife  of  singularity. 

Lies  to  the  ear,  and  lies  to  every  sense  — 

Of  these,  and  of  the  living  shapes  they  wear. 

There  is  no  end.  Such  candidates  for  regard. 
Although  well  pleased  to  be  where  they  were  found, 
I did  not  hunt  after,  nor  greatly  prize. 

Nor  made  unto  myself  a secret  boast 
Of  reading  them  with  quick  and  curious  eye; 

But,  as  a common  produce,  things  that  are 
To-day,  to-morrow  will  be,  took  of  them 
Such  willing  note,  as  on  some  errand  bound 
That  asks  not  speed,  a Traveller  might  bestow 
On  sea-shells  that  bestrew  the  sandy  beach. 

Or  daisies  swarming  through  the  fields  of  June. 

But  foolishness  and  madness  in  parade. 

Though  most  at  home  in  this  their  dear  domain, 

Are  scattered  every  where,  no  rarities. 

Even  to  the  rudest  novice  of  the  schools. 

Me,  rather,  it  employed,  to  note,  and  keep 
In  memory,  those  individual  sights 
Of  courage,  or  integrity,  or  truth. 

Or  tenderness,  whicli  there,  set  off  by  foil. 

Appeared  more  touching.  One  will  I select; 

A Father  — for  he  bore  that  sacred  name  — 

Him  saw  I,  sitting  in  an  open  square. 

Upon  a corner-stone  of  that  low  wall. 

Wherein  were  fixed  the  iron  pales  that  fenced 
A spacious  grass-plot ; there,  in  silence,  sate 
This  One  Man,  with  a sickly  babe  outstretched 
Upon  his  knee,  whom  he  had  thitlier  brought 
For  sunshine,  and  to  breatlie  the  fresher  air. 

Of  those  who  passed,  and  me  who  looked  at  him, 

He  took  no  heed ; but  in  his  brawny  arms 
(The  Artificer  was  to  the  elbow  bare. 

And  from  his  work  this  moment  had  been  stolen) 

He  held  the  child,  and,  bending  over  it. 

As  if  he  were  afraid  both  of  the  sun 
And  of  the  air,  which  he  had  come  to  seek. 

Eyed  the  poor  babe  with  love  unutterable. 

As  the  black  storm  upon  the  mountain  top 
Sets  off  the  sunbeam  in  the  valley,  so 
That  huge  fermenting  mass  of  human-kind 
Serves  as  a solemn  back-ground,  or  relief. 

To  single  forms  and  objects,  whence  they  draw. 

For  feeling  and  contemplative  regard. 

More  than  inlierent  liveliness  and  power. 

How  oft,  amid  those  overflowing  streets. 

Have  I gone  forward  with  the  crowd,  and  said 
Unto  myself,  “The  face  of  every  one 
That  passes  by  me  is  a mystery !” 

Thus  have  I looked,  nor  ceased  to  look,  oppressei 
By  thoughts  of  what  and  whither,  when  and  how, 


THE  PRELUDE. 


515 


Until  the  shapes  before  my  eyes  became 
A second-sight  procession,  such  as  glides 
Over  still  mountains,  or  appears  in  dreams; 

And  once,  far-travelled  in  such  mood,  beyond 
The  reach  of  common  indication,  lost 
Amid  the  moving  pageant,  I was  smitten 
Abruptly,  with  the  view  (a  sight  not  rare) 

Of  a blind  Beggar,  who,  with  upright  face, 

Stood,  propped  against  a wall,  upon  his  chest 
Wearing  a written  paper,  to  explain 
His  story,  whence  he  came,  and  who  he  was. 
Caught  by  the  spectacle  my  mind  turned  round 
As  with  the  might  of  waters;  an  apt  type 
This  label  seemed  of  the  utmost  we  can  know. 

Both  of  ourselves  and  of  the  universe; 

And,  on  the  shape  of  that  unmoving  man. 

His  steadfast  face  and  sightless  ej'es,  I gazed, 

As  if  admonished  from  another  world. 

Though  reared  upon  the  base  of  outward  things, 
Structures  like  these  the  excited  spirit  mainly 
Builds  for  herself;  scenes  different  there  are, 
Full-formed,  that  take,  with  small  internal  help, 
Posso.ssion  of  the  faculties,  — the  peace 
That  comes  with  night;  the  deep  solemnity 
Of  nature’s  intermediate  hours  of  rest. 

When  the  great  tide  of  human  life  stands  still; 

The  business  of  the  day  to  come,  unborn. 

Of  that  gone  by,  locked  up,  as  in  the  grave; 

The  blended  calmness  of  the  heavens  and  earth. 
Moonlight  and  stars,  and  empty  streets,  and  sounds 
Unfrequent  as  in  deserts;  at  late  hours 
Of  winter  evenings,  when  unwholesome  rains 
Are  falling  hard,  with  people  yet  astir, 

The  feeble  salutation  from  the  voice 
Of  some  unhappy  woman,  now  and  then 
Heard  as  we  pass,  when  no  one  looks  about. 
Nothing  is  listened  to.  But  these,  I fear,  . 

Are  falsely  catalogued  ; things  that  are,  are  not,  ' 
As  the  mind  answers  to  them,  or  the  heart 
Is  prompt,  or  slow,  to  feel.  What  say  you,  then. 

To  times,  when  half  the  city  shall  break  out 
Full  of  one  passion,  vengeance,  rage,  or  fear  ? 

To  executions,  to  a street  on  fire. 

Mobs,  riots,  or  rejoicings  1 From  these  sights 
Take  one,  — that  ancient  festival,  the  Fair, 

Holden  where  martyrs  suffered  in  past  time. 

And  named  of  St.  Bartholomew ; there,  see 
A work  completed  to  our  hands,  that  lays. 

If  any  spectacle  on  earth  can  do. 

The  whole  creative  powers  of  man  asleep!  — 

For  once,  the  Muse’s  help  will  we  implore. 

And  she  shall  lodge  us,  wafted  on  her  wings. 

Above  the  press  and  danger  of  the  crowd. 

Upon  some  showman’s  platform.  What  a shock 
For  eyes  and  ears  I what  anarchy  and  din, 

Barbarian  and  infernal,  — a phantasma. 

Monstrous  in  colour,  motion,  shape,  sight,  sound  ! 
Below,  the  open  space,  through  every  nook 


Of  the  wide  area,  twinkles,  is  alive 
With  heads;  the  midway  region,  and  above, 

Is  thronged  with  staring  pictures  and  huge  scrolls. 
Dumb  proclamations  of  the  Prodigies; 

With  chattering  monkeys  dangling  from  their  poles 
And  children  whirling  in  their  roundabouts; 

With  those  that  stretch  the  neck  and  strain  the  eyes. 
And  crack  the  voice  in  rivalship,  the  crowd 
Inviting;  with  buffoons  against  buffoons 
Grimacing,  writhing,  screaming,  — him  who  grinds 
The  hurdy-gurdy,  at  the  fiddle  weaves. 

Rattles  the  salt-box,  thumps  the  kettle-drum, 

And  him  who  at  the  trumpet  puffs  his  cheeks. 

The  silver-collared  Negro  with  his  timbrel. 
Equestrians,  tumblers,  women,  girls,  and  boys. 
Blue-breeched,  pink-vested,  with  high-towering 
plumes. — 

All  moveables  of  wonder,  from  all  parts. 

Are  here  — Albinos,  painted  Indians,  Dwarfs, 

The  Horse  of  knowledge,  and  the  learned  Pig, 

The  Stone-eater,  the  man  that  swallows  fire. 

Giants,  Ventriloquists,  the  Invisible  Girl, 

The  Bust  that  speaks  and  moves  its  goggling  eyes. 
The  Wax-work,  Clock-work,  all  the  marvellous  craft, 
Of  modern  Merlins,  Wild  Beasts,  Puppet-shows, 

All  out-o’-the-way,  far-fetched,  perverted  things, 

All  freaks  of  nature,  all  Promethean  thoughts 
Of  man,  his  dullness,  madness,  and  their  feats 
All  jumbled  up  together,  to  compose 
A Parliament  of  Monsters.  Tents  and  Booths 
Meanwhile,  as  if  the  whole  were  one  vast  mill. 

Are  vomiting,  receiving  on  all  sides. 

Men,  women,  three-years’  Children,  Babes  in  arms. 

Oh,  blank  confusion  ! true  epitome 
Of  what  the  mighty  City  is  herself. 

To  thousands  upon  thousands  of  her  sons. 

Living  amid  the  same  perpetual  whirl 

Of  trivial  objects,  melted  and  reduced 

To  one  identity,  by  differences 

That  have  no  law,  no  meaning,  and  no  end  — 

Oppression,  under  which  even  highest  minds 

Must  labour,  whence  the  strongest  are  not  free. 

But  though  the  picture  weary  out  the  eye. 

By  nature  an  unmanageable  sight. 

It  is  not  wholly  so  to  him  who  looks 
In  steadiness,  who  hath  among  least  things 
An  under-sense  of  greatest ; sees  the  parts 
As  parts,  but  with  a feeling  of  the  whole. 

This,  of  all  acquisitions,  first  awaits 

On  sundry  and  most  widely  different  modes 

Of  education,  nor  with  least  delight 

On  that  through  which  I passed.  Attention  springs, 

And  comprehensiveness  and  memory  flow’. 

From  early  converse  with  the  works  of  God 
Among  all  regions;  chiefly  where  appear 
Most  obviously  simplicity  and  power. 

Think,  how  the  everlasting  streams  and  woods, 
Stretched  and  still  stretching  far  and  wide,  exalt 


516 


WOKDSWORTH'S  POETICAL  WOJIKS. 


The  roving  Indian,  on  his  desert  sands: 

What  grandeur  not  unfelt,  what  pregnant  show 
Of  beauty,  meets  the  sun-burnt  Arab’s  eye: 

And,  as  the  sea  propels,  from  zone  to  zone. 

Its  currents;  magnifies  its  shoals  of  life 
Beyond  all  compass ; spreads,  and  sends  aloft 
Armies  of  clouds,  — even  so,  its  powers  and  aspects 
Shape  for  mankind,  by  principles  as  fixed. 

The  views  and  aspirations  of  the  soul 
To  majesty.  Like  virtue  have  the  forms 
Perennial  of  the  ancient  hills ; nor  less 
The  changeful  language  of  their  countenances 
Quickens  the  slumbering  mind,  and  aids  the  thoughts, 


However  multitudinous,  to  move 
With  order  and  relation.  This,  if  still. 

As  hitherto,  in  freedom  I may  speak. 

Not  violating  any  just  restraint. 

As  may  be  hoped,  of  real  modesty,  — 

Tliis  did  I feel,  in  London’s  vast  domain. 

The  Spirit  of  Nature  was  upon  me  there ; 

The  soul  of  Beauty  and  enduring  Life 
Vouchsafed  her  inspiration,  and  diffused. 
Through  meagre  lines  and  colours,  and  the  press 
Of  self-destroying,  transitory  things. 

Composure,  and  ennobling  Harmony. 


BOOK  EIGHTH. 


RETROSPECT.  — LOVE  OF  NATURE  LEADING  TO  LOVE  OF  MAN. 


What  sounds  are  those,  Helvellyn,  that  are  heard 
Up  to  thy  summit,  through  tlie  depth  of  air 
Ascending,  as  if  distance  had  the  power 
To  make  the  sounds  more  audible  ? What  crowd 
Covers,  or  sprinkles  o’er,  yon  village  green  ? 

Crowd  seems  it,  solitary  hill ! to  thee. 

Though  but  a little  family  of  men, 

Shepherds  and  tillers  of  the  ground  — betimes 
Assembled  with  their  children  and  their  wives. 

And  here  and  there  a stranger  interspersed. 

They  hold  a rustic  fair  — a festival. 

Such  as,  on  this  side  now,  and  now  on  that. 

Repeated  through  his  tributary  vales, 

Helvellyn,  in  the  silence  of  his  rest. 

Sees  annually,  if  clouds  towards  either  ocean 

Blown  from  their  favourite  resting-place,  or  mists 

Dissolved,  have  left  him  an  unshrouded  head. 

Delightful  day  it  is  for  all  who  dwell 

In  this  secluded  glen,  and  eagerly 

They  give  it  welcome.  Long  ere  heat  of  noon. 

From  byre  or  field  the  kine  were  brought;  the  sheep 
Are  penned  in  cotes ; the  chaffering  is  begun. 

The  heifer  lows,  uneasy  at  the  voice 
Of  a new  master;  bleat  the  flocks  aloud. 

Booths  are  there  none ; a stall  or  two  is  here  ; 

A lame  man  or  a blind,  the  one  to  beg. 

The  other  to  make  music  ; hither,  too. 

From  far,  with  basket,  slung  upon  her  arm. 

Of  hawker's  wares — books,  pictures,  combs,  and  pins — 
Some  aged  woman  finds  her  way  again. 

Year  after  year,  a punctual  visitant ! 

There  also  stands  a speechmaker  by  rote. 

Pulling  the  strings  of  his  boxed  raree-show ; 

And  in  the  lapse  of  many  years  may  come 


Prouder  itinerant,  mountebank,  or  he 
Whose  wonders  in  a covered  wain  lie  hid. 

But  one  there  is,  the  loveliest  of  them  all. 

Some  sweet  lass  of  the  valley,  looking  out 
For  gains,  and  who  that  sees  her  would  not  buy  1 
Fruits  of  her  father’s  orchard,  are  her  wares. 

And  with  the  ruddy  produce,  she  walks  round 
Among  the  crowd,  half  pleased  with,  half  ashamed 
Of  her  new  office,  blushing  restlessly. 

Tlie  children  now  are  rich,  for  the  old  to-day 
Are  generous  as  the  young;  and,  if  content 
With  looking  on,  some  ancient  wedded  pair 
Sit  in  the  shade  together,  while  they  gaze, 

“A  cheerful  smile  unbends  the  wrinkled  brow. 

The  days  departed  start  again  to  life. 

And  all  the  scenes  of  childhood  reappear, 

Faint,  but  more  tranquil,  like  the  changing  sun 
To  him  who  slept  at  noon  and  wakes  at  eve.”  * 
Thus  gaiety  and  cheerfulness  prevail. 

Spreading  from  young  to  old,  from  old  to  young. 
And  no  one  seems  to  want  his  share.  — Immense 
Is  the  recess,  the  circumambient  world 
Magnificent,  by  which  they  are  embraced: 

They  move  about  upon  the  soft  green  turf : 

How  little  they,  they  and  their  doings,  seem. 

And  all  that  they  can  further  or  obstruct ! 

Through  utter  weakness  pitiably  dear. 

As  tender  infants  are : and  yet  how  great ! 

For  all  things  serve  them  : them  the  morning  light 
Loves,  as  it  glistens  on  the  silent  rocks ; 


* These  lines  are  from  a descriptive  Poem  — “Malvern 
Hills  ” — by  one  of  Mr.  Wordsworth’s  oldest  friends,  Mr. 
Joseph  Cottle. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


517 


And  them  the  silent  rocks,  which  now  from  high 
Look  down  upon  them;  the  reposing  clouds; 

The  wild  brooks  prattling  from  invisible  haunts; 
And  old  Helvellyn,  conscious  of  the  stir 
Which  animates  this  day  their  calm  abode. 

With  deep  devotion,  Nature,  did  I feel. 

In  that  enormous  City’s  turbulent  world 
Of  men  and  tilings,  what  benefit  I owed 
To  thee,  and  those  domains  of  rural  peace. 

Where  to  the  sense  of  beauty  first  my  heart 
Was  opened  ; tract  more  e-xijuisitely  fair 
Than  that  famed  paradise  of  ten  thousand  trees. 

Or  Gehol’s  matchless  gardens,  for  delight 
Of  the  Tartarian  dynasty  composed 
(Beyond  that  mighty  wall,  not  fabulous, 

China’s  stupendous  mound)  by  patient  toil 
Of  myriads  and  boon  nature’s  lavish  help ; 

There,  in  a clime  from  widest  empire  chosen. 
Fulfilling  (could  enchantment  have  done  more)  I 
A sumptuous  dream  of  flowery  lawns, «with  domes 
Of  pleasure  sprinkled  over,  shady  dells 
For  eastern  monasteries,  sunny  mounts 
With  temples  crested,  bridges,  gondolas. 

Rocks,  dens,  and  groves  of  foliage  taught  to  melt 
Into  each  other  their  obsequious  hues, 

^’anished  and  vanishing  in  subtle  chase. 

Too  fine  to  be  pursued ; or  standing  forth 
In  no  discordant  opposition,  strong 
And  gorgeous  as  the  colours  side  by  side 
Bedded  among  rich  plumes  of  tropic  birds; 

And  mountains  over  all,  embracing  all  ; 

And  all  the  landscape,  endlessly  enriched 
With  waters  running,  falling,  or  asleep. 

But  lovelier  far  than  this,  the  paradise 
Where  I was  reared;  in  Nature’s  primitive  gifts 
Favoured  no  less,  and  more  to  every  sense 
Delicious,  seeing  that  the  sun  and  sky. 

The  elements,  and  seasons  as  they  change,’ 

Do  find  a worthy  fellow-labourer  there  — 

Man  free,  man  working  for  himself,  with  choice 
Of  time,  and  place,  and  object;  by  his  wants. 

His  comforts,  native  occupations,  cares. 

Cheerfully  led  to  individual  ends 
Or  social,  and  still  followed  by  a train 
Unwooed,  unthought-of  even — simplicity, 

And  beauty,  and  inevitable  grace. 

Yea,  when  a glimpse  of  those  imperial  bowers 
Would  to  a child  be  transport  over-great. 

When  but  a half-hour’s  roam  through  such  a place 
Would  leave  behind  a dance  of  images. 

That  shall  break  in  upon  his  sleep  for  weeks; 

Even  then  the  common  haunts  of  the  green  earth, 
And  ordinary  interests  of  man. 

Which  they  embosom,  all  without  regard 
As  both  may  seem,  are  fastening  on  the  heart 
Insensibly,  each  with  the  other’s  help. 


For  me,  when  my  affections  first  were  led 
From  kindred,  friends,  and  playmates,  to  partake 
Love  for  the  human  creature’s  absolute  self. 

That  noticeable  kindliness  of  heart 
Sprang  out  of  fountains,  there  abounding  most 
Where  sovereign  Nature  dictated  the  tasks 
And  occupations  which  her  beauty  adorned. 

And  Shepherds  were  the  men  that  pleased  me  first; 
Not  such  as  Saturn  ruled  ’mid  Lutian  wilds. 

With  arts  and  laws  .so  tempered,  that  their  lives 
Left,  even  to  us  toiling  in  this  late  dayq 
A bright  tradition  of  the  golden  age; 

Not  such  as,  ’mid  Arcadian  fastnesses 
Sequestered,  handed  down  among  themselves 
Felicity,  in  Grecian  song  renowned  ; 

Nor  such  as,  when  an  adverse  fate  had  driven, 

From  house  and  home,  the  courtly  band  whose  fortunes 
Entered,  with  Sliakspeare’s  genius,  the  wild  woods 
Of  Arden,  amid  sunshine  or  in  shade. 

Culled  the  best  fruits  of  Time’s  uncounted  hours. 

Ere  Fhcebe  sighed  for  the  false  Ganymede; 

Or  there  where  Perdita  and  Florizcl 
Together  danced.  Queen  of  the  feast,  and  King; 

Nor  such  as  Spenser  fabled.  True  it  is. 

That  I had  heard  (what  he  perhaps  had  seen) 

Of  maids  at  sunrise  bringing  in  from  far 
Their  May-bush,  and  along  the  street  in  flocks 
Parading  with  a song  of  taunting  rhymes. 

Aimed  at  the  laggards  slumbering  within  doors; 

Had  also  heard,  from  those  who  yet  remembered. 

Tales  of  the  May-pole  dance,  and  wreaths  that  decked 
Porch,  door-way,  or  kirk-pillar;  and  of  youths. 

Each  with  his  maid,  before  the  sun  was  up. 

By  annual  custom,  issuing  forth  in  troops. 

To  drink  the  waters  of  some  sainted  well. 

And  hang  it  round  with  garlands.  Love  survives; 

But,  for  such  purpose,  flowers  no  longer  grow : 

The  times,  too  sage,  perhaps  too  proud,  have  dropped 
These  lighter  graces;  and  the  rural  ways 
And  manners  which  my  childhood  looked  upon 
Were  the  unluxuriant  produce  of  a life 
Intent  on  little  but  substantial  needs. 

Yet  rich  in  beauty,  beauty  that  was  felt. 

But  images  of  danger  and  distress, 

Man  suffering  among  awful  Powers  and  Forms; 

Of  this  I heard,  and  saw  enough  to  make 
Imagination  restless;  nor  was  free 
Myself  from  frequent  perils;  nor  W'ere  tales 
Wanting, — the  tragedies  of  former  times. 

Hazards  and  strange  escape-s  of  which  the  rocks 
Immutable  and  everflowing  streams. 

Where’er  I roamed,  were  speaking  monuments. 

Smooth  life  had  flock  and  shepherd  in  old  time. 

Long  springs  and  tepid  winters,  on  the  banks 

Of  delicate  Galesus;  and  no  less 

Those  scattered  along  Adria’s  myrtle  shores: 

Smooth  life  had  herdsman,  and  his  snow-white  herd 
To  triumphs  and  to  sacrificial  rites 
41 


518 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Devoted,  on  the  inviolable  stream 
Of  rich  Clitumnus;  and  the  goat-herd  lived 
As  calmly,  underneath  the  pleasant  brows 
Of  cool  Lucretilis,  where  the  pipe  was  heard 
Of  Pan,  Invisible  God,  thrilling  the  rocks 
With  tutelary  music,  from  all  harm 
The  fold  protecting.  I myself,  mature 
In  manhood  then,  have  seen  a pastoral  tract 
Like  one  of  these,  where  Fancy  might  run  wild, 
Though  under  skies  less  generous,  less  serene  : 

There,  for  her  own  deliglit  had  Nature  framed 
A pleasure-ground,  diffused  a fair  exjranse 
Of  level  pasture,  islanded  with  groves 
And  banked  with  woody  risings ; but  the  Plain 
Endless,  here  opening  widely  out,  and  there 
Shut  up  in  lesser  lakes  or  beds  of  lawn 
And  intricate  recesses,  creek  or  bay 
Sheltered  within  a shelter,  where  at  large 
Tlie  shepherd  strays,  a rolling  hut  his  home. 

Thither  he  comes  with  spring-time,  there  abides 
All  summer,  and  at  sunrise  ye  may  hear 
His  flageolet  to  liquid  notes  of  love 
Attuned,  or  sprightly  fife  resounding  far. 

Nook  is  there  none,  nor  tract  of  tliat  vast  space 
Where  passage  opens,  but  the  same  shall  have 
In  turn  its  visitant,  telling  there  his  hours 
In  unlaborious  pleasure,  with  no  task 
More  toilsome  than  to  carve  a beechen  bowl 
For  spring  or  fountain,  which  the  traveller  finds. 

When  through  the  region  he  pursues  at  will 
His  devious  course.  A glimpse  of  such  sweet  life 
I saw  when,  from  the  melancholy  walls 
Of  Goslar,  once  imperial,  I renewed 
My  daily  walk  along  that  wide  champaign. 

That,  reaching  to  her  gates,  spreads  east  and  west. 
And  northwards,  from  beneath  the  mountainous  verge 
Of  the  Hercynian  forest.  Yet,  hail  to  you 
Moors,  mountains,  headlands,  and  ye  hollow  vales. 

Ye  long  deep  channels  for  the  Atlantic’s  voice, 

Powers  of  my  native  region  ! Ye  that  seize 

The  heart  with  firmer  grasp  ! Your  snows  and  streams 

Ungovernable,  and  your  terrifying  winds. 

That  howl  so  dismally  for  him  wlio  treads 
Companionless  your  awful  solitudes  I 
There,  ’tis  the  shepherd’s  task  the  winter  long 
To  wait  upon  the  storms : of  tireir  approach 
Sagacious,  into  sheltering  coves  he  drives 
His  flock,  and  thither  from  the  homestead  bears 
A toilsome  burden  up  the  craggy  ways. 

And  deals  it  out,  their  regular  nourishment 
Strewn  on  the  frozen  snow.  And  when  the  spring 
Looks  out,  and  all  the  pastures  dance  with  lambs. 

And  when  the  flock,  with  warmer  weather,  climbs 
Higher  and  higlier,  him  his  office  leads 
To  watch  their  goings,  whatsoever  track 
The  wanderers  choose,  k’or  this  he  quits  his  home 
At  day-spring,  and  no  sooner  doth  the  sun 
Begin  to  strike  him  with  a fire-like  heat. 

Than  he  lies  down  upon  some  shining  rock, 


And  breakfasts  with  his  dog.  When  they  have  stolen, 
As  is  their  wont,  a pittance  from  strict  time, 

For  rest  not  needed  or  exchange  of  love. 

Then  from  his  couch  he  starts ; and  now  his  feet 
Cru.sh  out  a livelier  fragrance  from  the  flowers 
Of  lowly  thyme,  by  Nature’s  skill  enwrought 
In  the  wild  turf:  the  lingering  dews  of  morn 
Smoke  round  him,  as  from  hill  to  hill  he  hies, 

His  staff  protending  like  a hunter’s  spear. 

Or  by  its  aid  leaping  from  crag  to  crag. 

And  o’er  the  brawling  beds  of  nnbridged  streams. 
Philosophy,  methinks,  at  Fancy’s  call. 

Might  deign  to  follow  him  through  what  he  does 
Or  sees  in  his  day’s  march;  himself  he  feels. 

In  those  vast  regions  where  his  service  lies, 

A freeman,  wedded  to  bis  life  of  hope 
And  hazard,  and  hard  labour  interchanged 
With  that  majestic  indolence  so  dear 
To  native  man.  A rambling  school-boy,  thus 
I felt  his  presence  in  his  own  domain. 

As  of  a lord  ani  master,  or  a pwwer. 

Or  genius,  under  Nature,  under  God, 

Presiding;  and  severest  solitude 

Had  more  commanding  looks  when  he  was  there. 

When  up  the  lonely  brooks  on  rainy  days 

Angling  I w'ent,  or  trod  the  trackless  hills 

By  mists  bewildered,  suddenly  mine  eyes 

Have  glanced  upon  him  distant  a few  steps. 

In  size  a giant,  stalkiiag  tlwough  thick  fog. 

His  sheep  like  Greenland  bears;  or,  as  he  stepped 
Beyond  the  boundary  line  of  some  hill-shadow. 

His  form  hath  flashed  upon  me,  glorified 
By  the  deep  radiance  of  the  setting  sun : 

Or  him  have  I descried  in  distant  sky, 

A solitary  object  and  sublime 

Above  all  height ! like  an  aerial  cross 

Stationed  alone  upon  a spiry  rock 

Of  the  Chartreuse,  for  worship.  Thus  was  mao 

Ennobled  outwardly  before  my  sight. 

And  thus  my  heart  was  early  introduced 
To  an  unconscious  love  and  reverence 
Of  human  nature  ; hence  the  human  forna 
To  me  became  an  index  of  delight. 

Of  grace  and  honour,  power  and  worthiness. 
Meanwhile  this  creature  — spiritual  almost 
As  those  of  books,  but  more  exalted  far; 

Far  more  of  an  imaginative  form 

Than  the  gay  Corin  of  the  groves,  who  lives 

For  his  own  fancies,  or  to  dance  by  the  hour. 

In  coronal,  with  Phyllis  in  the  midst  — 

Was,  for  the  purposes  of  kind,  a man 
With  the  most  common;  husband,  father;  fearn*u. 
Could  teach,  admonish;  suffered  with  the  rest 
From  vice  and  folly,  wretchedness  and  fear; 

Of  this  I little  saw,  cared  less  for  it, 

But  something  must  have  felt. 

Call  ye  these  appearances  - 
Wi.ich  I beheld  of  shepherds  in  my  youth. 

This  sanctity  of  Nature  given  to  man — ■ 


THE  PRELUDE. 


519 


A shadow,  a delusion,  ye  who  pore 

On  the  dead  letter,  miss  the  spirit  of  things; 

Whose  truth  is  not  a motion  or  a shape 
Instinct  with  vital  functions,  but  a block 
Or  waxen  image  w'hich  yourselves  have  made, 

And  ye  adore!  But  blessed  be  the  God 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man  that  this  was  so; 

That  men  before  my  inexperienced  eyes 
Did  first  present  tliemselves  thus  purified. 

Removed,  and  to  a distance  tliat  was  fit: 

And  so  we  all  of  us  in  some  degree 
Are  led  to  knowledge,  wheresoever  led. 

And  howsoever ; were  it  otherwise. 

And  we  found  evil  fast  as  we  find  good 
In  our  first  years,  or  tliink  that  it  is  found. 

How  could  the  innocent  heart  bear  up  and  live! 

But  doubly  fortunate  my  lot ; not  here 
Alone,  that  something  of  a better  life 
Perhaps  was  round  me  than  it  is  the  privilege 
Of  most  to  move  in,  but  that  first  I looked  v 
At  Man  through  objects  that  were  great  or  fair;  \ 
First  communed  with  liim  by  tlieir  help.  And  thus 
Was  founded  a sure  safeguard  and  defence 
Against  tlie  weight  of  meanness,  selfish  cares, 
Coarse  manners,  vulgar  passions,  that  beat  in 
On  all  sides  from  the  ordinary  world 
In  which  we  traffic.  Starting  from  tliis  point 
I had  my  face  turned  toward  the  truth,  began 
With  an  advantage  furnished  by  that  kind 
Of . prepossession,  w'ithout  which  the  soul 
Receives  no  knowledge  that  can  bring  forth  good. 

No  genuine  insight  ever  comes  to  her. 

From  the  restraint  of  over-watchful  eyes 
Preserved,  I moved  about,  year  after  year. 

Happy,  and  now  most  thankful  that  my  wall 
Was  guarded  from  too  early  intercourse 
With  the  deformities  of  crowded  life. 

And  those  ensuing  laughters  and  contempts. 
Self-pleasing,  which,  if  we  would  wish  to  think 
With  a due  reverence  on  eartli’s  rightful  lord. 

Here  placed  to  be  the  inheritor  of  heaven, 

Will  not  permit  us;  but  pursue  the  mind, 

That  to  devotion  willingly  would  rise. 

Into  the  temple  and  the  temple’s  heart. 

Yet  deem  not,  Friend  ! that  human  kind  with  me 
Thus  early  took  a place  pre-eminent; 

Nature  herself  was,  at  this  unripe  time 
But  secondary  to  my  own  pursuits 
And  animal  activities,  and  all 

Their  trivial  pleasures;  and  when  these  had  drooped 
And  gradually  expired,  and  Nature,  prized 
For  her  own  sake,  became  my  joy,  even  then  — 

And  upwards  through  late  youth,  until  not  less 
Than  two-and-twenty  summers  had  been  told  — 

Was  Man  in  my  affections  and  regards 
Subordinate  to  her,  her  visible  forms 
And  viewless  agencies : a passion,  she, 

A rapture  often,  and  immediate  love 


Ever  at  hand  ; he,  only  a delight 
Occasional,  and  accidental  grace. 

His  hour  being  not  yet  come.  Far  less  had  then 
The  inferior  creatures,  beast  or  bird,  attuned 
My  spirit  to  that  gentleness  of  love 
(Though  they  had  long  been  carefully  observed), 

Won  from  me  those  minute  obeisances 
Of  tenderness,  which  I may  number  now 
With  my  first  blessings.  Nevertheless,  on  these 
The  light  of  beauty  did  not  fall  in  vain. 

Or  grandeur  circumfuse  them  to  no  end. 

But  w'hen  that  first  poetic  faculty 
Of  plain  Imagination  and  severe. 

No  longer  a mute  influence  of  the  soul. 

Ventured,  at  some  rash  Muse's  earnest  call. 

To  try  her  strength  among  harmonious  words; 

And  to  book-notions  and  the  rules  of  art 
Did  knowingly  conform  itself:  there  came 
Among  the  simple  shapes  of  human  life 
A wilfulness  of  fancy  and  conceit; 

And  nature  and  her  objects  beautified 
These  fictions,  as  in  some  sort,  in  their  turn. 

They  burnished  her.  From  touch  of  this  new  power 
Nothing  was  safe:  the  elder-tree  that  grew 
Beside  the  well-known  charnel-house  had  then 
A dismal  look:  the  yew-tree  had  its  ghost. 

That  look  his  station  there  for  ornament: 

The  dignities  of  plain  occurrence  then 
Were  tasteless,  and  truth’s  golden  mean,  a point 
Where  no  sufficient  pleasure  could  be  found. 

Then,  if  a widow,  staggering  with  the  blow 
Of  her  distress,  was  known  to  have  turned  her  steps 
To  the  cold  grave  in  which  her  husband  slept. 

One  night,  or  haply  more  than  one,  through  pain 
Or  half-insensate  impotence  of  mind. 

The  fact  was  caught  at  greedily,  and  there 
She  must  be  visitant  the  whole  year  through, 
Wetting  the  turf  with  never-ending  tears. 

Through  quaint  obliquities  I might  pursue 
These  cravings;  when  the  fox-glove,  one  by  one. 
Upwards  through  every  stage  of  the  tall  stem. 

Had  shed  beside  the  public  way  its  bells. 

And  stood  of  all  dismantled,  save  the  last 
Left  at  the  tapering  ladder’s  top,  that  seemed 
To  bend  as  doth  a slender  blade  of  grass 
Tipped  with  a rain-drop.  Fancy  loved  to  seat, 

Beneath  the  plant  despoiled,  but  crested  still 
With  this  last  relic,  soon  itself  to  fall. 

Some  vagrant  mother,  whose  arch  little  ones. 

All  unconcerned  by  her  dejected  plight. 

Laughed  as  with  rival  eagerness  their  hands 
Gathered  the  purple  cups  that  round  them  lay. 
Strewing  the  turf’s  green  slope. 

A diamond  light 

(Whene'er  the  summer  sun,  declining,  smote 
A smooth  rock  wet  with  constant  springs)  was  seen 
Sparkling  from  out  a copse-clad  bank  that  rose 


5-20 


WOEDSWOUTII’ S POETICAL  WORKS. 


Fronting  our  cottage.  Ofl  beside  the  hearth 
Seated,  with  open  door,  often  and  long 
Upon  this  restless  lustre  have  1 gazed. 

That  made  my  fancy  restless  as  itself. 

’Tvvas  now  for  me  a burnished  silver  shield 
Suspended  over  a knight’s  tomb,  who  lay 
Inglorious,  buried  in  the  dusky  wood  ; 

An  entrance  now  into  some  magic  cave 
Or  palace  built  by  fairies  of  the  rock  ; 

Nor  could  I have  been  bribed  to  disenchant 
The  spectacle,  by  visiting  the  spot. 

Thus  wilful  Fancy,  in  no  hurtful  nrood. 

Ingrafted  fiir-fetched  shapes  on  feelings  bred 

By  pure  Imagination  : busy  Power 

She  was,  and  with  her  ready  pupil  turned 

Instinctively  to  human  passions,  then 

Least  understood.  Yet,  ’mid  the  fervent  swarm 

Of  these  vagaries,  with  an  eye  so  rich 

As  mine  was  through  the  bounty  of  a grand 

And  lovely  region,  I had  forms  distinct 

To  steady  me:  each  airy  thought  revolved 

Round  a substantial  centre,  which  at  once 

Incited  it  to  motion,  and  controlled. 

I did  not  pine  like  one  in  cities  bred. 

As  was  thy  melancholy  lot,  dear  Friend  t 
Great  Spirit  as  tliou  art,  in  endless  dreams 
Of  sickliness,  disjoining,  joining,  things 
WitlioKt  the  light  of  knowledge.  Where  the  barm, 
If,  when  the  woodman  languished  with  disease 
Induced  by  sleeping  niglitly  on  the  ground 
Within  his  sod-built  cabin,  Indian-wise, 

I called  the  pangs  of  disappointed  love. 

And  all  the  sad  etcetera  of  tlie  wrong. 

To  help  him  to  his  grave.  Meanwhile  the  man. 

If  not  already  from  the  woods  retired 
To  die  at  home,  was  haply  as  I knew. 

Withering  by  slow  degrees,  ’mid  gentle  airs. 

Birds,  running  streams,  and  hills  so  beautiful 
On  golden  evenings,  while  the  charcoal  pile 
Breathed  up  its  smoke,  an  image  of  his  ghost 
Or  spirit  that  full  soon  must  take  her  flight. 

Nor  shall  we  not  be  tending  towards  that  point 
Of  sound  humanity  to  which  our  Tale 
Leads,  though  by  sinuous  ways,  if  here  I show 
How  Fancy,  in  a season  when  she  wove 
Those  slender  cords,  to  guide  tlie  unconscious  Boy 
For  the  Man’s  sake,  could  feed  at  Nature’s  call 
Some  pensive  rniisings  which  might  well  beseem 
Maturer  years. 

A grove  there  is  whose  boughs 
Stretch  from  the  western  marge  of  Thurston-mere, 
With  length  of  shade  so  thick,  that  whoso  glides 
Along  the  line  of  low-roofed  water,  moves 
As  in  a cloister.  Once  — while,  in  that  shade 
Loitering,  I vvalclied  the  golden  beams  of  light 
Flung  from  tlie  setting  sun,  as  they  reposed 
In  silent  beauty  on  the  naked  ridge 
Of  a high  eastern  hill  — thus  flowed  my  thoughts 
In  a pure  stream  of  words  fresh  from  the  heart; 


* Dear  native  Regions,  wheresoe’er  shall  close 
My  mortal  course,  tliere  will  I think  on  you  ; 
Dying,  will  cast  on  you  a backward  look; 

Even  as  this  setting  sun  (albeit  the  Vale 
Is  nowhere  touched  by  one  memorial  gleam) 

Doth  with  the  fond  remains  of  his  last  power 
Still  linger,  and  a farewell  lustre  sheds 
On  the  dear  mountain-tops  where  first  he  rose. 

Enough  of  humble  arguments ; recall. 

My  Song!  those  high  emotions  which  thy  voice 
Has  heretofore  made  known ; that  bursting  forth 
Of  sympathy,  inspiring  and  inspired. 

When  every  where  a vital  pulse  was  felt. 

And  all  the  several  frames  of  things,  like  stars, 
Through  every  magnitude  distinguishable, 

Shone  mutually  indebted,  or  half  lost. 

Each  in  the  other’s  blaze,  a galaxy 

Of  life  and  glory.  In  the  midst  stood  Man, 

Outwardly,  inwardly  contemplated. 

As,  of  all  visible  natures,  crown,  though  bom 
Of  dust,  and  kindred  to  the  worm  ; a Being, 

Both  in  perception  and  discernment,  first 
In  every  capability  of  rapture. 

Through  the  divine  effect  of  pow’er  and  love; 

As,  more  than  any  thing  we  know,  instinct 
With  godhead,  and,  by  reason  and  by  will. 
Acknowledging  dependency  sublime. 

Ere  long,  the  lonely  mountains  left,  I moved, 
Begirt,  from  day  to  day,  with  temptjra!  shapes 
Of  vice  and  folly  thrust  upon  my  view. 

Objects  of  sport,  and  ridicule,  and  scorn. 

Maimers  and  characters  discriminate. 

And  little  hustling  passions  that  eclipse. 

As  well  they  might,  the  impersonated  thought. 
The  idea,  or  the  abstraction  of  the  kind. 

An  idler  among  academic  bowers, 

Such  was- my  new  condition,  as  at  large 
j Has  been  set  forth ; yet  here  the  vulgar  light 
Of  present,  actual,  superficial  life, 
j Gleaming  through  colouring  of  other  times, 

I Old  usages  and  local  privilege, 
j Was  welcome,  softened,  if  not  solemnized. 

This  notwithstanding,  being  brought  more  near 
To  vice  and  guilt,  forerunning  wretchedness, 

I trembled,  — thought,  at  times,  of  human  life 
With  an  indefinite  terror  and  dismay, 

Snell  as  the  storms  and  angry  elements 
Had  bred  in  me ; but  gloomier  far,  a dim 
Analogy  to  uproar  and  misrule. 

Disquiet,  danger,  and  obscurity. 

It  might  be  told  (but  wherefore  speak  of  things 
j Common  to  all  ?)  that,  seeing,  I was  led 
Gravely  to  ponder — judging  between  good 

I * See  ante,  p.  25. 


THE  PRELUDE. 


521 


And  evil,  not  as  for  the  mind’s  delight 
But  for  her  guidance  — one  who  was  to  act, 

As  sometimes  to  tlie  best  of  feeble  means 
1 did,  by  human  sympathy  impelled  : 

And,  through  dislike  and  most  offensive  pain, 

Was  to  the  truth  conducted;  of  this  faith 
Never  forsaken,  that,  by  acting  well. 

And  understanding,  I should  learn  to  love 
The  end  of  life,  and  every  thing  we  know. 

Grave  teacher,  stern  Preceptress ! for  at  times 
Thou  canst  put  on  an  aspect  most  severe; 

London,  to  thee  I willingly  return. 

Erewhile  my  verse  played  idly  with  the  flowers 
Enwrought  upon  thy  mantle;  satisfied 
With  that  amusement,  and  a simple  look 
Of  child-like  inquisition  now  and  then 
Cast  upwards  on  thy  countenance,  to  detect 
Some  inner  meanings  which  might  harbour  there. 
But  how  could  I in  mood  so  light  indulge. 

Keeping  such  fresh  remembrance  of  the  day. 
When,  having  thridded  the  long  labyrinth 
Of  the  suburban  villages,  I first 
Entered  thy  vast  dominion  1 On  the  roof 
Of  an  itinerant  vehicle  I sate. 

With  vulgar  men  about  me,  trivial  forms 
Of  houses,  pavement,  streets,  of  men  and  things, — 
Mean  shapes  on  every  side:  but,  at  the  instant. 
When  to  myself  it  fairly  might  be  said. 

Tire  threshold  now  is  overpast  (how  strange 
That  aught  external  to  the  living  mind 
Should  have  such  mighty  sway  ! yet  so  it  was), 

A weight  of  ages  did  at  once  descend 
Upon  my  heart;  no  thought  embodied,  no 
Distinct  remembrances,  but  weight  and  power, — 
Power  growing  under  weight : alas ! I feel 
That  I am  trifling:  ’twas  a moment’s  pause, — 

All  that  took  place  within  me  came  and  went 
As  in  a moment;  yet  with  Time  it  dwells. 

And  grateful  memory,  as  a thing  divine. 

The  curious  traveller,  who,  from  open  day, 

Hath  passed  with  torches  into  some  huge  cave. 

The  Grotto  of  Antiparos,  or  the  Den 
In  old  time  haunted  by  that  Danish  Witch, 

Yordas;  he  looks  around  and  sees  the  vault 
Widening  on  all  sides;  sees,  or  thinks  he  sees, 
Erelong,  the  massy  roof  above  his  head. 

That  instantly  unsettles  and  recede.s, — 

Substance  and  shadow,  light  and  darkness,  all 
Commingled,  making  up  a canopy 
Of  shapes  and  forms  and  tendencies  to  shape 
That  shift  and  vanish,  change  and  interchange 
Like  spectres, — ferment  silent  and  sublime ! 

That  after  a short  space  works  less  and  less, 

Till,  every  effort,  every  motion  gone. 

The  scene  before  him  stands  in  perfect  view 
Exposed,  and  lifeless  as  a written  book ! — 

But  let  him  pause  awhile,  and  look  again, 

3Q 


I And  a new  quickening  shall  succeed,  at  first 
Beginning  timidly,  then  creeping  fast. 

Till  the  whole  cave,  so  late  a senseless  mass. 

Busies  the  eye  with  images  and  forms 
Boldly  assembled,  — here  is  shadowed  forth 
From  the  projections,  wrinkles,  cavities, 

A variegated  landscape,  — there  the  shape 
Of  some  gigantic  warrior  clad  in  mail. 

The  ghostly  semblance  of  a hooded  monk. 

Veiled  nun,  or  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff: 

Strange  congregation  ! yet  not  slow  to  meet 
Eyes  that  perceive  through  minds  that  can  inspire 

Even  in  such  sort  had  I at  first  been  moved. 

Nor  otherwise  continued  to  be  moved. 

As  I explored  the  vast  metropolis. 

Fount  of  my  country’s  destiny  and  the  world’s; 

That  great  emporium,  chronicle  at  once 
And  burial-place  of  passions,  and  their  home 
Imperial,  their  chief  living  residence. 

With  strong  sensations  teeming  as  it  did 
Of  past  and  present,  such  a place  must  needs 
Have  pleased  me,  seeking  knowledge  at  that  time 
Far  less  than  craving  power;  yet  knowledge  came. 
Sought  or  unsought,  and  influxes  of  power 
Came,  of  themselves,  or  at  her  call  derived 
In  fits  of  kindliest  apprehensiveness. 

From  all  sides,  when  whate’er  was  in  itself 
Capacious  found,  or  seemed  to  find,  in  me 
A correspondent  amplitude  of  mind  ; 

Such  is  the  strength  and  glory  of  our  youth ! 

The  human  nature  unto  which  I felt 
That  I belonged,  and  reverenced  with  love. 

Was  not  a punctual  presence,  but  a spirit 
Diffused  through  time  and  space,  with  aid  derived 
Of  evidence  from  monuments,  erect, 

Prostrate,  or  leaning  tow'ards  their  common  rest 
In  earth,  the  widely  scattered  wreck  sublime 
Of  vanished  nations,  or  more  clearly  drawn 
From  books  and  what  they  picture  and  record. 

’Tis  true,  the  history  of  our  native  land. 

With  those  of  Greece  compared  and  popular  Rome 
And  in  our  high-wrought  modern  narratives 
Stript  of  their  harmonizing  soul,  the  life 
Of  manners  and  familiar  incidents. 

Had  never  much  delighted  me.  And  less 
Than  other  intellects  had  mine  been  used 
To  lean  upon  extrinsic  circumstance 
Of  record  or  tradition  ; but  a sense 
Of  what  in  the  Great  City  had  been  done 
And  suffered,  and  was  doing,  suffering,  still. 

Weighed  with  me,  could  support  the  test  of  thought; 
And,  in  despite  of  all  that  had  gone  by, 

Or  was  departing  never  to  return. 

There  I conversed  with  majesty  and  power 
Like  independent  natures.  Hence  the  place 
Was  thronged  with  impregnations  like  the  Wildb 

44# 


522 


WORDSWORTH’S  P 0 E TI C A L W 0 R K S . 


In  which  my  early  feelings  had  been  nursed  — 

Bare  hills  and  valleys,  full  of  caverns,  rocks 
And  audible  seclusions,  dashing  lakes. 

Echoes  and  waterfalls,  and  pointed  crags 
That  into  music  touch  the  passing  wind. 

Here  then  my  young  imagination  found 
No  uncongenial  element;  could  here 
Among  new  objects  serve  or  give  command, 

Even  as  the  heart’s  occasions  might  require. 

To  forward  reason’s  else  too  scrupulous  march. 

The  effect  was,  still  more  elevated  views 
Of  human  nature.  Neither  vice  nor  guilt. 
Debasement  undergone  by  body  or  mind. 

Nor  all  the  misery  forced  upon  my  sight. 

Misery  not  lightly  passed,  but  sometimes  scanned 
Most  feelingly,  could  overthrow  my  trust 
In  what  we  may  become;  induce  belief 
That  I was  ignorant,  had  been  falsely  taught, 

A solitary,  who  with  vain  conceits 

Had  been  inspired,  and  walked  about  in  dreams. 

From  those  sad  scenes  when  meditation  turned, 

Lo ! every  thing  that  was  indeed  divine 
Retained  its  purity  inviolate. 

Nay  brighter  shone,  by  this  portentous  gloom 
Set  off;  such  opposition  as  aroused 
The  mind  of  Adam,  yet  in  Paradise 
Though  fallen  from  bliss,  when  in  the  East  he  saw 
* Darkness  ere  day’s  mid  course,  and  morning  light 


More  orient  in  the  western  cloud,  that  drew 
O’er  the  blue  firmament  a radiant  white. 
Descending  slow  with  something  heavenly  fraught. 

Add  also,  that  among  the  multitudes 
Of  that  huge  city,  oftentimes  was  seen 
Affectingly  set  forth,  more  than  elsewhere 
Is  possible,  the  unity  of  man. 

One  spirit  over  ignorance  and  vice 
Predominant,  in  good  and  evil  hearts; 

One  sense  for  moral  judgments,  as  one  eye 
For  the  sun’s  light.  The  soul  when  smitten  thus 
By  a sublime  idea,  whencesoe’er 
Vouchsafed  for  union  or  communion,  feeds 
On  the  pure  bliss,  and  takes  her  rest  with  God. 

Thus  from  a very  early  age,  O Friend ! 

My  thoughts  by  slow  gradations  had  been  drawn 
To  human-kind,  and  to  the  good  and  ill 
Of  human  life:  Nature  had  led  me  on  ; 

And  oft  amid  the  “ busy  hum”  I seemed 
To  travel  independent  of  her  help. 

As  if  I had  forgotten  her ; but  no, 

The  world  of  human-kind  outweighed  not  hers 
In  my  habitual  thoughts;  the  scale  of  love, 

Though  filling  daily,  still  was  light  compared 
With  that  in  which  her  mighty  objects  lay. 


BOOK  NINTH. 


RESIDENCE  IN  FRANCE. 


Even  as  a river,  — partly  (it  might  seem) 

Yielding  to  old  remembrances,  and  swayed 
In  part  by  fear  to  shape  a way  direct. 

That  would  engulph  him  soon  in  the  ravenous  sea  — 
Turns,  and  will  measure  back  his  course,  far  back, 
Seeking  the  very  regions  which  he  crossed 
In  his  first  outset ; so  have  we,  my  Friend  ! 

Turned  and  returned  with  intricate  delay. 

Or  as  a traveller,  who  has  gained  the  brow 
Of  some  aerial  Down,  while  there  he  halts 
For  breathing-time,  is  tempted  to  review 
The  region  left  behind  him;  and,  if  aught 
Deserving  notice  have  escaped  regard. 

Or  been  regarded  with  too  careless  eye. 

Strives,  from  that  height,  with  one  and  yet  one  more 
Last  look  to  make  the  best  amends  he  may : 

So  have  we  lingered.  Now  we  start  afresh 


♦ From  Milton,  Par.  Lost,  xi.  204. 


With  courage,  and  new  hope  risen  on  our  toil. 

Fair  greetings  to  this  shapeless  eagerness. 

Whene’er  it  comes!  needful  in  work  so  long. 

Thrice  needful  to  the  argument  which  now 
Awaits  us ! Oh,  how  much  unlike  the  past ! 

Free  as  a colt  at  pasture  on  the  hill, 

I ranged  at  large,  through  London’s  wide  domain, 
Month  after  month.  Obscurely  did  I live. 

Not  seeking  frequent  intercourse  with  men. 

By  literature,  or  elegance,  or  rank, 

Distinguished.  Scarcely  was  a year  thus  spent 
Ere  I forsook  the  crowded  solitude. 

With  less  regret  for  its  In.xurious  pomp. 

And  all  the  nicely-guarded  shows  of  art. 

Than  for  the  humble  book-stalls  in  the  streets, 

E.xposed  to  eye  and  hand  where’er  I turned. 

France  lured  me  forth ; the  realm  that  I had  crossed 
So  lately,  journeying  toward  the  snow-clad  Alps. 


THE  PKELIJDE. 


523 


But  now,  relinquishing  the  scrip  and  staff, 

And  all  enjoyment  which  the  summer  sun 
Sheds  round  the  steps  of  those  who  meet  the  day 
With  motion  constant  as  his  own,  I went 
Prepared  to  sojourn  in  a pleasant  town, 

Washed  by  the  current  of  the  stately  Loire. 

Through  Pans  lay  my  readiest  course,  and  there 
Sojourning  a few  days,  I visited. 

In  haste,  each  spot  of  old  or  recent  fame. 

The  latter  chiefly  ; from  the  field  of  Mars 
Down  to  the  suburbs  of  St.  Antony, 

And  from  Mont  Martyr  southward  to  the  Dome 
Of  Genievieve.  In  both  her  clamorous  Halls, 

The  National  Synod  and  the  Jacobins, 

I saw  the  Revolutionary  Power 

Toss  like  a ship  at  anchor,  rocked  by  storms; 

The  Arcades  I traversed,  in  the  Palace  huge 
Of  Orleans;  coasted  round  and  round  the  line 
Of  Tavern,  Brothel,  Gaming-house,  and  Shop, 
Great  rendezvous  of  worst  and  best,  the  walk 
Of  all  who  had  a purpose,  or  had  not ; 

I stared  and  listened,  with  a stranger’s  ears. 

To  Hawkers  and  Haranguers,  hubbub  wild  ! 

And  hi.ssing  Pactionists  with  ardent  eyes. 

In  knots,  or  pairs,  or  single.  Not  a look 
Hope  takes,  or  Doubt  or  Fear  is  forced  to  wear. 

But  seemed  there  present ; and  I scanned  them  all. 
Watched  every  gesture  uncontrollable. 

Of  anger,  and  vexation,  and  despite. 

All  side  by  side,  and  struggling  face  to  face, 

^Vith  gaiety  and  dissolute  idleness. 

Where  silent  zephyrs  sported  with  the  dust 
Of  the  Bastille,  I sate  in  the  open  sun. 

And  from  the  rubbish  gathered  up  a stone. 

And  pocketed  the  relic,  in  the  guise 
Of  an  enthusiast;  yet,  in  honest  truth, 

I looked  for  something  that  I could  not  find. 
Affecting  more  emotion  than  I felt ; 

For,  ’tis  most  certain,  that  these  various  sights, 
However  potent  their  first  shock,  with  me 
Appeared  to  recompense  the  traveller’s  pains 
Less  than  the  painted  Magdalene  of  Le  Brun, 

A beauty  exquisitely  wrought,  with  hair 
Dishevelled,  gleaming  eyes,  and  rueful  cheek 
Pale  and  bedropped  with  everflowing  tears. 

But  hence  to  my  more  permanent  abode 
I hasten  ; there,  by  novelties  in  speech. 

Domestic  manners,  customs,  gestures,  looks. 

And  all  the  attire  of  ordinary  life. 

Attention  was  engrossed;  and,  thus  amused, 

I stood,  ’mid  those  concussions,  unconcerned. 
Tranquil  almost,  and  careless  as  a flower 
Glassed  in  a green-house,  or  a parlour  shrub 
That  spreads  its  leaves  in  unmolested  peace. 

While  every  bush  and  tree  the  country  through. 

Is  shaking  to  the  roots:  indifference  this 


Which  may  seem  strange  : but  I W'as  unprepared 
With  needful  knowledge,  had  abruptly  passed 
Into  a theatre,  whose  stage  was  filled 
And  busy  with  an  action  far  advanced, 
j Like  others,  I had  skimmed,  and  sometimes  read 
With  care,  the  master  pamphlets  of  the  day; 

Nor  wanted  such  half-insight  as  grew  wild 
I Upon  that  meagre  soil,  helped  out  by  talk 
j And  public  news;  but  having  never  seen 
A chronicle  that  might  suffice  to  show 
Whence  the  main  organs  of  the  public  power 
Had  sprung,  their  transmigrations,  when  and  how 
Accomplished,  giving  thus  unto  events 
A form  and  body ; all  things  were  to  me 
Loose  and  disjointed,  and  the  affections  left 
Without  a vital  interest.  At  that  time, 

! Moreover,  the  first  storm  was  overblown, 

I And  the  strong  hand  of  outward  violence 
I Locked  up  in  quiet.  For  myself,  I fear 
Now  in  connection  w'ith  so  great  a theme 
To  speak  (as  I must  be  compelled  to  do) 
j Of  one  so  unimportant;  night  by  night 
j Did  I frequent  the  formal  haunts  of  men, 

I Whom  in  the  city,  privilege  of  birth 
j Sequestered  from  the  rest,  societies 
Polished  in  arts,  and  in  punctilio  versed; 

Whence,  and  from  deeper  causes,  all  discourse 
Of  good  and  evil  of  the  time  was  shunned 
With  scrupulous  care;  but  these  restrictions  soon 
Proved  tedious,  and  I gradually  withdrew 
i Into  a noisier  world,  and  thus  ere  long 
Became  a patriot;  and  rny  heart  was  all 
Given  to  the  people,  and  my  love  was  theirs. 

A band  of  military  Officers, 

Then  stationed  in  the  city,  were  the  chief 
Of  my  associates : some  of  these  wore  swords 
That  had  been  seasoned  in  the  wars,  and  all 
Were  men  well-born;  the  chivalry  of  France. 

In  age  and  temper  differing,  they  had  yet 
One  spirit  ruling  in  each  heart;  alike 
(Save  only  one,  hereafter  to  be  named) 

Were  bent  upon  undoing  what  was  done: 

This  was  their  rest  and  only  hope;  therewith 
No  fear  had  they  of  bad  becoming  worse. 

For  worst  to  them  was  come;  nor  would  have  stirred, 
Or  deemed  it  worth  a moment’s  thought  to  stir. 

In  any  thing,  save  only  as  the  act 

Looked  thitherward.  One,  reckoning  by  years. 

Was  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  and  erewhile 
He  had  sate  lord  in  many  tender  hearts; 

Though  heedless  of  such  honours  now,  and  changed: 
His  temper  was  quite  mastered  by  the  times, 
j And  they  had  blighted  him,  had  eaten  away 
j The  beauty  of  his  person,  doing  wrong 
j Alike  to  body  and  to  mind  ; his  port. 

Which  once  had  been  erect  and  open,  now 
[ Was  stooping  and  contracted,  and  a face, 

1 Endowed  by  Nature  with  her  fairest  gifls 


524 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  W^ORKS. 


Of  symmetry  and  light  and  gloom,  expressed, 

As  much  as  any  that  was  ever  seen, 

A ravage  out  of  season,  made  by  thoughts 
Unhealthy  and  vexatious.  With  the  hour. 

That  from  the  press  of  Paris  duly  brought 
Its  freight  of  public  news,  the  fever  came, 

A punctual  visitant,  to  shake  this  man. 

Disarmed  his  voice  and  fanned  his  yellow  cheek 
Into  a thousand  colours;  while  he  read. 

Or  mused,  his  sword  was  haunted  by  his  touch 

Continually,  like  an  uneasy  place 

In  his  own  body.  ’Twas  in  truth  an  hour 

Of  universal  ferment ; mildest  men 

Were  agitated;  and  commotions,  strife 

Of  passion  and  opinion,  filled  the  walls 

Of  peaceful  houses  with  unquiet  sounds. 

The  soil  of  common  life  was,  at  that  time. 

Too  hot  to  tread  upon.  Oft  said  I then, 

And  not  then  only,  “ What  a mockery  this 
Of  history,  the  past  and  that  to  come ! 

Now  do  I feel  how  all  men  are  deceived, 

Reading  of  nations  and  their  works,  in  faith. 

Faith  given  to  vanity  and  emptiness; 

Oh ! laughter  for  the  page  that  would  reflect 
To  future  times  the  face  of  what  now  is!” 

The  land  all  swarmed  with  passion,  like  a plain 
Devoured  by  locusts,  — Carra,  Gorsas,  — add 
A hundred  otlier  names,  forgotten  now. 

Nor  to  be  heard  of  more;  yet,  they  were  pow'ers. 

Like  earthquakes,  shocks  repeated  day  by  day. 

And  felt  through  every  nook  of  town  and  field. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things.  Meanwhile  the  chief 
Of  my  associates  stood  prepared  for  flight 
To  augment  the  band  of  emigrants  in  arms 
Upon  the  borders  of  the  Rhine,  and  leagued 
With  foreign  foes  mustered  for  instant  war. 

This  was  their  undisguised  intent,  and  they 
Were  waiting  with  the  whole  of  their  desires 
The  moment  to  depart. 

An  Englishman, 

Born  in  a land  whose  very  name  appeared 
To  license  some  unrulmess  of  mind  ; 

A stranger,  with  youth’s  further  privilege. 

And  the  indulgence  that  a half-learnt  speech 
Wins  from  the  courteous;  I,  who  had  been  else 
Shunned  and  not  tolerated,  freely  lived 
With  these  defenders  of  tlie  Crown,  and  talked. 

And  heard  their  notions;  nor  did  they  disdain 
The  wish  to  bring  me  over  to  their  cause. 

But  though  untaught  by  thinking  or  b}’’  books 
To  reason  well  of  polity  or  law. 

And  nice  distinctions,  then  on  every  tongue. 

Of  natural  rights  and  civil;  and  to  acts 
Of  nations  and  their  passing  interests, 

(If  with  unworldly  ends  and  aims  con>pared) 

Almost  indifferent,  even  the  historian’s  tale 
Prizing  but  little  otherwise  than  I prized 


Tales  of  the  poets,  as  it  made  the  heart 
j Beat  high,  and  filled  the  fancy  with  fair  forms. 

Old  heroes  and  their  sufferings  and  their  deeds ; 

Yet  in  the  regal  sceptre,  and  the  pomp 
Of  orders  and  degrees,  I nothing  found 
Then,  or  had  ever,  even  in  crudest  youth. 

That  dazzled  me,  but  rather  what  I mourned 
And  ill  could  brook,  beholding  that  the  best 
Ruled  not,  and  feeling  that  they  ought  to  rule. 

For,  born  in  a poor  district,  and  which  yet 
Retaineth  more  of  ancient  homeliness 
Than  any  other  nook  of  English  ground. 

It  was  my  fortune  scarcely  to  have  seen. 

Through  the  whole  tenor  of  my  school-day  time. 

The  face  of  one,  who,  whether  boy  or  man. 

Was  vested  with  attention  or  respect 

Through  claims  of  wealth  or  blood ; nor  was  it  lea.st 

Of  many  benefits,  in  later  years 

Derived  from  academic  institutes 

And  rules,  that  they  held  something  up  to  view 

Of  a Republic,  where  all  stood  thus  far 

Upon  equal  ground ; that  we  were  brothers  all 

In  honour,  as  in  one  community. 

Scholars  and  gentlemen  ; where  furthermore. 
Distinction  open  lay  to  all  that  came. 

And  wealth  and  titles  were  in  less  esteem 
Than  talents,  worth,  and  prosperous  industry. 

Add  unto  this,  subservience  from  the  first 
To  presences  of  God’s  mysterious  power 
Made  manifest  in  Nature’s  sovereignly. 

And  fellowship  with  venerable  books. 

To  sanction  the  proud  workings  of  the  soul. 

And  mountain  liberty.  It  could  not  be 
But  that  one  tutored  thus  should  look  with  awe 
Upon  the  faculties  of  man,  receive 
Gladly  the  highest  promises,  and  hail. 

As  best,  the  government  of  equal  rights 
And  individual  worth.  And  hence,  O Friend! 

If  at  the  first  great  outbreak  I rejoiced 
Less  than  might  well  befit  my  youth,  the  cause 
In  part  lay  here,  that  unto  me  the  events 
Seemed  nothing  out  of  nature's  certain  course, 

A gift  that  was  come  rather  late  than  soon. 

No  wonder,  then,  if  advocates  like  these, 

Inflamed  by  passion,  blind  with  prejudice. 

And  stung  with  injury,  at  this  riper  day. 

Were  impotent  to  make  my  liopes  put  on 
The  shape  of  theirs,  my  understanding  bend 
In  honour  to  their  honour:  zeal,  which  yet 
Had  slumbered,  now  in  opposition  burst 
Forth  like  a Polar  summer : every  word 
They  uttered  was  a dart,  by  counter-w’inds 
Blown  back  upon  themselves:  their  reason  seemed 
Confusion-stricken  by  a higher  power 
Than  human  understanding,  their  discourse 
Maimed,  spiritless;  and,  in  their  w-eakness  strong, 

I triumphed. 

Jleantime,  day  by  day,  the  roads 


THE  PRELUDE. 


525 


Were  crovvded  with  tlie  bravest  youth  of  France, 

And  al!  tlie  promptest  of  lier  spirits,  linked 
In  gallant  soldiership,  and  posting  on 
To  meet  the  war  upon  her  frontier  bounds. 

Yet  at  this  very  moment  do  tears  start 
Into  mine  eyes ; I do  not  say  I weep  — 

I wept  not  then,  — but  tears  have  dimmed  my  sight, 

In  memory  of  the  farewells  of  that  time, 

Domestic  severings,  female  fortitude 
At  dearest  separation,  patriot  love 
And  self-devotion,  and  terrestrial  hope. 

Encouraged  with  a martyr’s  confidence; 

Even  files  of  strangers  merely  seen  but  once, 

And  for  a moment,  men  from  far  with  sound 
Of  music,  martial  tunes,  and  banners  spread, 

Entering  the  city,  here  and  there  a face. 

Or  person  singled  out  among  the  rest. 

Yet  still  a stranger  and  beloved  as  such  ; 

Even  by  these  passing  spectacles  my  heart 
Was  oftentimes  uplifted,  and  they  seemed 
Arguments  sent  from  Heaven  to  prove  the  cause 
Good,  pure,  which  no  one  could  stand  up  against, 

W'ho  was  not  lost,  abandoned,  selfish,  proud. 

Mean,  miserable,  wilfully  depraved. 

Hater  perverse  of  equity  and  truth. 

Among  that  band  of  Officers  was  one. 

Already  hinted  at,  of  other  mould  — 

A patriot,  thence  rejected  by  the  rest. 

And  with  an  oriental  loathing  spurned. 

As  of  a different  caste.  A meeker  man 
Than  this  lived  never,  nor  a more  benign, 

Meek  though  enthusiastic.  Injuries 
Made  him  more  gracious,  and  his  nature  then 
Did  breathe  its  sweetness  out  most  sensibly, 

As  aromatic  flowers  on  Alpine  turf. 

When  foot  hath  crushed  them.  He  through  the  events 
Of  that  great  change  wandered  in  perfect  faith. 

As  through  a book,  an  old  romance,  or  tale 
Of  Fairy,  or  some  dream  of  actions  wrought 
Behind  the  summer  clouds.  By  birth  he  ranked 
With  the  most  noble,  but  unto  the  poor 
Among  mankind  he  was  in  service  bound. 

As  by  some  tie  invisible,  oaths  professed 
To  a religious  order.  Man  he  loved 
As  man ; and,  to  the  mean  and  the  obscure, 

And  all  the  homely  in  their  homely  works. 

Transferred  a courtesy  which  had  no  air 
Of  condescension;  but  did  rather  seem 
A passion  and  a gallantry,  like  that 
Which  he,  a soldier,  in  his  idler  day 
Had  paid  to  woman ; somewhat  vain  he  was. 

Or  seemed  so,  yet  it  was  not  vanity. 

But  fondness,  and  a kind  of  radiant  joy 
Diffused  around  him,  while  he  was  intent 
On  works  of  love  or  freedom,  or  revolved 
Complacently  the  progress  of  a cause. 

Whereof  he  was  a part:  yet  this  was  meek 
And  placid,  and  took  nothing  from  the  man 


That  was  delightful.  Oft  in  solitude 
With  him  did  I discourse  about  the  end 
Of  civil  government,  and  its  wisest  forms; 

Of  ancient  loyalty,  and  chartered  rights. 

Custom  and  habit,  novelty  and  change ; 

Of  self-respect,  and  virtue  in  the  few 
For  patrimonial  honour  set  apart. 

And  ignorance  in  the  labouring  multitude. 

For  he,  to  all  intolerance  indisposed. 

Balanced  these  contemplations  in  his  mind ; 

And  I,  who  at  that  time  was  scarcely  dipped 
Into  the  turmoil,  bore  a sounder  judgment 
Than  later  days  allowed  ; carried  about  me. 

With  less  alloy  to  its  integrity. 

The  experience  of  past  ages,  as,  through  help 
Of  books  and  common  life,  it  makes  sure  way 
To  youthful  minds,  by  objects  over  near 
Not  pressed  upon,  nor  dazzled  or  misled 
By  struggling  with  the  crowd  for  present  ends. 

But  though  not  deaf,  nor  obstinate  to  find 
Error  without  excuse  upon  the  side 
Of  them  who  strove  against  us,  more  delight 
We  took,  and  let  this  freely  be  confessed. 

In  painting  to  ourselves  the  miseries 
Of  royal  courts,  and  that  voluptuous  life 
Unfeeling,  where  the  man  who  is  of  soul 
The  meanest  thrives  the  most;  where  dignity, 

True  personal  dignity,  abideth  not ; 

A light,  a cruel,  and  vain  world  cut  off 
From  the  natural  inlets  of  just  sentiment. 

From  lowly  sympathy  and  chastening  truth; 

Where  good  and  evil  interchange  their  names. 

And  thirst  for  bloody  spoils  abroad  is  paired 

With  vice  at  home.  We  added  dearest  themes  — 

Man  and  his  noble  nature,"  as  it  is 

The  gift  which  God  has  placed  within  his  power, 

His  blind  desires  and  steady  faculties 

Capable  of  clear  truth,  the  one  to  break 

Bondage,  the  other  to  build  liberty 

On  firm  foundations,  making  social  life. 

Through  knowledge  spreading  and  imperishable. 

As  just  in  regulation,  and  as  pure 
As  individual  in  the  wise  and  good. 

We  summoned  up  the  honourable  deeds 
Of  ancient  Story,  thought  of  each  bright  spot. 

That  would  be  found  in  all  recorded  time. 

Of  truth  preserved  and  error  passed  away; 

Of  single  spirits  that  catch  the  flame  from  Heaven, 
And  how  the  multitudes  of  men  will  feed 
And  fan  each  other;  thought  of  sects,  how  keen 
They  are  to  put  the  appropriate  nature  on. 
Triumphant  over  every  obstacle 
Of  custom,  language,  country,  love,  or  hate, 

And  what  they  do  and  suffer  for  their  creed  , 

How  far  they  travel,  and  how  long  endure ; 

How  quickly  mighty  Nations  have  been  formed, 
From  least  beginnings ; how,  together  locked 


526 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


By  new  opinions,  scattered  tribes  have  made 
One  body,  spreading  wide  as  clouds  in  heaven. 

To  aspirations  then  of  our  own  minds 
Did  we  appeal ; and,  finally,  beheld 
A living  confirmation  of  the  whole 
Before  us,  in  a people  from  the  depth 
Of  shameful  imbecility  uprisen. 

Fresh  as  the  morning  star.  Elate  we  looked 
Upon  their  virtues;  saw,  in  rudest  men. 
Self-sacrifice  the  firmest;  generous  love. 

And  continence  of  mind,  and  sense  of  right. 
Uppermost  in  the  midst  of  fiercest  strife. 

Oh,  sweet  it  is,  in  academic  grove^ 

Or  such  retirement.  Friend  ! as  we  have  known 
In  the  green  dales  beside  our  Rotha’s  stream, 

Greta,  or  Derwent,  or  some  nameless  rill. 

To  ruminate,  with  interchange  of  talk. 

On  rational  liberty,  and  hope  in  man. 

Justice  and  peace.  But  far  more  sweet  such  toil  — 
Toil,  say  I,  for  it  leads  to  thoughts  abstruse  — 

If  nature  then  be  standing  on  the  brink 
Of  some  great  trial,  and  we  hear  the  voice 
Of  one  devoted,  — one  whom  circumstance 
Hath  called  upon  to  embody  his  deep  sense 
In  action,  give  it  outwardly  a shape. 

And  that  of  benediction  to  the  world. 

Then  doubt  is  not,  and  truth  is  more  than  truth,  — 
A hope  it  is,  and  a desire ; a creed 
Of  zeal,  by  an  authority  Divine 
Sanctioned,  of  danger,  difficulty,  or  death. 

Such  conversation,  under  Attic  shades. 

Did  Dion  hold  with  Plato;  ripened  thus 
For  a Deliverer’s  glorious  task,  — and  such 
He,  on  that  ministry  already  bound. 

Held  with  Eudemus  and  Timonides, 

Surrounded  by  adventurers  in  arms. 

When  those  two  vessels  with  their  daring  freight, 
For  the  Sicilian  Tyrant’s  overthrow. 

Sailed  from  Zacynthus,  — philosophic  war. 

Led  by  Philosophers.  With  harder  fate, 

Though  like  ambition,  such  was  he,  O Friend! 

Of  whom  I speak.  So  Beaupuis  (let  the  name 
Stand  near  the  worthiest  of  Antiquity) 

Fashioned  his  life;  and  many  a long  discourse. 
With  like  persuasion  honoured,  we  maintained  : 

He,  on  his  part,  accoutred  for  the  worst. 

He  perished  fighting,  in  supreme  command. 

Upon  the  borders  of  the  unhappy  Loire, 

For  liberty,  against  deluded  men. 

His  fellow-countrymen;  and  yet  most  blessed 
In  this,  that  he  the  fate  of  later  times 
Lived  not  to  see,  nor  what  we  now  behold. 

Who  have  as  ardent  hearts  as  he  had  then. 

Along  that  very  Loire,  with  festal  mirth 
Resounding  at  all  hours,  and  innocent  yet 
Of  civil  slaughter,  was  our  frequent  walk; 

Or  in  wide  forests  of  continuous  shade, 


Lofty  and  over-arched,  with  open  space 
Beneath  the  trees,  clear  footing  many  a mile  — 

A solemn  region.  Oft  amid  those  haunts. 

From  earnest  dialogues  I slipped  in  thought. 

And  let  remembrance  steal  to  other  times. 

When,  o’er  those  interwoven  roots,  moss-clad. 

And  smooth  as  marble  or  a waveless  sea. 

Some  Hermit,  from  his  cell  forth-strayed,  might  pace 
In  sylvan  meditation  undisturbed; 

As  on  the  pavement  of  a Gothic  church 
Walks  a lone  Monk,  when  service  hath  expired. 

In  peace  and  silence.  But  if  e’er  was  heard, — 
Heard,  though  unseen,  — a devious  traveller. 

Retiring  or  approaching  from  afar 

With  speed  and  echoes  loud  of  trampling  hoofs 

From  the  hard  floor  re  rerherated,  then 

It  was  Angelica  thundering  through  the  woods 

Upon  her  palfrey,  or  that  gentle  maid 

Erminia,  fugitive  as  fair  as  she. 

Sometimes  methought  I saw  a pair  of  knights 
Joust  underneath  the  trees,  that  as  in  storm 
Rocked  high  above  their  heads ; anon,  the  din 
Of  boisterous  merriment,  and  music’s  roar. 

In  sudden  proclamation,  burst  from  haunt 
Of  Satyrs  in  some  viewless  glade,  with  dance 
Rejoicing  o’er  a female  in  the  midst, 

A mortal  beauty,  their  unhappy  thrall. 

The  width  of  those  huge  forests,  unto  me 

A novel  scene,  did  often  in  this  way 

Master  my  fancy  while  I wandered  on 

With  that  revered  companion.  And  sometimes  — 

When  to  a convent  in  a meadow  green. 

By  a brook-side,  we  came,  a roofle.ss  pile. 

And  not  by  reverential  toucli  of  Time 
Dismantled,  but  by  violence  abrupt  — 

In  spite  of  those  heart-bracing  colloquies, 

In  spite  of  real  fervour,  and  of  that 

Less  genuine  and  wrought  up  within  myself — 

I could  not  but  bewail  a wrong  so  harsh. 

And  for  the  Matin-bell  to  sound  no  more 
Grieved,  and  the  twilight  taper,  and  the  cross 
High  on  the  topmost  pinnacle,  a sign 
(How  welcome  to  the  weary  traveller’s  eyes!) 

Of  hospitality  and  peaceful  rest. 

And  when  the  partner  of  those  varied  walks 
Pointed  upon  occasion  to  the  site 
Of  Romorentin,  home  of  ancient  kings. 

To  the  imperial  edifice  of  Blois, 

Or  to  that  rural  castle,  name  now  slipped 
From  my  remembrance,  where  a lady  lodged, 

By  the  first  Francis  wooed,  and  bound  to  him 
In  chains  of  mutual  passion,  from  the  tower. 

As  a tradition  of  the  country  tells. 

Practised  to  commune  with  her  royal  knight 
By  cressets  and  love-beacons,  intercourse 
’Twixt  her  high-seated  residence  and  his 
Far  off  at  Chambord  on  the  plain  beneath ; 

Even  here,  though  less  than  with  the  peaceful  house 
Religious,  ’mid  those  frequent  monuments 


THE  PRELUDE. 


527 


Of  Kinofs,  Iheir  vices  and  their  better  deeds, 

Imagination,  potent  to  inflame 

At  times  with  virtuous  wratli  and  noble  scorn. 

Did  also  often  mitigate  the  force 
Of  civic  prejudice,  the  bigotry, 

So  call  it,  of  a youthful  patriot’s  mind  ; 

And  on  these  spots  with  many  gleams  I looked 
Of  chivalrous  delight.  Yet  not  the  less. 

Hatred  of  absolute  rule,  where  will  of  one 
Is  law  for  all,  and  of  that  barren  pride 
In  them  who,  by  immunities  unjust. 

Between  the  sovereign  and  the  people  stand, 

His  helper  and  not  tlieirs,  laid  stronger  hold 
Daily  upon  me,  mixed  with  pity  too 
And  love ; for  where  hope  is,  there  love  will  be 
For  the  abject  multitude.  And  when  we  chanced 
One  day  to  meet  a hunger-bitten  girl. 

Who  crept  along  fitting  her  languid  gait 

Unto  a heifer’s  motion,  by  a cord 

Tied  to  her  arm,  and  picking  thus  from  the  lane 

Its  sustenance,  while  the  girl  with  pallid  hands 

Was  busy  knitting  in  a heartless  mood 

Of  solitude,  and  at  the  sight  my  friend 

In  agitation  said,  “ ’Tis  against  that 

That  we  are  fighting,”  I with  him  believed 

That  a benignant  spirit  was  abroad 

Which  might  not  be  withstood,  that  poverty 

Abject  as  this  would  in  a little  time 

Be  found  no  more,  that  we  should  see  the  earth 

Unthwarted  in  her  wish  to  recompense 

The  meek,  the  lowly,  patient  child  of  toil. 

All  institutes  for  ever  blotted  out 
That  legalized  exclusion,  empty  pomp 
Abolished,  sensual  state  and  cruel  power. 

Whether  by  edict  of  the  one  or  few; 

And  finally,  as  sum  and  crown  of  all, 

Should  see  the  people  having  a strong  hand 
In  framing  their  own  laws;  wlience  better  days 
To  all  mankind.  But,  these  things  set  apart. 

Was  not  this  single  confidence  enough 
To  animate  the  mind  that  ever  turned 
A thought  to  human  welfare!  That  henceforth 
Captivity  by  mandate  without  law 
Should  cease ; and  open  accusation  lead 
To  sentence  in  the  hearing  of  the  world, 

And  open  punishment,  if  not  the  air 
Be  free  to  breathe  in,  and  the  heart  of  man 
Dread  nothing.  From  this  height  I shall  not  stoop 


To  humbler  matter  that  detained  us  oft 
In  thought  or  conversation,  public  acts. 

And  public  persons,  and  emotions  wrought 
Within  the  breast,  as  ever-varying  winds 
Of  record  or  report  swept  over  us ; 

But  I might  here,  instead,  repeat  a tale,* 

Told  by  my  Patriot  friend,  of  sad  events. 

That  prove  to  what  low  deptli  had  struck  the  roots, 
How  widely  spread  tlie  bouglis,  of  that  old  tree 
Wliich,  as  a deadly  mischief,  and  a foul 
And  black  dishonour,  France  was  weary  of. 

Oil,  happy  time  of  youthful  lovers,  (thus 
The  story  might  begin).  Oh,  balmy  time. 

In  which  a love-knot,  on  a lady’s  brosv. 

Is  fairer  than  the  fairest  star  in  Heaven! 

So  might  — and  with  that  prelude  did  begin 
The  record ; and,  in  faithful  verse,  was  given 
The  doleful  secpiel. 

But  our  little  bark 

On  a strong  river  boldly  hath  been  launched  ; 

And  from  the  driving  current  should  we  turn 
To  loiter  wilfully  within  a creek. 

Howe’er  attractive.  Fellow  voyager  I 

Wouldst  thou  not  chide?  Yet  deem  not  my  pains  lost 

For  Vandracour  and  Julia  (so  were  named 

The  ill-fated  pair)  in  that  plain  tale  will  draw 

Tears  from  the  hearts  of  others,  when  their  own 

Shall  beat  no  more.  Thou,  also,  there  mayst  read, 

At  leisure,  how  the  enamoured  youth  W'as  driven. 

By  public  power  abased,  to  fatal  crime. 

Nature’s  rebellion  against  monstrous  law ; 

How,  between  heart  and  heart,  oppression  thrust 
Her  mandates,  severing  whom  true  love  had  joined, 
Harassing  both ; until  he  sank  and  pressed 
The  couch  his  fate  had  made  for  him ; supine. 

Save  when  the  stings  of  viperous  remorse. 

Trying  their  strength,  enforced  him  to  start  up. 

Aghast  and  prayerless.  Into  a deep  wood 
He  fled,  to  shun  the  haunts  of  human  kind; 

There  dwelt,  weakened  in  spirit  more  and  more ; 

Nor  could  the  voice  of  Freedom,  which  through  France 
Full  speedily  resounded,  public  hope. 

Or  personal  memory  of  his  own  worst  wrongs, 

Rouse  him ; but,  hidden  in  those  gloomy  shades. 

His  days  he  wasted,  — an  imbecile  mind. 


“ See  “ Vandracour  and  Julia,”  ante  p.  104. 


BOOK  TENTH. 


KESIDENCE  IN  FRANCE  (Continued). 


It  was  a beautiful  and  silent  day 

That  overspread  the  countenance  of  earth, 

Then  fading  with  unusual  quietness, — 

A day  as  beautiful  as  e’er  was  given 
To  soothe  regret,  though  deepening  what  it  soothed, 
Wlien  by  the  gliding  Loire  I paused,  and  cast 
Upon  his  rich  domains,  vineyard  and  tilth. 

Green  meadow-ground,  and  many-coloured  woods. 
Again,  and  yet  again,  a farewell  look; 

Then  from  the  quiet  of  that  scene  passed  on. 

Bound  to  the  fierce  Metropolis.  From  his  throne 
The  King  had  fallen,  and  that  invading  host  — 
Presumptuous  cloud,  on  whose  black  front  was  written 
The  tender  mercies  of  the  dismal  wind 
That  bore  it  — on  the  plains  of  Liberty 
Had  burst  innocuous.  Say  in  bolder  words. 

They  — who  had  come  elate  as  eastern  hunters 
Banded  beneath  the  Great  Mogul,  when  he 
Erewhile  went  forth  from  Agra  or  Lahore, 

Rajahs  and  Omrahs  in  his  train,  intent 
To  drive  their  prey  inclosed  within  a ring 
Wide  as  a province,  but,  the  signal  given. 

Before  the  point  of  the  life-threatening  spear 
Narrowing  itself  by  moments — they,  rash  men. 

Had  seen  the  anticipated  quarry  turned 
Into  avengers,  from  whose  wrath  they  fled 
In  terror.  Disappointment  and  dismay 
Remained  for  all  whose  fancies  had  run  wild 
With  evil  expectations;  confidence 
And  perfect  triumph  for  the  better  cause. 

The  State,  as  if  to  stamp  the  final  seal 
On  her  security,  and  to  the  world 
Show  what  she  was,  a high  and  fearless  soul. 

Exulting  in  defiance,  or  heart-stung 
By  sharp  resentment,  or  belike  to  taunt 
With  spiteful  gratitude  the  baffled  League, 

That  had  stirred  up  her  slackening  faculties 
To  a new  transition,  when  the  King  was  crushed. 
Spared  not  the  empty  throne,  and  in  proud  haste 
Assumed  the  body  and  venerable  name 
Of  a Republic.  Lamentable  crimes, 

’Tis  true,  had  gone  before  this  hour,  dire  work 
Of  massacre,  in  which  the  senseless  sword 
Was  prayed  to  as  a judge ; but  these  were  past. 

Earth  free  from  them  for  ever,  as  was  thought, — 
Ephemeral  monsters,  to  be  seen  but  once ! 

Things  that  could  only  show  themselves  and  die. 


Cheered  with  this  hope,  to  Paris  I returned. 

And  ranged,  with  ardour  heretofore  unfelt. 

The  spacious  city,  and  in  progress  passed 
The  prison  where  the  unhappy  Monarch  lay, 
Associate  with  his  children  and  his  wife 
In  bondage ; and  the  palace,  lately  stormed 
With  roar  of  cannon  by  a furious  host. 

I crossed  the  square  (an  empty  area  then  !) 

Of  the  Carrousel,  where  so  late  had  lain 
The  dead,  upon  the  dying  heaped,  and  gazed 
On  this  and  other  spots,  as  doth  a man 
Upon  a volume  whose  contents  he  knows 
Are  memorable,  but  from  him  locked  up, 

Being  written  in  a tongue  he  cannot  read, 

So  that  he  questions  the  mute  leaves  with  pain, 
And  half  upbraids  their  silence.  But  that  night 
I felt  most  deeply  in  what  world  I was. 

What  ground  I trod  on,  and  what  air  I breathed. 
High  was  my  room  and  lonely,  near  the  roof 
Of  a large  mansion  or  hotel,  a lodge 
That  would  have  pleased  me  in  more  quiet  times; 
Nor  was  it  wholly  without  pleasure  then. 

With  unextinguished  taper  I kept  watch, 

Reading  at  intervals  ; tlie  fear  gone  by 
Pressed  on  me  almost  like  a fear  to  come. 

I thought  of  those  September  massacres. 

Divided  from  me  by  one  little  month. 

Saw  them  and  touched : the  rest  was  conjured  up 
From  tragic  fictions  or  true  history. 

Remembrances  and  dim  admonishments. 

The  horse  is  taught  his  manage,  and  no  star 

Of  wildest  course  but  treads  back  his  own  steps; 

For  the  spent  hurricane  the  air  provides 

As  fierce  a successor ; the  tide  retreats 

But  to  return  out  of  its  hiding-place 

In  the  great  deep;  all  things  have  second  birth; 

The  earthquake  is  not  satisfied  at  once; 

And  in  this  way  I wrought  upon  myself. 

Until  I seemed  to  hear  a voice  that  cried. 

To  the  whole  city,  “ Sleep  no  more.”  The  trance 
Fled  with  the  voice  to  which  it  had  given  birth ; 
But  vainly  comments  of  a calmer  mind 
Promised  soft  peace  and  sweet  forgetfulness. 

The  place,  all  hushed  and  silent  as  it  was. 
Appeared  unfit  for  the  repose  of  night. 

Defenceless  as  a wood  where  tigers  roam. 

With  early  morning  towards  the  Palace- walk 


THE  PRELUDE. 


529 


Of  Orleans  eagerly  I turned  ; as  yet 
The  streets  were  still : not  so  those  long  Arcades ; 
Tliere,  mid  a peal  of  ill-matched  sounds  and  cries, 
That  greeted  me  on  entering,  I could  hear 
Shrill  voices  from  the  hawkers  in  the  throng. 

Bawling,  “ Denunciation  of  the  Crimes 
Of  Maximilian  Robespierre the  hand. 

Prompt  as  the  voice  held  forth  a printed  speech. 

The  same  that  had  been  recently  pronounced. 

When  Robespierre,  not  ignorant  for  what  mark 
Some  words  of  indirect  reproof  had  been 
Intended,  rose  in  hardihood,  and  dared 
The  man  wlio  had  an  ill  surmise  of  him 
To  bring  his  cliarge  in  openness ; whereat. 

When  a dead  pause  ensued,  and  no  one  stirred. 

In  silence  of  all  present,  from  his  seat 
Louvet  walked  single  tlirough  the  avenue. 

And  took  his  station  in  the  Tribune,  saying, 

“I,  Robespierre,  accuse  thee!”  Well  is  known 
The  inglorious  issue  of  that  charge,  and  how 
lie,  who  had  launched  the  startling  thunderbolt. 

The  one  bold  man,  w hose  voice  the  attack  had  sounded. 
Was  left  without  a follower  to  discharge 
His  perilous  duty,  and  retire  lamenting 
That  Heaven’s  best  aid  is  wasted  upon  men 
Who  to  themselves  are  false. 

But  these  are  things 

Of  which  I speak,  only  as  they  were  storm 
Or  sunshine  to  my  individual  mind. 

No  further.  Let  me  then  relate  that  now  — 

In  some  sort  seeing  with  my  proper  eyes 
That  Liberty,  and  Life,  and  Death  would  soon 
To  the  remotest  corners  of  the  land 
Lie  in  the  arbitrament  of  those  who  ruled 
The  capital  City  ; what  was  struggled  for. 

And  by  what  combatants  victory  must  be  w’on; 

The  indecision  on  their  part  whose  aim 

Seemed  best,  and  the  straightforward  path  of  those 

Who  in  attack  or  in  defence  were  strong 

Through  their  impiety  — my  inmost  soul 

Was  agitated  ; yea,  I could  almost 

Have  prayed  that  throughout  earth  upon  all  men. 

By  patient  exercise  of  reason  made 

Worthy  of  liberty,  all  spirits  fill 

With  zeal  expanding  in  Truth’s  holy  light, 

The  gift  of  tongues  might  fall,  and  power  arrive 
From  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds  to  do 
For  France,  what  without  help  she  could  not  do, 

A work  of  honour;  think  not  that  to  this 
I added,  work  of  safety : from  all  doubt 
Or  trepidation  for  the  end  of  things 
Far  was  I,  far  as  angels  are  from  guilt. 

Yet  did  I grieve,  nor  only  grieved,  but  thought 
Of  opposition  and  of  remedies: 

An  insignificant  stranger  and  obscure. 

And  one,  moreover,  little  graced  with  power 
Of  eloquence  even  in  my  native  speech ; 

3R 


And  all  unfit  for  tumult  or  intrigue. 

Yet  would  I at  this  time  with  willing  heart 
Have  undertaken  for  a cause  so  great 
Service  however  dangerous.  I revolved. 

How  much  the  destiny  of  Man  had  still 
Hung  upon  single  persons  ; that  there  was. 
Transcendent  to  all  local  patrimony. 

One  nature,  as  there  is  one  sun  in  heaven ; 

That  objects,  even  as  they  are  great,  thereby 
Do  come  within  the  reach  of  humblest  eyes; 

That  man  is  only  weak  through  his  mistrust 
And  want  of  hope  where  evidence  divine 
Proclaims  to  him  that  hope  should  be  most  sure; 
Nor  did  the  inexperience  of  my  youth 
Preclude  conviction,  that  a spirit  strong 
In  hope,  and  trained  to  noble  aspirations, 

A spirit  throughly  faithful  to  itself. 

Is  for  Society’s  unreasoning  herd 
A domineering  instinct,  serves  at  once 
For  way  and  guide,  a fluent  receptacle 
That  gathers  up  each  petty  straggling  rill 
And  vein  of  water,  glad  to  be  rolled  on 
In  safe  obedience;  that  a mind,  whose  rest 
Is  where  it  ought  to  be,  in  self-restraint. 

In  circumspection  and  simplicity. 

Falls  rarely  in  entire  discomfiture 
Below  its  aim,  or  meets  with,  from  without, 

A treachery  that  foils  it  or  defeats ; 

And,  lastly,  if  the  means  on  human  will. 

Frail  human  will,  dependent  should  betray 
Him  who  too  boldly  trusted  them,  I felt 
That  ’mid  the  loud  distractions  of  the  world 
A sovereign  voice  subsists  within  the  soul, 

Arbiter  undisturbed  of  right  and  wrong. 

Of  life  and  death,  in  majesty  severe 
Enjoining,  as  may  best  promote  the  aims 
Of  truth  and  justice,  either  sacrifice. 

From  whatsoever  region  of  our  cares 
Or  our  infirm  affections  Nature  pleads. 

Earnest  and  blind,  against  the  stern  decree. 

On  the  other  side,  I called  to  mind  those  truths. 
That  are  the  common-places  of  the  schools  — 

(A  theme  for  boys,  too  hackneyed  for  their  sires,! 
Yet,  with  a revelation’s  liveliness. 

In  all  their  comprehensive  bearings  known 
And  visible  to  philosophers  of  old. 

Men  who,  to  business  of  the  world  untrained. 
Lived  in  the  shade;  and  to  Harmodius  known 
And  his  compeer  Aristogiton,  known 
To  Brutus — that  tyrannic  power  is  weak. 

Hath  neither  gratitude,  nor  faith,  nor  love, 

Nor  the  support  of  good  or  evil  men 
To  trust  in  ; that  the  godhead  which  is  ours 
Can  never  utterly  be  charmed  or  stilled  ; 

That  nothing  hath  a natural  right  to  last 
But  equity  and  reason  ; that  all  else 
Meets  foes  irreconcilable,  and  at  best 
Lives  only  by  variety  of  disease. 

45 


530 


WORDSWORTH’S  P 0 E T I C A L W 0 R K S. 


Well  might  my  wishes  be  intense,  my  thoughts 
Strong  and  perturbed,  not  doubting  at  that  time 
But  that  the  virtue  of  one  paramount  mind 
Would  have  abashed  those  impious  crests — have  quelled 
Outrage  and  bloody  power,  and,  in  despite 
Of  what  the  People  long  had  been  and  were 
Through  ignorance  and  false  teaching,  sadder  proof 
Of  immaturity,  and  in  the  teeth 
Of  desperate  opposition  from  without  — 

Have  cleared  a passage  for  just  government, 

And  left  a solid  birthright  to  the  State, 

Redeemed,  according  to  example  given 
Ry  ancient  lawgivers. 

In  this  frame  of  mind. 

Dragged  by  a chain  of  harsh  necessity. 

So  seemed  it, — now  I thankfully  acknowledge. 

Forced  by  the  gracious  providence  of  Heaven, — 

To  England  I returned,  else  (though  assured 
That  I both  was  and  must  be  of  small  weight. 

No  better  than  a landsman  on  the  deck 
Of  a ship  struggling  with  a hideous  storm) 

Doubtless,  I should  have  then  made  common  cause 
With  some  who  perished ; haply  perished  too, 

A poor  mistaken  and  bewildered  offering, — 

Should  to  the  breast  of  Nature  have  gone  back. 

With  all  my  resolutions,  all  my  hopes, 

A Poet  only  to  myself;  to  men 
Useless,  and  even,  beloved  Friend ! a soul 
To  thee  unknown ! 

Twice  had  the  trees  let  fall 
Their  leaves,  as  often  Winter  had  put  on 
His  hoary  crown,  since  I had  seen  the  surge 
Beat  against  Albion’s  shore,  since  ear  of  mine 
Had  caught  the  accents  of  my  native  speech 
Upon  our  native  country’s  sacred  ground. 

A patriot  of  the  world,  how  could  I glide 
Into  communion  with  her  sylvan  shades. 

Ere  while  my  tuneful  haunt?  It  pleased  me  more 
To  abide  in  the  great  City,  where  I found 
The  general  air  still  busy  with  the  stir 
Of  that  first  memorable  onset  made 
By  a strong  levy  of  humanity 
Upon  the  traffickers  in  Negro  blood  ; 

Effort  which,  though  defeated,  had  recalled 
To  notice  old  forgotten  principles, 

And  through  the  nation  spread  a novel  heat 
Of  virtuous  feeling.  For  myself,  I own 
That  this  particular  strife  had  wanted  power 
To  rivet  my  affections;  nor  did  now 
Its  unsuccessful  issue  much  excite 
My  sorrow ; for  I brought  with  me  the  faith 
That,  if  France  prospered,  good  men  would  not  long 
Pay  fruitless  worship  to  humanity. 

And  this  most  rotten  branch  of  human  shame. 

Object,  so  seemed  it,  of  superfluous  pains. 

Would  fall  together  with  its  parent  tree. 

What,  then,  were  my  emotions,  when  in  arms 
Britain  put  forth  her  free-born  strength  in  league, 

Oh,  pity  and  shame ! with  those  confederate  Powers ! | 


Not  in  my  single  self  alone  I found, 

^ But  in  the  minds  of  all  ingenuous  youth, 

[Change  and  subversion  from  that  hour.  No  shock 
Given  to  my  moral  nature  had  I known 
Down  to  that  very  moment;  neither  lapse 
Nor  turn  of  sentiment  that  might  be  named 
A revolution,  save  at  this  one  time; 

All  else  was  progress  on  the  self-same  path 
On  which,  with  a diversity  of  pace, 

I had  been  travelling:  this  a stride  at  once 
Into  another  region.  As  a light 
And  pliant  harebell,  swinging  in  the  breeze 
On  some  grey  rock  — its  birth-place  — so  had  I 
Wantoned,  fast  rooted  on  the  ancient  tower 
Of  my  beloved  country,  wishing  not 
A happier  fortune  than  to  wither  there; 

Now  was  I from  that  pleasant  station  torn 
And  tossed  about  in  whirlwind.  I rejoiced, 

V'ea,  afterwards  — truth  most  painful  to  record  ! — 
Exulted  in  the  triumph  of  my  soul. 

When  Englishmen  by  thousands  were  o’erthrown. 
Left  without  glory  on  the  field,  or  driven, 

Brave  hearts  ! to  shameful  flight.  It  was  a grief,  — 
Grief  call  it  not,  ’twas  any  thing  but  that,  — 

A conflict  of  sensations  without  name,  . 

Of  which  he  only,  who  may  love  the  sight 
Of  a village  steeple,  as  I do,  can  judge. 

When  in  the  congregation  bending  all 
To  their  great  Father,  prayers  were  offered  up. 

Or  praises  for  our  country’s  victories  ; 

And,  ’mid  the  simple  worshippers,  perchance 

I only,  like  an  uninvited  guest 

Whom  no  one  owned,  sate  silent,  shall  I add. 

Fed  on  the  day  of  vengeance  yet  to  come. 


Oh ! much  have  they  to  account  for,  who  could  tear. 
By  violence,  at  one  decisive  rent. 

From  the  best  youth  in  England  their  dear  pride, 

Their  joy,  in  England  ; this,  too,  at  a time 
In  which  worst  losses  easily  might  wean 
The  best  of  names,  when  patriotic  love 
Did  of  itself  in  modesty  give  way. 

Like  the  Precursor  when  the  Deity 
Is  come  Whose  harbinger  he  was ; a time 
In  which  apostasy  from  ancient  faith 
Seemed  but  conversion  to  a higher  creed  ; 

Withal  a season  dangerous  and  wild, 

A time  when  sage  Experience  would  have  snatched 
Flowers  out  of  any  hedge-row  to  compose 
A chaplet  in  contempt  of  his  grey  locks. 

When  the  proud  fleet  that  bears  the  red-cross  flag 
In  that  unworthy  service  was  prepared 
To  mingle,  I beheld  the  vessels  lie, 

A brood  of  gallant  creatures,  on  the  deep; 

I saw  them  in  their  rest,  a sojourner 
Through  a whole  month  of  calm  and  glassy  days 
In  that  delightful  island  which  protects 
Their  place  of  convocation  — there  I heard, 


THE  PRELUDE. 


531 


Each  evening,  pacing  by  the  still  sea-shore, 

A monitory  sound  that  never  failed, — 

The  sunset  cannon.*  While  the  orb  went  down 
In  the  tranquillity  of  nature,  came 
That  voice,  ill  requiem ! seldom  heard  by  me 
Without  a spirit  overcast  by  dark 
Imaginations,  sense  of  woes  to  come. 

Sorrow  for  human  kind,  and  pain  of  heart. 

! In  France,  the  men,  who,  for  their  desperate  ends. 
Had  plucked  up  mercy  by  the  roots,  were  glad 
Of  this  new 'enemy.  Tyrants,  strong  before 
In  wicked  pleas,  were  strong  as  demons  now; 

And  thus  on  every  side  beset  with  foes. 

The  goaded  land  waxed  mad ; the  crimes  of  few 
Spread  into  madness  of  the  many  ; blasts 
From  hell  came  sanctified  like  airs  from  heaven. 

The  sternness  of  the  just,  the  faith  of  those 
Who  doubted  not  that  Providence  had  times 
Of  vengeful  retribution,  theirs  who  throned 
The  human  Understanding  paramount 
And  made  of  that  their  God,  the  hopes  of  men 
Who  were  content  to  barter  short-lived  pangs 
For  a paradise  of  ages,  the  blind  rage 
Of  insolent  tempers,  the  light  vanity 
Of  intermeddlers,  steady  purposes 
Of  the  suspicious,  slips  of  the  indiscreet. 

And  all  the  accidents  of  life  were  pressed 
Into  one  service,  busy  with  one  work. 

The  Senate  stood  aghast,  her  prudence  quenched, 

Her  wisdom  stifled,  and  her  justice  scared, 

Her  frenzy  only  active  to  extol 

Past  outrages,  and  shape  the  way  for  new. 

Which  no  one  dared  to  oppose  or  mitigate. 

Domestic  carnage  now  filled  the  whole  year 
With  feast  days;  old  men  from  the  chimney-nook. 

The  maiden  from  the  bosom  of  her  love. 

The  mother  from  the  cradle  of  her  babe. 

The  warrior  from  the  field  — all  perished,  all  — 
Friends,  enemies,  of  all  parties,  ages,  ranks. 

Head  after  head,  and  never  heads  enough 

For  those  that  bade  them  fall.  They  found  their  joy. 

They  made  it  proudly,  eager  as  a child, 

(If  like  desires  of  innocent  little  ones 
May  with  such  heinous  appetites  be  compared), 
Pleased  in  some  open  field  to  exercise 
A toy  that  mimics  with  revolving  wings 
The  motion  of  a wind-mill ; though  the  air 
Do  of  itself  blow  fresh,  and  make  the  vanes 
Spin  in  his  eyesight,  that  contents  him  not. 

But,  with  the  plaything  at  arm’s  length,  he  sets 
His  front  against  the  blast,  and  runs  amain. 

That  it  may  whirl  the  faster. 

Amid  the  depth 

Of  those  enormities,  even  thinking  minds 

[*  See  Advertisement  to  “Guilt  and  Sorrow,’’  ante, 
p.  38.— H.  R.] 


Forgot,  at  seasons,  whence  they  had  their  being ; 
Forgot  that  such  a sound  was  ever  heard. 

As  Liberty  upon  earth ; yet  all  beneath 
Her  innocent  authority  was  wrought. 

Nor  could  have  been,  without  her  blessed  name. 

The  illustrious  wife  of  Roland  in  the  hour 
Of  her  composure,  felt  that  agony. 

And  gave  it  vent  in  her  last  words.  O Friend ! 

It  was  a lamentable  time  for  man. 

Whether  a hope  had  e’er  been  his  or  not ; 

A woful  time  for  them  whose  hopes  survived 
The  shock;  most  woful  for  those  few  who  still 
Were  flattered,  and  had  trust  in  human  kind; 

They  had  the  deepest  feeling  of  the  grief 
Meanwhile  the  Invaders  fared  as  they  deserved: 

The  Herculean  Commonwealth  had  put  forth  her  arms. 
And  throttled  with  an  infant  godhead’s  might 
The  snakes  about  her  cradle;  that  was  well. 

And  as  it  should  be;  yet  no  cure  for  them 
Whose  souls  were  sick  with  pain  of  what  would  be 
Hereafter  brought  in  charge  against  mankind. 

Most  melancholy  at  that  time,  O Friend  ! 

Were  my  day-thoughts,  — my  nights  were  miserable; 
Through  months,  through  years,  long  after  the  last  beat 
Of  those  atrocities,  the  hour  of  sleep 
To  me  came  rarely  charged  with  natural  gifts. 

Such  ghastly  visions  had  I of  despair 
And  tyranny,  and  implements  of  death  ; 

And  innocent  victims  sinking  under  fear. 

And  momentary  hope,  and  worn-out  prayer. 

Each  in  his  separate  cell,  or  penned  in  crowds 
For  sacrifice,  and  struggling  with  fond  mirth 
And  levity  in  dungeons,  where  the  dust 
Was  laid  wdth  tears.  Then  suddenly  the  scene 
Changed,  and  the  unbroken  dream  entangled  me 
In  long  orations,  which  I strove  to  plead 
Before  unjust  tribunals,  — with  a voice 
Labouring,  a brain  confounded,  and  a sense. 

Death-like,  of  treacherous  desertion,  felt 
In  the  last  place  of  refuge  — my  own  soul. 

When  I began  in  youth’s  delightful  prime 
To  yield  myself  to  Nature,  when  that  strong 
And  holy  passion  overcame  me  first. 

Nor  day  nor  night,  evening  or  morn,  was  free 
j From  its  oppression.  But,  O Power  Supreme ! 

I Without  whose  call  this  world  would  cease  to  breathe, 
Who  from  the  fountain  of  Thy  grace  dost  fill 
The  veins  that  branch  through  every  frame  of  life, 

! Making  man  what  he  is,  creature  divine, 

I In  single  or  in  social  eminence, 

, Above  the  rest  raised  infinite  ascents 
j When  reason  that  enables  him  to  be 
j Is  not  sequestered  — what  a change  is  here ! 
j How  different  ritual  for  this  after-worship, 
j What  countenance  to  promote  this  second  love! 

The  first  was  service  paid  to  things  which  lie 
Guarded  within  the  bosom  of  Thy  will. 

1 Therefore  to  serve  was  high  beatitude ; 


532 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  W^ORKS. 


Tumult  was  therefore  gladness,  and  the  fear 
Ennobling,  venerable  ; sleep  secure. 

And  waking  thoughts  more  rich  than  happiest  dreams. 

But  as  the  ancient  Prophets,  borne  aloft 
In  vision,  yet  constrained  by  natural  laws 
With  them  to  take  a troubled  human  heart. 

Wanted  not  consolations,  nor  a creed 
Of  reconcilement,  then  when  they  denounced, 

On  towns  and  cities,  wallowing  in  the  abyss 
Of  their  offences,  punishment  to  come ; 

Or  saw,  like  other  men,  with  bodily  eyes, 

Before  them,  in  some  desolated  place. 

The  wrath  consummate  and  the  threat  fulfilled  ; 

So,  with  devout  humility  be  it  said. 

So,  did  a portion  of  that  spirit  fall 

On  me  uplifted  from  the  vantage-ground 

Of  pity  and  sorrow  to  a state  of  being 

That  through  the  time’s  exceeding  fierceness  saw 

Glimpses  of  retribution,  terrible. 

And  in  the  order  of  sublime  behests: 

But,  even  if  that  were  not,  amid  the  awe 
Of  unintclligihle  chastisement. 

Not  only  acquiescences  of  faith 
Survived,  but  daring  sympathies  with  power. 

Motions  not  treacherous  or  profane,  else  why 
Within  the  folds  of  no  ungentle  breast 
Their  dread  vibration  to  this  hour  prolonged? 

Wild  blasts  of  music  thus  could  find  their  way 
Into  the  midst  of  turbulent  events  ; 

So  that  worst  tempests  might  be  listened  to. 

Then  was  the  truth  received  into  my  heart, 

That,  under  heaviest  sorrow  earth  can  bring. 

If  from  the  affliction  somewhere  do  not  grow 
Honour  which  could  not  else  have  been,  a faith. 

An  elevation  and  a sanctity. 

If  new  strength  be  not  given  nor  old  restored. 

The  blame  is  ours,  not  Nature’s.  When  a taunt 
Was  taken  up  by  scoffers  in  their  pride. 

Saying,  “ Behold  the  harvest  that  we  reap 
From  popular  government  and  equality,” 

I clearly  saw  that  neither  these  nor  aught 
Of  wild  belief  ingrafted  on  their  names 
By  false  philosophy  had  caused  the  woe. 

But  a terrific  reservoir  of  guilt 

And  ignorance  filled  up  from  age  to  age. 

That  could  no  longer  hold  its  loathsome  charge. 

But  burst  and  spread  in  deluge  through  the  land. 

And  as  the  desert  hath  green  spots,  the  sea 
Small  islands  scattered  amid  stormy  waves. 

So  that  disastrous  period  did  not  want 
Bright  sprinklings  of  all  human  excellence. 

To  which  the  silver  wands  of  saints  in  Heaven 
Might  point  with  rapturous  joy.  Yet  not  the  less. 
For  those  examples  in  no  age  surpassed 
Of  fortitude  and  energy  and  love. 

And  human  nature  faithful  to  herself 
Under  worst  trials,  was  I driven  to  think 


Of  the  glad  times  when  first  I traversed  France 
A youthful  pilgrim:  above  all  reviewed 
That  eventide,  when  under  windows  bright 
With  happy  faces  and  with  garlands  hung, 

And  through  a rainbow  arch  that  spanned  the  street. 
Triumphal  pomp  for  liberty  confirmed, 

I paced,  a dear  companion  at  my  side. 

The  town  of  Arras,  whence  with  promise  high 
Issued,  on  delegation  to  sustain 
Humanity  and  right,  that  Robespierre, 

He  who  thereafter,  and  in  how  short  time  ! 

Wielded  the  sceptre  of  the  Atheist  crew. 

When  the  calamity  spread  far  and  wide  — 

And  this  same  city,  that  did  then  appear 
To  outrun  the  rest  in  exultation,  groaned 
Under  the  vengeance  of  her  cruel  son. 

As  Lear  reproached  the  winds  — I could  almost 
Have  quarrelled  with  that  blameless  spectacle 
For  lingering  yet  an  image  in  my  mind 
To  mock  me  under  such  a strange  reverse. 

O Friend  ! few  happier  moments  have  been  mine 
Than  that  which  told  the  downfall  of  this  Tribe 
So  dreaded,  so  abhorred.  The  day  deserves 
A separate  record.  Over  the  smooth  sands 
Of  Leven’s  ample  estuary  lay 
My  journey,  and  beneath  a genial  sun. 

With  distant  prospect  among  gleams  of  sky 
And  clouds,  and  intermingling  mountain  tops. 

In  one  inseparable  glory  clad. 

Creatures  of  one  ethereal  substance  met 
In  consistory,  like  a diadem 
Or  crown  of  burning  seraphs  as  they  sit 
In  the  empyrean.  Underneath  that  pomp 
Celestial,  lay  unseen  the  pastoral  vales 
Among  whose  happy  fields  I had  grown  up 
From  childhood.  On  the  fulgent  spectacle. 

That  neither  passed  away  nor  changed,  I gazed 
Enrapt;  but  brightest  things  are  wont  to  draw 
Sad  opposites  out  of  the  inner  heart. 

As  even  their  pensive  influence  drew  from  mine. 
How  could  it  otherwise  ? for  not  in  vain 
That  very  morning  had  I turned  aside 
To  seek  the  ground  where,  ’mid  a throng  of  graves 
An  honoured  teacher  of  my  youth  was  laid. 

And  on  the  stone  were  graven  by  his  desire 
Lines  from  the  churchyard  elegy  of  Gray. 

This  faithful  guide,  speaking  from  his  death-bed, 
Added  no  farewell  to  his  parting  counsel. 

But  said  to  me,  “ My  head  will  soon  lie  low 
And  when  I saw  the  turf  that  covered  him. 

After  the  lapse  of  full  eight  years,  those  word.*. 
With  sound  of  voice  and  countenance  of  the  Man, 
Came  back  ujron  me,  so  that  some  few  tears 
Fell  from  me  in  my  own  despite.  But  now 
I thought,  still  traversing  that  wide-spread  plain, 
With  tender  pleasure  of  the  verses  graven 
Upon  his  tombstone,  whispering  to  myself: 

He  loved  the  Poets,  and,  if  now  alive, 


THE  PRELUDE. 


533 


Would  have  loved  me,  as  one  not  destitute 
Of  promise,  nor  belying  the  kind  hope 
That  he  had  formed,  when  I,  at  his  command, 
Began  to  spin,  with  toil,  my  earliest  songs. 

As  I advanced,  all  that  I saw  or  felt 
Was  gentleness  and  peace.  Upon  a small 
And  rocky  island  near,  a fragment  stood 
(Itself  like  a sea  rock)  the  low  remains 
(With  shells  incrusted,  dark  with  briny  weeds) 
Of  a dilapidated  structure,  once 
A Romish  chapel,  where  tlie  vested  priest 
Said  matins  at  the  hour  that  suited  those 
Who  crossed  the  sands  with  ebb  of  morning  tide. 
Not  far  from  that  still  ruin  all  the  plain 
Lay  spotted  with  a variegated  crowd 
Of  vehicles  and  travellers,  horse  and  foot. 
Wading  beneath  the  conduct  of  their  guide 
In  loose  procession  through  the  shallow  stream 
Of  inland  waters ; the  great  sea  meanwhile 
Heaved  at  safe  distance,  far  retired.  I paused, 
Longing  for  skill  to  paint  a scene  so  bright 
And  cheerful,  but  the  foremost  of  the  band 
As  he  approached,  no  salutation  given 
In  the  familiar  language  of  the  day. 

Cried,  “ Robespierre  is  dead  !” — nor  was  a doubt. 
After  strict  question,  left  within  my  mind 
That  he  and  his  supporters  all  were  fallen. 


I Great  was  my  transport,  deep  my  gratitude 
To  everlasting  Justice,  by  this  fiat 
Made  manifest.  “Come  now,  ye  golden  times,” 
Said  I,  forth-pouring  on  those  open  sands 
A hymn  of  triumpli:  “as  the  morning  comes 
From  out  tlie  bosom  of  the  night,  come  ye  : 

Thus  far  our  trust  is  verilied  ; behold  ! 

They  who  with  clumsy  desperation  brouglit 
A river  of  Blood,  and  preached  that  nothing  else 
Could  cleanse  the  Augean  stable,  by  the  might 
Of  their  own  helper  have  been  swept  away  ; 

Their  madness  stands  declared  and  visible ; 
Elsewhere  will  safety  now  be  sought,  and  earth 
March  firmly  towards  righteousness  and  peace” — 
Then  schemes  I framed  more  calmly,  when  and  how 
The  madding  fictions  might  be  tranquillized, 

And  how  through  hardships  manifold  and  long 
The  glorious  renovation  would  proceed. 

Thus  interrupted  by  uneasy  bursts 
Of  exultation,  I pursued  my  way 
Along  that  very  shore  which  1 had  skimmed 
In  former  days,  when  — spurring  from  the  Vale 
Of  Nightshade,  and  St.  Mary’s  mouldering  fane. 
And  the  stone  abbot,  after  circuit  made 
In  wantonness  of  heart,  a joyous  band 
Of  schoolboys  hastening  to  their  distant  home 
Along  the  margin  of  the  moonlight  sea  — 

We  beat  with  thundering  hoofs  the  level  sand. 


BOOK  ELEVENTH. 


FRANCE.  — (CoxTiNtJED.) 


From  that  time  forth.  Authority  in  France 
Put  on  a milder  face;  Terror  had  ceased. 

Yet  every  thing  was  wanting  that  might  give 
Courage  to  them  who  looked  for  good  by  light 
Of  rational  Experience,  for  the  shoots 
And  hopeful  blossoms  of  a second  spring; 

Yet,  in  me,  confidence  was  unimpaired; 

The  Senate’s  language,  and  the  public  acts 
And  measures  of  the  Government,  though  both 
Weak,  and  of  heartless  omen,  had  not  power 
To  daunt  me;  in  the  People  was  my  trust: 
And,  in  the  virtues  which  mine  eyes  had  seen, 
I knew  that  wound  external  could  not  take 
Life  from  the  young  Republic ; that  new  foes 
Would  only  follow,  in  the  path  of  shame, 

Their  brethren,  and  her  triumphs  be  in  the  end 
Great,  universal,  irresistible. 

This  intuition  led  me  to  confound 
One  victory  with  another,  higher  far, — 


Triumphs  of  unambitious  peace  at  home. 

And  noiseless  fortitude.  Beholding  still 
Resistance  strong  as  heretofore,  I thought 
That  what  was  in  degree  tlie  same  was  likewise 
The  same  in  quality,  — that,  as  the  worse 
Of  the  two  spirits  then  at  strife  remained 
Untired,  the  better,  surely,  would  preserve 
The  heart  that  first  had  roused  him.  Youth  maintains, 
In  all  conditions  of  society. 

Communion  more  direct  and  intimate 

With  Nature,  — hence,  ofltimes,  with  reason  too  — 

Than  age  or  manhood,  even.  To  Nature,  then, 

Power  had  reverted:  habit,  custom,  law. 

Had  left  an  interregnum’s  open  space 
For  her  to  move  alwut  in,  uncontrolled. 

Hence  could  I see  how  B.ibel-like  their  task. 

Who,  by  the  recent  deluge  stupified. 

With  their  whole  souls  went  culling  from  the  day 
Its  petty  promises,  to  build  a tower 
45  * 


534 


WOEDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  their  own  safety;  liughed  with  my  compeers 
At  gravest  heads,  by  enmity  to  France 
Distempered,  till  they  found  in  every  blast 
J’orced  from  the  street-disturbing  newsman’s  horn, 

For  her  great  cause  record  or  prophecy 
Of  utter  ruin.  How  might  we  believe 
That  wisdom  could,  in  any  shape,  come  near 
I\Ien  clinging  to  delusions  so  insane  1 
And  thus  experience  proving  that  no  few 
Of  our  opinions  had  been  just,  we  took 
Like  credit  to  ourselves  where  less  was  due, 

And  thought  that  other  notions  were  as  sound. 

Yea,  could  not  but  be  right  because  we  saw 
That  foolish  men  opposed  them. 

To  a strain 

More  animated  I might  here  give  way. 

And  tell,  since  juvenile  errors  are  my  theme. 

What  in  those  days,  through  Britain,  was  performed 
To  turn  all  judgments  out  of  their  right  course ; 

But  this  is  passion  over-near  ourselves, 

Reality  too  close  and  too  intense. 

And  intermixed  with  something,  in  my  mind. 

Of  scorn  and  condemnation  personal, 

That  would  profane  the  sanctity  of  verse. 

Our  Shepherds,  this  say  merely,  at  tliat  time 
Acted,  or  seemed  at  least  to  act,  like  men 
Thirsting  to  make  the  guardian  crook  of  law 
A tool  of  murder ; they  who  ruled  the  State, 

Tliough  with  such  awful  proof  before  their  eyes 
I’hat  he,  who  would  sow  death,  reaps  death,  or  worse, 
And  can  reap  nothing  better,  cliild-like  longed 
To  imitate,  not  wise  enough  to  avoid  ; 

Or  left  (by  mere  timidity  betrayed) 

The  plain  straight  road,  for  one  no  better  chosen 
Than  if  their  wish  had  been  to  undermine 
Justice,  and  make  an  end  of  Liberty. 

But  from  these  bitter  truths  I must  return 
To  my  own  history.  It  hath  been  told 
That  I was  led  to  take  an  eager  part 
In  arguments  of  civil  polity. 

Abruptly,  and  indeed  before  my  time: 

I had  approached,  like  other  youths,  the  shield 
Of  human  nature  from  the  golden  side. 

And  would  have  fought,  even  to  tlie  death,  to  attest 
Tlie  quality  of  the  metal  which  I saw. 

^yhat  there  is  best  in  iivdividual  man, 

Of  wise  in  passion,  and  sublime  in  power. 

Benevolent  in  small  societies. 

And  great  in  large  ones,  I had  oft  revolved. 

Felt  deeply,  but  not  thoroughly  understood 
By  reason  : nay,  far  from  it ; they  were  yet, 

As  cause  was  given  me  afterwards  to  learn. 

Not  proof  against  the  injuries  of  the  day  ; 

Lodged  only  at  the  sanctuary’s  door. 

Not  safe  within  its  basom.  Thus  {irepared. 

And  with  such  general  insight  into  evil. 

And  of  the  bounds  which  sever  it  from  good. 

As  books  and  common  intercourse  with  life 


Must  needs  have  given  — to  the  inexperienced  mind. 
When  the  world  travels  in  a beaten  road, 

Guide  faithful  as  is  needed  — I began 
To  meditate  with  ardour  on  the  rule 
And  management  of  nations ; what  it  is 
And  ought  to  be;  and  strove  to  learn  how  far 
Their  power  or  weakness,  wealth  or  poverty, 

Their  happiness  or  misery,  depends 
Upon  their  laws,  and  fashion  of  the  State. 

* O pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy  ! 

For  mighty  were  the  auxiliars  which  then  stood 
Upon  our  side,  us  who  w’ere  strong  in  love  I 
Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive. 

But  to  be  young  was  very  Heaven  ! O times. 

In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 
Of  custom,  law,  and  statute,  took  at  once 
The  attraction  of  a country  in  romance ! 

When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  lier  right- 
When  most  intent  on  making  of  Irerself 
A prime  enchantress  — to  assist  the  work. 

Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name! 

Not  favoured  spots  alone,  but  the  whole  Earth, 

The  beauty  wore  of  promise  — that  which  sets 
(As  at  some  moments  might  not  be  uufelt 
Among  the  bowers  of  Paradise  itself) 

The  budding  rose  above  the  rose  full  blown. 

What  temper  at  the  prospect  did  not  wake 
To  happiness  unthought  of!  The  inert 
Were  roused,  and  lively  natures  rapt  away! 

They  who  had  fed  their  childhood  upon  dreams, 

The  play-fellows  of  fancy,  who  had  made 
All  powers  of  swiftness,  subtilty,  and  strength 
Their  ministers,  — who  in  lordly  wise  had  stirred 
Among  the  grandest  objects  of  the  sense. 

And  dealt  with  whatsoever  they  found  lliere 
As  if  they  had  within  some  lurking  right 
To  wield  it; — they,  too,  who  of  gentle  mood 
Had  watched  all  gentle  motions,  and  to  these 
Had  fitted  their  own  thoughts,  schemers  more  rnild> 
And  in  the  region  of  their  peaceful  selves ; — 

Now  was  it  that  both  found,  the  meek  and  lofty 
Did  botli  find  helpers  to  their  Iiearl’s  desire. 

And  stuff  at  hand,  plastic  as  they  could  wish, — 
Were  called  upon  to  exercise  their  skill. 

Not  in  Utopia,  — subterranean  fields, — 

Or  some  secreted  island.  Heaven  knows  where ! 

But  in  the  very  world,  which  is  the  world 
Of  all  of  us,  — the  place  where,  in  the  end. 

We  find  our  happiness,  or  not  at  alii 

Why  should  I not  confess  that  Earth  was  then 
To  me,  what  an  inlieritance,  new-fallen. 

Seems,  when  the  first  time  visited,  to  one 
Who  thither  comes  to  find  in  it  his  home? 

He  walks  about  and  looks  upon  the  spot 
With  cordial  transport,  moulds  it  and  remoulds, 

* See  ante,  p.  188. 


the  prelude. 


535 


And  is  half  pleased  with  things  that  are  amiss, 

’Twill  be  sucli  joy  to  see  them  disappear. 

An  active  partisan,  I thus  convoked 
From  every  object  pleasant  circutnstance 
To  suit  my  ends;  I moved  among  mankind 
With  genial  feelings  still  predominant; 

When  erring,  erring  on  the  better  part, 

And  in  the  kinder  spirit;  placable. 

Indulgent,  as  not  uninformed  that  men 
See  as  they  have  been  taught  — Antiquity 
Gives  rights  to  error;  and  aware,  no  less. 

That  throwing  off  oppression  must  be  work 
As  well  of  License  as  of  Liberty ; 

And  above  all  — for  this  was  more  than  all  — 

Not  caring  if  the  wind  did  now  and  then 
Blow  keen  upon  an  eminence  that  gave 
Prospect  so  large  into  futurity; 

In  brief,  a child  of  Nature,  as  at  first. 

Diffusing  only  those  affections  wider 
That  from  the  cradle  had  grown  up  with  me, 

And  losing,  in  no  other  way  than  light 
Is  lost  in  light,  the  weak  in  the  more  strong. 

In  the  main  outline  such  it  might  be  said 
W^as  my  condition,  till  with  open  war 
Britain  opposed  the  liberties  of  France. 

This  threw  me  first  out  of  the  pale  of  love; 

Soured  and  corrupted,  upwards  to  the  source, 

My  sentiments;  was  not,  as  hitherto, 

A swallowing  up  of  lesser  things  in  great, 

But  change  of  them  into  their  contraries; 

And  thus  a way  was  opened  for  mistakes 
And  false  conclusions,  in  degree  as  gross. 

In  kind  more  dangerous.  What  had  been  a pride. 
Was  now  a shame;  my  likings  and  my  loves 
Ran  in  new  channels,  leaving  old  ones  dry; 

And  hence  a blow  that,  in  maturer  age. 

Would  but  have  touched  the  judgment,  struck  more 
deep 

Into  sensations  near  the  heart:  meantime. 

As  from  the  first,  wild  theories  were  afloat. 

To  whose  pretensions,  sedulously  urged, 

I had  but  lent  a careless  ear,  assured 
That  time  was  ready  to  set  all  things  right. 

And  that  the  multitude,  so  long  oppressed. 

Would  be  oppressed  no  more. 

But  when  events 

Brought  less  encouragement,  and  unto  these 
The  immediate  proof  of  principles  no  more 
Could  be  intrusted,  while  the  events  themselves 
Worn  out  in  greatness,  stripped  of  novelty. 

Less  occupied  the  mind,  and  sentiments 

Could  through  my  understanding’s  natural  growth 

No  longer  keep  their  ground,  by  faith  maintained 

Of  inward  con.=ciousness,  and  hope  that  laid 

Her  hand  upon  her  object  — evidence 

Safer,  of  universal  application,  such 

As  could  not  be  impeached,  was  sought  elsewhere. 


But  now,  become  oppressors  in  their  turn, 

Frenchmen  had  changed  a war  of  self-defence 
For  one  of  conquest,  losing  sight  of  all 
Which  they  had  struggled  for:  now  mounted  up 
Openly  in  the  eye  of  earth  and  heaven. 

The  scale  of  liberty.  I read  her  doom. 

With  anger  vexed,  with  disappointment  sor 

But  not  dismayed,  nor  taking  to  the  shame 

Of  a false  prophet.  While  resentment  rose 

Striving  to  hide,  what  nought  could  heal,  the  w 

Of  mortified  presumption,  I adhered 

More  firmly  to  old  tenets,  and,  to  prove 

Their  temper,  strained  them  more  ; and  thus,  in  heat 

Of  contest,  did  opinions  every  day 

Grow  into  consequence,  till  round  my  mind 

They  clung,  as  if  they  were  its  life,  nay  more. 

The  very  being  of  the  immortal  soul. 

This  was  the  time,  when  all  things  tending  fast 
To  depravation,  speculative  schemes  — 

That  promised  to  abstract  the  hopes  of  Man 
Out  of  his  feelings,  to  be  fixed  thenceforth 
For  ever  in  a purer  element  — 

Found  ready  welcome.  Tempting  region  that 
For  Zeal  to  enter  and  refresh  herself. 

Where  passions  had  the  privilege  to  work. 

And  never  hear  the  sound  of  their  own  names. 

But,  speaking  more  in  charity,  the  dream 
Flattered  the  j'oung,  pleased  with  extremes,  nor  least 
With  that  which  makes  our  Reason’s  naked  self 
The  object  of  its  fervour.  What  delight ! 

How  glorious!  in  self-knowledge  and  self-rule. 

To  look  through  all  the  frailties  of  the  w’orld. 

And,  with  a resolute  mastery  shaking  off 
Infirmities  of  nature,  time,  and  place. 

Build  social  upon  personal  Liberty, 

Which,  to  the  blind  restraints  of  general  laws 
Superior,  magisterially  adopts 
One  guide,  the  light  of  circumstances,  flashed 
Upon  an  independent  intellect. 

Thus  expectation  rose  again;  thus  hope. 

From  her  first  ground  expelled,  grew  proud  once  more. 
Oft,  as  my  thoughts  were  turned  to  human  kind, 

I scorned  indifference;  but,  inflamed  with  thirst 
Of  a secure  intelligence,  and  sick 
Of  other  longing,  I pursued  what  seemed 
A more  exalted  nature;  wished  that  Man 
Should  start  out  of  his  earthjq  worm-like  state. 

And  spread  abroad  the  wings  of  Liberty, 

Lord  of  himself  in  undisturbed  delight  — 

A noble  aspiration ! yet  I feel 

(Sustained  by  worthier  as  by  wiser  thoughts) 

The  aspiration,  nor  shall  ever  cease 
To  feel  it ; — but  return  we  to  our  course. 

Enough,  ’tis  true  — could  such  a plea  excuse 
Those  aberrations — had  the  clamorous  friends 
Of  ancient  Institutions  said  and  done 
To  bring  disgrace  upon  their  very  names  ; 


636 


WOKDS  AY  ORTH’S  POETIC  A LAYORKS. 


Disgrace,  of  which,  custom  and  written  law. 

And  sundry  moral  sentiments  as  props 
Or  emanations  of  those  institutes. 

Too  justly  bore  a part.  A veil  had  been 
Uplifted;  why  deceive  ourselves?  in  sooth, 

’Twas  even  so;  and  sorrow  for  the  man 
AYho  either  had  not  eyes  wherewith  to  see. 

Or,  seeing,  had  forgotten  ! A strong  shock 
Was  given  to  old  opinions;  all  men’s  minds 
Had  felt  its  power,  and  mine  was  both  let  loose, 

Let  loose  and  goaded.  After  what  hath  been 
Already  said  of  patriotic  love. 

Suffice  it  here  to  add,  that,  somewhat  stern 
In  temperament,  withal  a happy  man. 

And  therefore  bold  to  look  on  painful  things. 

Free  likewise  of  the  world,  and  thence  more  bold, 

I summoned  my  best  skill,  and  toiled,  intent 
To  anatomize  the  frame  of  social  life, 

A’ea,  the  whole  boily  of  society 

Searched  to  its  heart.  Share  with  me,  Friend,  the  wish 
That  some  dramatic  tale,  endued  with  shapes 
Livelier,  and  flinging  out  less  guarded  words 
Than  suit  the  work  we  fashion,  might  set  forth 
AA’hat  then  I learned,  or  think  I learned,  of  truth. 

And  the  errors  into  which  I fell,  betrayed 
By  present  objects,  and  by  reasonings  false 
From  their  beginnings,  inasmuch  as  drawn 
Out  of  a heart  that  had  been  turned  aside 
From  Nature’s  way  by  outward  accidents. 

And  which  was  thus  confounded,  more  and  more 
Misguided,  and  misguiding.  So  I fared. 

Dragging  all  precepts,  judgments,  maxims,  creeds. 

Like  culprits  to  the  bar;  calling  the  mind. 

Suspiciously,  to  establish  in  plain  day 
Her  titles  and  her  honours;  now  believing. 

Now  disbelieving;  endlessly  perplexed 
AYith  impulse,  motive,  right  and  wrong,  the  ground 
Of  obligation,  what  the  rule  and  whence 
The  sanction;  till,  demanding  formal  proof, 

And  seeking  it  in  every  thing,  I lost 
All  feeling  of  conviction,  and,  in  fine. 

Sick,  wearied  out  with  contrarieties. 

Yielded  up  moral  questions  in  despair. 

This  was  the  crisis  of  that  strong  disease. 

This  the  soul’s  last  and  lowest  ebb ; 1 drooped. 

Deeming  our  blessed  reason  of  least  use 
Where  wanted  most:  “The  lordly  attributes 
Of  will  and  choice,”  I bitterly  exclaimed, 

“ What  are  they  but  a mockery  of  a Being 
AA’ho  hath  in  no  concerns  of  his  a test 
Of  good  and  evil ; knows  not  what  to  fear 
Or  hope  for,  what  to  covet  or  to  shun  ; 

And  who,  if  those  could  be  discerned,  would  yet 
Be  little  profited,  would  see,  and  ask 
AYhere  is  the  obligation  to  enforce  ? 

And,  to  acknowledged  law  rebellious,  still. 

As  selfish  passion  urged,  would  act  amiss; 

The  dupe  of  tbily,  or  the  slave  of  crime.”  I 


Depressed,  bewildered  thus,  I did  not  walk 
With  scoffers,  seeking  light  and  gay  revenge 
From  indiscriminate  laughter,  nor  sate  down 
In  reconcilement  with  an  utter  waste 
Of  intellect ; such  sloth  I could  not  brook, 

(Too  well  I loved,  in  that  my  spring  of  life. 
Pains-taking  thoughts,  and  truth,  their  dear  reward) 
But  turned  to  abstract  science,  and  there  sought 
Work  for  the  reasoning  faculty  enthroned 
VA^'liere  the  disturbances  of  space  and  time  — 

VYhether  in  matters  various,  properties 
Inherent,  or  from  human  will  and  power 
Derived  — find  no  admission.  Then  it  was  — 

Thanks  to  the  bounteous  Giver  of  all  good  ! — 

That  the  beloved  Sister  in  whose  sight 

Those  days  were  passed,  now  speaking  in  a voice 

Of  sudden  admonition  — like  a brook 

That  did  but  cross  a lonely  road,  and  now 

Is  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  caught  at  every  turn. 

Companion  never  lost  through  many  a league  — 

Maintained  for  me  a saving  intercourse 

With  my  true  self;  for,  though  bedimmed  and  changed 

Much,  as  it  seemed,  I was  no  further  changed 

Than  as  a clouded  and  a waning  moon  : 

She  whispered  still  that  brightness  would  return. 

She,  in  the  midst  of  all,  preserved  me  still 
A Poet,  made  me  seek  beneath  that  name. 

And  that  alone,  my  office  upon  earth  : 

And,  lastly,  as  hereafter  will  be  shown. 

If  willing  audience  fail  not.  Nature’s  self, 

By  all  varieties  of  human  love 
Assisted,  led  me  back  through  opening  day 
To  those  sweet  counsels  between  head  and  heart 
AYhence  grew  that  genuine  knowledge,  fraught  with 
peace. 

Which,  through  the  later  sinkings  of  this  cause. 

Hath  still  upheld  me,  and  upholds  me  now 
In  the  catastrophe  (for  so  they  dream. 

And  nothing  less),  when,  finally  to  close 
And  seal  up  all  the  gains  of  France,  a Pope 
Is  summoned  in,  to  crown  an  Emperor  — 

This  last  opprobrium,  when  we  see  a people. 

That  once  looked  up  in  faith,  as  if  to  Heaven 
For  manna,  take  a lesson  from  the  dog 
Returning  to  his  vomit ; when  the  sun 
That  rose  in  splendour,  was  alive,  and  moved 
In  exultation  with  a living  pomp 
Of  clouds  — his  glory’s  natural  retinue  — 

Hath  dropped  all  functions  by  the  gods  bestowed. 

And,  turned  into  a gewgaw,  a machine. 

Sets  like  an  Opera  phantom. 

Thus,  O Friend ! 

Through  times  of  honour  and  through  times  of  shame 
Descending,  have  I fliithfully  retraced 
The  perturbations  of  a youthful  mind 
Under  a long-lived  storm  of  great  events  — 

A story  destined  for  tliy  ear,  who  now. 

Among  the  fallen  of  nations,  dost  abide 
AA’here  Etna,  over  hill  and  valley,  casts 


THE  PRELUDE. 


537 


Ilis  shadow  stretching  towards  Syracuse, 

The  city  of  Timoleon  ! Righteous  Heaven  ! 

IIow  are  the  mighty  prostrated!  They  first, 

They  first  of  all  that  breathe  should  have  awaked 
VVlien  the  great  voice  was  heard  from  out  the  tombs 
Of  ancient  heroes.  If  I suffered  grief 
For  ill-requited  France,  by  many  deemed 
A trifler  only  in  her  proudest  day; 

Have  been  distressed  to  think  of  what  she  once 
Promised,  now  is ; a far  more  sober  cause 
Thine  eyes  must  see  of  sorrow  in  a land. 

To  the  reanimating  inffuence  lost 
Of  memory,  to  virtue  lost  and  hope. 

Though  with  the  wreck  of  loftier  years  bestrewn. 

But  indignation  works  where  hope  is  not, 

And  thou,  O Friend  I wilt  be  refreshed.  There  is 
One  great  society  alone  on  earth : 

The  noble  Living  and  the  noble  Dead. 

Thine  be  such  converse  strong  and  sanative, 

A ladder  for  thy  spirit  to  reascend 
To  health  and  joy  and  pure  contentedness; 

To  me  the  grief  confined,  that  thou  art  gone 
From  this  last  spot  of  earth,  where  Freedom  now 
Stands  single  in  her  only  sanctuary; 

A lonely  wanderer  art  gone,  by  pain 
Compelled  and  sickness,  at  this  latter  day, 

This  sorrowful  reverse  for  all  mankind. 

I feel  for  thee,  must  utter  what  I feel : 

The  sympathies  erewhile  in  part  discharged, 

Gather  afresh,  and  will  have  vent  again  : 

My  own  delights  do  scarcely  seem  to  me 
My  own  delights;  the  lordly  Alps  themselves. 

Those  rosy  peaks,  from  which  the  Morning  looks 

Abroad  on  many  nations,  are  no  more 

For  me  that  image  of  pure  gladsomeness 

Which  they  were  wont  to  be.  Through  kindred  scenes. 

For  purpose,  at  a time,  how  different! 

Thou  tak’st  thy  way,  carrying  the  heart  and  soul 
That  Nature  gives  to  Poets,  now  by  thought 
Matured,  and  in  the  summer  of  their  strength. 

Oh  ! wrap  him  in  your  shades,  ye  giant  woods. 

On  Etna’s  side;  and  thou,  O flowery  field 
Of  Enna ! is  there  not  some  nook  of  thine. 

From  the  first  play-time  of  the  infiint  world 
Kept  sacred  to  restorative  delight. 

When  from  afar  invoked  by  anxious  love  I 

Child  of  the  mountains,  among  shepherds  reared, 

3S 


Ere  yet  familiar  with  the  classic  page, 

I learnt  to  dream  of  Sicily;  and  lo. 

The  gloom,  that,  but  a moment  past,  was  deepened 
At  thy  command,  at  her  command  gives  way; 

A pleasant  promise,  wafted  from  her  shores. 

Comes  o’er  my  heart:  in  fancy  I behold 
Her  seas  yet  smiling,  her  once  happy  vales  ; 

Nor  can  my  tongue  give  utterance  to  a name 
Of  note  belonging  to  that  honoured  isle. 
Philosopher  or  Bard,  Empedocles, 

Or  Archimedes,  pure  abstracted  soul ! 

That  doth  not  yield  a solace  to  my  grief: 

And,  O Theocritus,*  so  far  have  some 
Prevailed  among  the  powers  of  heaven  and  earth, 
By  their  endowments,  good  or  great,  that  they 
Have  had,  as  thou  reportest,  miracles 
Wrought  for  them  in  old  time  : yea,  not  unmoved. 
When  thinking  on  my  own  beloved  friend, 

I hear  thee  tell  how  bees  with  honey  fed 
Divine  Comates,  by  his  impious  lord 
Within  a chest  imprisoned ; how  they  came 
Laden  from  blooming  grove  or  flowery  field. 

And  fed  him  there,  alive,  month  after  month. 
Because  the  goatherd,  blessed  man ! had  lips 
Wet  with  the  Muses’  nectar. 

Thus  I soothe 

The  pensive  moments  by  this  calm  fireside. 

And  find  a thousand  bounteous  images 
To  cheer  the  thoughts  of  those  I love,  and  mine. 
Our  prayers  have  been  acepted  ; thou  wilt  stand 
On  Etna’s  summit,  above  earth  and  sea. 
Triumphant,  winning  from  the  invaded  heavens 
Thoughts  without  bound,  magnificent  designs 
Worthy  of  poets  who  attuned  their  harps 
In  wood  or  echoing  cave,  for  discipline 
Of  heroes;  or,  in  reverence  to  the  gods, 

’Mid  temples,  served  by  sapient  priests,  and  choirs 
Of  virgins  crowned  with  roses.  Not  in  vain 
Those  temples,  where  they  in  their  ruins  yet 
Survive  for  inspiration,  shall  attract 
Thy  solitary  steps:  and  on  the  brink 
Thou  wilt  recline  of  pastoral  Arethuse; 

Or,  if  that  fountain  be  in  truth  no  more. 

Then,  near  some  other  spring,  which,  by  the  name 
Thou  gratulatest,  willingly  deceived, 

I see  thee  linger  a glad  votary. 

And  not  a captive  pining  for  his  home. 

* Theocrit.  Idyll,  vii.  78. 


BOOK  TWELFTH. 


IMAGINATION  AND  TASTE,  HOW  IMPAIRED  AND  RESTORED. 


Lon<i  time  have  human  ignorance  and  guilt 
Detained  us,  on  what  spectacles  of  woe 
Compelled  to  look,  and  inwardly  oppressed 
With  sorrow,  disappointment,  vexing  thoughts 
Confusion  of  the  judgment,  zeal  decayed. 

And,  lastly,  utter  loss  of  hope  itself 
And  things  to  hope  for ! Not  with  these  began 
Our  song,  and  not  with  these  our  song  must  end. — 
Ye  motions  of  delight,  that  haunt  the  sides 
Of  the  green  hills ; ye  breezes  and  soft  airs, 

VVhose  subtle  intercourse  with  breathing  flowers, 
Feelingly  watched,  might  teach  Man's  haughty  race 
How  without  injury  to  take,  to  give 
Without  offence ; ye  who,  as  if  to  show 
The  wondrous  influence  of  power  gently  used. 

Bend  the  complying  heads  of  lordly  pines. 

And,  with  a touch,  shift  the  stupendous  clouds 
Through  the  whole  compass  of  the  sky  ; ye  brooks. 
Muttering  along  the  stones,  a busy  noise 
By  day,  a quiet  sound  in  silent  night ; 

Ye  waves,  that  out  of  the  great  deep  steal  forth 
In  a calm  hour  to  kiss  the  pebbly  shore. 

Not  mute,  and  then  retire,  fearing  no  storm; 

And  you,  ye  groves,  whose  ministry  it  is 
To  interpose  the  covert  of  your  shades. 

Even  as  a sleep,  between  the  heart  of  man 
And  outward  troubles,  between  man  himself, 

Not  seldom,  and  his  own  uneasy  heart : 

Oh ! that  I had  a music  and  a voice 
Harmonious  as  your  own,  that  1 might  tell 
What  ye  have  done  for  me.  The  morning  shines. 
Nor  heedeth  Man’s  perverseness;  Spring  returns, — 
I saw  the  Spring  return,  and  could  rejoice. 

In  common  with  the  children  of  her  love. 

Piping  on  boughs,  or  sporting  on  fresh  fields. 

Or  boldly  seeking  pleasure  nearer  heaven 
On  wings  that  navigate  cerulean  skies. 

So  neither  were  complacency,  nor  peace. 

Nor  tender  yearnings,  wanting  for  my  good 
Through  these  distracted  times;  in  Nature  still 
Glorying,  I found  a counterpoise  in  her. 

Which  when  the  spirit  of  evil  reached  its  height, 
Maintained  for  me  a secret  happiness. 

This  narrative,  my  Friend ! hath  chiefly  told 
Of  intellectual  power,  fostering  love. 

Dispensing  truth,  and,  over  men  and  things. 

Where  reason  yet  might  hesitate,  diffusing 


Prophetic  sympathies  of  genial  faith  : 

So  was  I favoured  — such  my  happy  lot  — 

Until  that  natural  graciousness  of  mind 
Gave  way  to  overpressure  from  the  times 
And  their  disastrous  issues.  What  availed, 

When  spells  forbade  the  voyager  to  land. 

That  fragrant  notice  of  a pleasant  shore 
Wafled,  at  intervals,  from  many  a bower 
Of  blissful  gratitude  and  fearless  love  1 
Dare  I avow  that  wish  was  mine  to  see. 

And  hope  that  future  times  would  surely  see, 

The  man  to  come,  parted,  as  by  a gulf. 

From  him  who  had  been ; that  1 could  no  more 
Trust  the  elevation  which  had  made  me  one 
With  the  great  family  that  still  survives 
To  illuminate  the  abyss  of  ages  past. 

Sage,  warrior,  patriot,  hero  ; for  it  seemed 
That  their  best  virtues  were  not  free  from  taint 
Of  something  false  and  weak,  that  could  not  stand 
The  open  eye  of  Reason.  ' Then  I said, 

“ Go  to  the  Poets,  they  will  speak  to  thee 
More  perfectly  of  purer  creatures;  — yet 
If  reason  be  nobility  in  man. 

Can  aught  be  more  ignoble  than  the  man 
Whom  they  delight  in,  blinded  as  he  is 
By  prejudice,  the  miserable  slave 
Of  low  ambition  or  distempered  love  I” 

In  such  strange  passion,  if.  I may  once  more 
Review  the  past,  I warred  against  myself — 

A bigot  to  a new  idolatry  — 

Like  a cowled  monk  who  hath  forsworn  the  world, 
Zealously  laboured  to  cut  off  my  heart 
From  all  the  sources  of  her  former  strength; 

And  as,  by  simple  waving  of  a wand, 

The  wizard  instantaneously  dissolves 
Palace  or  grove,  even  so  could  I unsoul 
As  readily  by  syllogistic  words 
Those  mysteries  of  being  which  have  made, 

And  shall  continue  evermore  to  make. 

Of  the  whole  human  race  one  brotherhood. 

What  wonder,  then,  if,  to  a mind  so  far 
Perverted,  even  the  visible  Universe 
Fell  under  the  dominion  of  a taste 
Less  spiritual,  with  microscopic  view 
Was  scanned,  as  I had  scanned  the  moral  world  1 

S38 


THE  PRELUDE. 


539 


O Soul  of  Nature ! excellent  and  fair  ! 

That  didst  rejoice  with  me,  with  whom  I,  too, 

Rejoiced  through  early  youtli,  before  tlie  winds 
And  roaring  waters,  and  in  lights  and  shades 
That  marched  and  countermarched  about  the  hills 
In  glorious  apparition,  Powers  on  whom 
I daily  waited,  now  all  eye  and  now 
All  ear;  but  never  long  without  the  heart 
Employed,  and  man’s  unfolding  intellect: 

0 Soul  of  Nature!  that,  by  laws  divine 
Sustained  and  governed,  still  dost  overflow 
With  an  impassioned  life,  what  feeble  ones 
Walk  on  tliis  earth  ! how  feeble  have  I been 

When  thou  wert  in  thy  strength  I Nor  this  through 
stroke 

Of  human  suffering,  such  as  justifies 
Remissness  and  inaptitude  of  mind, 

But  through  presumption  ; even  in  pleasure  pleased 
Unworthily,  disliking  here,  and  there 
Liking;  by  rules  of  mimic  art  transferred 
To  things  above  all  art ; but  more,  — for  this, 

Although  a strong  infection  of  the  age, 

Was  never  much  my  habit  — giving  way 
To  a comparison  of  scene  with  scene. 

Bent  overmuch  on  superficial  things, 

Pampering  myself  with  meagre  novelties 
Of  colour  and  proportion  ; to  the  moods 
Of  time  and  season,  to  the  moral  power. 

The  affections  and  the  spirit  of  the  place. 

Insensible.  Nor  only  did  the  love 
Of  sitting  thus  in  judgment  interrupt 
Wy  deeper  feelings,  but  another  cause. 

More  subtle  and  less  easily  explained, 

That  almost  seems  inherent  in  the  creature, 

A twofold  frame  of  body  and  of  mind. 

1 speak  in  recollection  of  a time 

\\’heri  the  bodily  eye,  in  every  stage  of  life 
The  most  despotic  of  our  senses,  gained 
Such  strength  in  me  as  often  held  my  mind 
In  absolute  dominion.  Gladly  here, 

Entering  upon  abstruser  argument. 

Could  I endeavour  to  unfold  the  means 
Which  Nature  studiously  employs  to  thwart 
This  tyranny,  summons  all  the  senses  each 
To  counteract  the  other,  and  themselves, 

And  makes  them  all,  and  the  objects  with  which  all 
Are  conversant,  subservient  in  their  turn 
To  the  great  ends  of  Liberty  and  Power. 

But  leave  we  this:  enough  that  my  delights 
(Such  as  they  were)  were  sought  insatiably. 

Vivid  the  transport,  vivid  though  not  profound; 

I roamed  from  hill  to  hill,  from  rock  to  rock, 

Still  craving  combinations  of  new  forms, 

New  pleasure,  w'ider  empire  for  the  sight. 

Proud  of  her  own  endowments,  and  rejoiced 
To  lay  the  inner  faculties  asleep. 

Amid  the  turns  and  counterturns,  the  strife 
And  various  trials  of  our  complex  being, 

As  we  grow  up,  such  thraldom  of  that  sense 


Seems  hard  to  shun.  And  yet  I knew  a maid, 

A young  enthusiast,  who  escaped  these  bonds; 

Her  eye  was  not  the  mistress  of  her  heart; 

Far  less  did  rules  prescribed  by  passive  taste, 

Or  barren  intermeddling  subtleties, 

Perplex  her  mind ; but,  wise  as  women  are 
When  genial  circumstance  hath  favoured  them. 

She  welcomed  what  was  given  and  craved  no  more ; 
Whate’er  the  scene  presented  to  her  view', 

That  was  the  best,  to  that  she  was  attuned 
By  her  benign  simplicity  of  life. 

And  through  a perfect  happiness  of  soul, 

Whose  variegated  feelings,  were  in  this 
Sisters,  that  they  were  each  some  new  delifflit. 

Birds  in  the  bower,  and  lambs  in  the  green  field, 

Could  they  have  known  her,  would  have  loved ; me- 
thought 

Her  very  presence  such  a sweetness  breathed, 

That  flowers,  and  trees,  and  even  the  silent  hills, 

.\nd  every  thing  she  looked  on,  should  have  had 
An  intimation  how  she  bore  herself 
Towards  them  and  to  all  creatures.  God  delights 
In  such  a being;  for  her  common  thoughts 
Are  piety,  her  life  is  gratitude. 

Even  like  this  maid,  before  I w'as  called  forth 
From  the  retirement  of  my  native  hills, 

I loved  whate’er  I saw:  nor  lightly  loved. 

But  most  intensely  ; never  dreamt  of  aught 
More  grand,  more  fair,  more  exquisitely  framed 
Than  those  few  nooks  to  which  my  happy  feet 
Were  limited.  I had  not  at  that  time 
Lived  long  enough,  nor  in  the  least  survived 
The  first  diviner  influence  of  this  world. 

As  it  appears  to  unaccustomed  eyes. 

Worshipping  then  among  the  depth  of  things, 

As  piety  ordained  ; could  I submit 
To  measured  admiration,  or  to  aught 
That  should  preclude  humility  and  love? 

I felt,  observed,  and  pondered;  did  not  judge. 

Yea,  never  thought  of  judging;  with  the  gill 
Of  all  this  glory  filled  and  satisfied. 

And  afterwards,  when  through  the  gorgeous  Alps 
Roaming,  I carried  with  me  the  same  heart; 

In  truth,  the  degradation  — howsoe’er 
Induced,  effect,  in  whatsoe’er  degree, 

Of  custom  that  prepares  a partial  scale 
In  which  the  little  oft  outweighs  the  great; 

Or  any  other  cause  that  hath  been  named ; 

Or  lastly,  aggravated  by  the  times 

And  their  impassioned  sounds,  which  well  might  make 

The  milder  minstrelsies  of  rural  scenes 

Inaudible  — was  transient;  I had  known 

Too  forcibly,  too  early  in  my  life, 

Visitings  of  imaginative  power 
For  this  to  last : I shook  the  habit  off 
Entirely  and  for  ever,  and  again 
In  Nature’s  presence  stood,  as  now  I stand, 

A sensitive  being,  a creative  soul. 


540 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


There  are  in  our  existence  spots  of  time, 

That  with  distinct  pre-eminence  retain 
A renovating  virtue,  whence,  depressed 
By  false  opinion  and  contentious  thought. 

Or  aught  of  heavier  or  more  deadly  weight. 

In  trivial  occupations,  and  the  round 
Of  ordinary  intercourse,  our  minds 
Are  nourished  and  invisibly  repaired; 

A virtue,  by  which  pleasure  is  enhanced. 

That  penetrates,  enables  us  to  mount. 

When  high,  more  high,  and  lifts  us  up  when  fallen. 
This  efficacious  spirit  chiefly  lurks 
Among  those  passages  of  life  that  give 
Profoundest  knowledge  to  what  point,  and  how, 

The  mind  is  lord  and  master  — outward  sense 
The  obedient  servant  of  her  will.  Such  moments 
Are  scattered  every  where,  taking  their  date 
From  our  first  childhood.  I remember  well. 

That  once,  while  yet  my  inexperienced  hand 
Could  scarcely  hold  a bridle,  with  proud  hopes 
I mounted,  and  we  journeyed  towards  the  hills: 

An  ancient  servant  of  my  father’s  house 
Was  with  me,  my  encourager  and  guide : 

We  had  not  travelled  long,  ere  some  mischance 
Disjoined  me  from  my  comrade ; and,  through  fear 
Dismounting,  down  the  rough  and  stony  moor 
I led  my  horse,  and,  stumbling  on,  at  length 
Came  to  a bottom,  where  in  former  times 
A murderer  had  been  hung  in  iron  chains. 

The  gibbet-mast  had  mouldered  down,  the  bones 
And  iron  case  were  gone ; but  on  the  turf. 

Hard  by,  soon  after  that  felt  deed  was  wrought. 

Some  unknown  hand  had  carved  the  murderer’s  name. 
The  monumental  letters  were  inscribed 
In  times  long  past;  but  still,  from  year  to  year. 

By  superstition  of  the  neighbourhood. 

The  grass  is  cleared  away,  and  to  this  hour 
The  characters  are  fresh  and  visible : 

A casual  glance  had  shown  them,  and  I fled. 

Faltering  and  faint,  and  ignorant  of  the  road  : 

Then,  reascending  the  bare  common,  saw 
A naked  pool  that  lay  beneath  the  hills, 

The  beacon  on  the  summit,  and,  more  near, 

A girl,  who  bore  a pitcher  on  her  head. 

And  seemed  with  difficult  steps  to  force  her  way 
Against  the  blowing  wind.  It  was,  in  truth, 

An  ordinary  sight;  but  I should  need 
Colours  and  words  that  are  unknown  to  man. 

To  paint  the  visionary  dreariness 

Which,  while  I looked  all  round  for  my  lost  guide 

Invested  moorland  waste,  and  naked  pool, 

The  beacon  crowning  the  lone  eminence. 

The  female  and  her  garments  vexed  and  tossed 
By  the  strong  wind.  When,  in  the  blessed  hours 
Of  early  love,  the  loved  one  at  my  side, 

I roamed,  in  daily  presence  of  this  scene. 

Upon  the  naked  pool  and  dreary  crags, 

And  on  the  melancholy  beacon,  fell 
A spirit  of  pleasure  and  youth’s  golden  gleam; 


And  think  ye  not  with  radiance  more  sublime 
For  these  remembrances,  and  for  the  power 
They  had  left  behind]  So  feeling  comes  in  aid 
Of  feeling,  and  diversity  of  strength 
Attends  us,  if  but  once  we  have  been  strong. 

Oh  ! mystery  of  man,  from  what  a depth 
Proceed  thy  honours.  I am  lost,  but  see 
In  simple  childhood  something  of  the  base 
On  which  thy  greatness  stands;  but  this  I feel. 
That  from  thyself  it  comes,  that  thou  must  give. 
Else  never  canst  receive.  The  days  gone  by 
Return  upon  me  almost  from  the  dawn 
Of  life : the  hiding-places  of  man’s  power 
Open ; I would  approach  them,  but  they  close. 

I see  by  glimpses  now ; when  age  comes  on. 

May  scarcely  see  at  all ; and  I would  give. 

While  yet  we  may,  as  far  as  words  can  give. 
Substance  and  life  to  what  I feel,  enshrining. 

Such  is  my  hope,  the  spirit  of  the  Past 
For  future  restoration.  — Yet  another 
Of  these  memorials  : — 

One  Christmas-time, 

On  the  glad  eve  of  its  dear  holidays, 

Feverish,  and  tired,  and  restless,  I went  forth 
Into  the  fields,  impatient  for  the  sight 
Of  those  led  palfreys  that  should  bear  us  home; 
My  brothers  and  myself.  There  rose  a crag. 

That,  from  the  meeting-point  of  two  highways 
Ascending,  overlooked  them  both,  far  stretched  ; 
Thither,  uncertain  on  which  road  to  fix 
My  expectation,  thither  I repaired. 

Scout-like,  and  gained  the  summit;  ’twas  a day 
Tempestuous,  dark,  and  wild,  and  on  the  grass 
I sat  half-sheltered  by  a naked  wall ; 

Upon  my  right  hand  couched  a single  sheep. 

Upon  my  left  a blasted  hawthorn  stood  ; 

With  those  companions  at  my  side,  I watched. 
Straining  my  eyes  intensely,  as  the  mist 
Gave  intermitting  prospect  of  the  copse 
And  plain  beneath.  Ere  we  to  school  returned,— 
That  dreary  time,  — ere  we  had  been  ten  days 
Sojourners  in  my  father’s  house,  he  died. 

And  I and  my  three  brothers,  orphans  then. 
Followed  his  body  to  the  grave.  The  event. 

With  all  the  sorrow  that  it  brought,  appeared 
A chastisement;  and  when  I called  to  mind 
That  day  so  lately  past,  when  from  the  crag 
I looked  in  such  anxiety  of  hope ; 

With  trite  reflections  of  morality. 

Yet  in  the  deepest  passion,  I bowed  low 
To  God,  Who  thus  corrected  my  desires ; 

And,  afterwards,  the  wind  and  sleety  rain. 

And  all  the  business  of  the  elements. 

The  single  sheep,  and  the  one  blasted  tree, 

And  the  bleak  music  from  that  old  stone  wall. 

The  noise  of  wood  and  water,  and  the  mist 
That  on  the  line  of  each  of  those  two  roads 
Advanced  in  such  indisputable  .shapes; 

All  these  were  kindred  spectacles  and  sounds 


THE  PRELUDE. 


541 


To  which  I oft  repaired,  and  thence  would  drink, 
As  at  a fountain:  and  on  winter  nights, 

Down  to  tliis  very  time,  wlien  storm  and  rain 
Beat  on  my  roof,  or,  haply,  at  noon-day, 

While  in  a grove  I walk,  wliose  lofty  trees, 
Laden  with  summer’s  thickest  foliage,  rock 


In  a strong  wind,  some  working  of  the  spirit. 
Some  inward  agitations  thence  are  brought, 
Whate’er  their  office,  whether  to  beguile 
Thoughts  over  busy  in  the  course  they  took. 
Or  animate  an  hour  of  vacant  ease. 


BOOK  THIRTEENTH. 


IMAGINATION  AND  TASTE,  HOW  IMPAIRED  AND  RESTORED.  — (Concluded.) 


From  Nature  doth  emotion  come,  and  moods 
Of  calmness  equally  are  Nature’s  gift : 

This  is  her  glory;  these  two  attributes 
Are  sister  horns  that  constitute  her  strength. 
Hence  Genius,  born  to  thrive  by  interchange 
Of  peace  and  excitation,  finds  in  lier 
His  best  and  purest  friend  ; from  her  receives 
That  energy  by  which  he  seeks  the  truth. 

From  her  that  happy  stillness  of  tlie  mind 
Whicli  fits  him  to  receive  it  when  unsought. 

Such  benefit  the  humblest  intellects 
Partake  of,  each  in  their  degree  ; ’tis  mine 
To  speak,  what  I myself  have  known  and  felt; 
Smooth  task ! for  words  find  easy  way,  inspired 
By  gratitude,  and  confidence  in  truth. 

Long  time  in  search  of  knowledge  did  I range 
The  field  of  human  life,  in  heart  and  mind 
Benighted  ; but,  the  dawn  beginning  now 
To  re-appear,  ’twas  proved  that  not  in  vain 
I had  been  taught  to  reverence  a Power 
That  is  the  visible  quality  and  shape 
And  image  of  right  reason  ; that  matures 
Her  processes  by  steadfast  laws;  gives  birth 
To  no  impatient  or  fallacious  hopes. 

No  heat  of  passion  or  excessive  zeal. 

No  vain  conceits;  provokes  to  no  quick  turns 
Of  self-applauding  intellect;  but  trains 
To  meekness,  and  exalts  by  humble  faith; 

Holds  up  before  the  mind  intoxicate 
With  present  objects,  and  the  busy  dance 
Of  things  that  pass  away,  a temperate  show 
Of  objects  that  endure;  and  by  this  course 
Disposes  lier,  when  over-fond  ly  set 
On  throwing  off  incumbrances,  to  seek 
In  man,  and  in  the  frame  of  social  life, 

Whate’er  there  is  desirable  and  good 
Of  kindred  permanence,  unchanged  in  form 
And  function,  or,  through  strict  vicissitude 
Of  life  and  death,  revolving.  Above  all 
Were  re-established  now  those  watchful  thoughts 
Which,  seeing  little  worthy  or  sublime 


In  what  the  Historian’s  pen  so  much  delights 
To  blazon  — power  and  energy  detached 
From  moral  purpose  — early  tutored  me 
To  look  with  feelings  of  fraternal  love 
Upon  the  unassuming  things  that  hold 
A silent  station  in  this  beauteous  world. 

Thus  moderated,  thus  composed,  I found 
Once  more  in  Man  an  object  of  delight. 

Of  pure  imagination,  and  of  love; 

And,  as  the  horizon  of  my  mind  enlarged. 

Again  I took  the  intellectual  eye 

For  my  instructor,  studious  more  to  see 

Great  truths,  than  touch  and  handle  little  ones. 

Knowledge  was  given  accordingly ; my  trust 

Became  more  firm  in  feelings  that  had  stood 

The  test  of  such  a trial ; clearer  far 

My  sense  of  excellence  — of  right  and  wrong: 

The  promise  of  the  present  time  retired 
Into  its  true  proportion  ; sanguine  schemes. 
Ambitious  projects,  pleased  me  less;  I sought 
For  present  good  in  life’s  familiar  face. 

And  built  thereon  my  hopes  of  good  to  come. 

With  settling  judgments  now  of  what  would  last 
And  what  would  disappear ; prepared  to  find 
Presumption,  folly,  madness,  in  the  men 
Who  thrust  themselves  upon  the  passive  world 
As  Rulers  of  the  world  ; to  see  in  these. 

Even  when  the  public  welfare  is  their  aim. 

Plans  without  thought,  or  built  on  theories 
Vague  and  unsound  ; and  having  brought  the  books 
Of  modern  statists  to  their  proper  test. 

Life,  human  life,  with  all  its  sacred  claims 
Of  sex  and  age,  and  heaven-descended  rights. 
Mortal,  or  those  beyond  the  reach  of  death ; 

And  having  thus  discerned  how  dire  a thing 
Is  worshipped  in  that  idol  proudly  named 
“ The  Wealth  of  Nations,”  where  alone  that  wealth 
Is  lodged,  and  how  increased  ; and  having  gained 
A more  judicious  knowledge  of  the  worth 
And  dignity  of  individual  man, 

46 


542 


WOEDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


No  composition  of  the  brain,  but  man 
Of  whom  we  read,  the  man  whom  we  behold  . 

^V4th  our  own  eyes — I could  not  but  inquire  — 

Not  with  less  interest  than  heretofore. 

But  greater,  though  in  spirit  more  subdued  — 

Why  is  this  glorious  creature  to  be  found 
One  only  in  ten  thousand  1 What  one  is, 

Why  may  not  millions  be?  What  bars  are  thrown 
By  Nature  in  the  way  of  such  a hope  ? 

Our  animal  appetites  and  daily  wants. 

Are  these  obstructions  insurmountable? 

If  not,  then  others  vanish  into  air. 

“Inspect  the  basis  of  the  social  pile: 

Inquire,”  said  I,  “how  much  of  mental  power 
And  genuine  virtue  they  possess  who  live 
By  bodily  toil,  labour  exceeding  far 
Their  due  proportion,  under  all  the  weight 
Of  that  injustice  which  upon  ourselves 
Ourselves  entail.”  Such  estimate  to  frame 
I chiefly  looked  (what  need  to  look  beyond  ?) 

Among  the  natural  abodes  of  men. 

Fields  with  their  rural  works;  recalled  to  mind 
My  earliest  notices;  with  these  compared 
The  observations  made  in  later  youth. 

And  to  that  day  continued.  — For,  the  time 
Had  never  been  when  throes  of  mighty  Nations 
And  tlie  world’s  tumult  unto  me  could  yield. 

How  far  soe’er  transported  and  possessed. 

Full  measure  of  content ; but  still  I craved 
An  intermingling  of  distinct  regards 
And  truths  of  individual  sympathy 
Nearer  ourselves.  Such  often  might  be  gleaned 
From  the  great  City,  else  it  must  have  proved 
To  me  a heart-depressing  wilderness; 

But  much  was  wanting:  therefore  did  I turn 
To  you,  ye  pathways,  and  ye  lonely  roads  ; 

Sought  you  enriched  with  every  thing  I prized. 

With  human  kindnesses  and  simple  joys. 

Oh ! next  to  one  dear  state  of  bliss,  vouchsafed 
Alas ! to  few  in  tliis  untoward  world. 

The  bliss  of  walking  daily  in  life’s  prime 
Through  field  or  forest  with  the  maid  we  love. 

While  yet  our  hearts  are  young,  while  yet  we  breathe 
Nothing  but  happiness,  in  some  lone  nook. 

Deep  vale,  or  any  where,  the  home  of  both. 

From  which  it  would  be  misery  to  stir: 

Oh  ! next  to  such  enjoyment  of  our  youth. 

In  my  esteem,  next  to  such  dear  delight. 

Was  that  of  wandering  on  from  day  to  day 
Where  I could  meditate  in  peace,  and  cull 
Knowledge  that  step  by  step  miglit  lead  me  on 
To  wisdom  ; or,  as  lightsome  as  a bird 
Wafted  upon  the  wind  from  distant  lands. 

Sing  notes  of  greeting  to  strange  fields  or  groves, 
Wliicli  lacked  not  voice  to  welcome  me  in  turn: 

And,  when  that  pleasant  toil  had  ceased  to  please, 
Converse  with  men,  where  if  we  meet  a face 
We  almost  meet  a friend,  on  naked  heaths 


With  long  long  ways  before,  by  cottage  bench. 

Or  well-spring  where  the  weary  traveller  rests 

Who  doth  not  love  to  follow  with  his  eye 
The  windings  of  a public  way?  the  sight. 

Familiar  object  as  it  is,  hath  wrought 
On  my  imagination  since  the  morn 
Of  childhood,  when  a disappearing  line 
One  daily  present  to  my  eyes,  that  crossed 
The  naked  summit  of  a far-off  hill 
Beyond  the  limits  that  my  feet  had  trod. 

Was  like  an  invitation  into  space 
Boundless,  or  guide  into  eternity. 

Yes,  something  of  the  grandeur  which  invests 
The  mariner  who  sails  the  roaring  sea 
Through  storm  and  darkness,  early  in  my  mind 
Surrounded,  too,  the  wanderers  of  the  earth ; 
Grandeur  as  much,  and  loveliness  far  more. 

Awed  have  I been  by  strolling  Bedlamites; 

From  many  other  uncouth  vagrants  (passed 
In  fear)  have  walked  with  quicker  step;  but  why 
Take  note  of  this?  When  I began  to  inquire. 

To  watch  and  question  tliose  I met,  and  speak 
Without  reserve  to  them,  the  lonely  roads 
Were  open  schools  in  which  I daily  read 
With  most  delight  the  passions  of  mankind. 
Whether  by  words,  looks,  sighs,  or  tears,  revealed ; 
There  saw  into  the  depth  of  human  souls. 

Souls  that  appear  to  have  no  depth  at  all 

To  careless  eyes.  And  — now  convinced  at  heart 

How  little  those  formalities,  to  which 

With  overweening  trust  alone  we  give 

The  name  of  Education,  have  to  do 

With  real  feeling  and  just  sense  ; how  vain 

A correspondence  with  the  talking  world 

Proves  to  the  most;  and  called  to  make  good  search 

If  man’s  estate,  by  doom  of  Nature  yoked 

With  toil,  be  therefore  yoked  with  ignorance  ; 

If  virtue  be  indeed  so  hard  to  rear. 

And  intellectual  strength  so  rare  a boon  — 

I prized  such  walks  still  more,  for  there  I found 
Hope  to  my  hope,  and  to  my  pleasure  peace 
And  steadiness,  and  healing  and  repose 
To  every  angry  passion.  There  I heard. 

From  mouths  of  men  obscure  and  lowly,  truths 
Replete  with  honour;  sounds  in  unison 
With  loftiest  promises  of  good  and  fair. 

There  are  who  think  that  strong  affection,  love 
Known  by  whatever  name,  is  falsely  deemed 
A gift,  to  use  a term  which  they  would  use. 

Of  vulgar  nature;  that  its  growth  requires 
Retirement,  leisure,  language  purified 
By  manners  studied  and  elaborate ; 

That  whoso  feels  such  passion  in  its  strength 
Must  live  within  the  very  light  and  air 
Of  coiirteoiis  usages  refined  by  art. 

True  is  it,  where  oppression  worse  than  death 
Salutes  the  being  at  his  birth,  where  grace 


THE  PRELUDE. 


513 


Of  culture  hath  been  utterly  unknown, 

And  poverty  and  labour  in  excess 
From  day  to  day  pre-occupy  tlie  ground 
Of  the  affections,  and  to  Nature’s  self 
Oppose  a deeper  nature ; there,  indeed. 

Love  cannot  be;  nor  does  it  tlirive  with  ease 
Among  the  close  and  overcrowded  liaunts 
Of  cities  where  the  human  heart  is  sick. 

And  the  eye  feeds  it  not,  and  cannot  feed. 

— Yes,  in  those  wanderings  deeply  did  I feel 
How  we  mislead  each  other;  above  all. 

How  books  mislead  us,  seeking  their  rew'ard 
From  judgments  of  the  wealtliy  Few,  who  see 
By  artificial  lights;  how  they  debase 
The  many  for  the  pleasure  of  those  Few; 
Effeminately  level  down  the  truth 
To  certain  general  notions,  for  the  sake 
Of  being  understood  at  once,  or  else 
Through  w'ant  of  better  knowledge  in  the  heads 
That  framed  them;  flattering  self-conceit  with  words, 
That,  while  they  most  ambitiously  set  forth 
Extrinsic  differences,  the  outward  marks 
Whereby  society  has  parted  man 
From  man,  neglect  the  universal  heart. 

Here,  calling  up  to  mind  what  then  I saw, 

A youthful  traveller,  and  see  daily  now 
In  the  familiar  circuit  of  my  home. 

Here  might  I pause  and  bend  in  reverence 
To  Nature,  and  the  power  of  human  minds, 

To  men  as  they  are  men  within  themselves. 

How  oft  high  service  is  performed  within. 

When  all  the  external  man  is  rude  in  show, — 

Not  like  a temple  rich  with  pomp  and  gold. 

But  a mere  mountain  chapel,  that  protects 
Its  simple  worsliippers  from  sun  and  shower. 

Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song;  of  these. 

If  future  years  mature  me  for  the  task. 

Will  I record  tlie  praises,  making  verse 
Deal  boldly  with  substantial  things;  in  truth 
And  sanctity  of  passion,  speak  of  these. 

That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance  paid 
Where  it  is  due:  thus  haply  shall  I teach. 

Inspire,  through  unadulterated  ears 

Pour  rapture,  tenderness,  and  hope,  — my  theme 

No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man. 

As  found  among  the  best  of  those  who  live 
Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith. 

Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books,  though  few. 

In  Nature’s  presence:  thence  may  I select 
Sorrow,  that  is  not  sorrow,  but  delight; 

And  miserable  love,  that  is  not  pain 
To  hear  of,  for  the  glory  that  redounds 
Therefrom  to  human  kind,  and  what  we  are. 

Be  mine  to  follow  with  no  timid  step 

Where  knowledge  leads  me:  it  shall  be  my  pride 

That  I have  dared  to  tread  this  holy  ground. 

Speaking  no  dream,  but  things  oracular; 

Matter  not  lightly  to  be  heard  by  those 


Who  to  the  letter  of  the  outward  promise 
Do  read  the  invisible  soul ; by  men  adroit 
In  speech,  and  for  communion  with  the  world 
Accomplished  ; minds  whose  faculties  are  then 
Most  active  when  they  are  most  eloquent. 

And  elevated  most  when  most  admired. 

Men  may  be  found  of  other  mould  than  these. 

Who  are  their  own  upholders,  to  themselves 
Encouragement,  and  energy,  and  will. 

Expressing  liveliest  thouglits  in  lively  words 
As  native  passion  dictates.  Others,  too. 

There  are  among  the  walks  of  homely  life 
Still  higher,  men  for  contemplation  framed, 

Shy,  and  unpractised  in  the  strife  of  phrase; 

Meek  men,  whose  very  souls  perhaps  would  sink 
Beneath  them,  summoned  to  such  intercourse: 

Theirs  is  the  language  of  the  heavens,  the  power. 

The  thought,  the  image,  and  the  silent  joy: 

Words  are  but  under-agents  in  their  souls; 

When  they  are  grasping  with  their  greatest  strength. 
They  do  not  breathe  among  them:  this  I speak 
In  gratitude  to  God,  Who  feeds  our  hearts 
For  His  own  service;  knoweth,  loveth  us. 

When  we  are  unregarded  by  the  world. 

Also,  about  this  time  did  I receive 
Convictions  still  more  strong  than  heretofore. 

Not  only  that  the  inner  frame  is  good. 

And  graciously  composed,  but  that,  no  less. 

Nature  for  all  conditions  wants  not  power 
To  consecrate,  if  we  have  eyes  to  see. 

The  outside  of  her  creatures,  and  to  breathe 
Grandeur  upon  the  very  humblest  face 
Of  human  life.  I felt  that  the  array 
Of  act  and  circumstance,  and  visible  form. 

Is  mainly  to  the  pleasure  of  the  mind 

What  passion  makes  them  ; that  meanwhile  the  forms 

Of  Nature  have  a passion  in  themselves. 

That  intermingles  with  those  works  of  man 
To  which  he  summons  him ; although  the  works 
Be  mean,  have  nothing  lofty  of  their  own ; 

And  that  the  Genius  of  the  Poet  hence 
ilay  boldly  take  his  way  among  mankind 
Wherever  Nature  leads;  that  he  hath  stood 
By  Nature’s  side  among  the  men  of  old. 

And  so  shall  stand  for  ever.  Dearest  Friend  ! 

If  thou  partake  the  animating  faith 

That  Poets,  even  as  Prophets,  each  with  each 

Connected  in  a mighty  scheme  of  truth. 

Have  each  his  own  peculiar  faculty. 

Heaven’s  gift,  a sense  that  fits  him  to  perceive 
Objects  unseen  before,  thou  wilt  not  blame 
The  humblest  of  this  band  who  dares  to  hope 
That  unto  him  hath  also  been  vouchsafed 
An  insight  that  in  some  sort  he  possesses, 

A privilege  whereby  a work  of  his. 

Proceeding  from  a source  of  untaught  things, 

Creative  and  enduring,  may  become 
A power  like  one  of  Nature’s.  To  a hope 


544 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Not  less  ambitious  once  amon^  the  wilds 
Of  Sarum’s  Plain,  my  youthful  spirit  was  raised  ; 
There,  as  I ranged  at  will  the  pastoral  downs 
Trackless  and  smooth,  or  paced  the  bare  white  roads 
Lengthening  in  solitude  their  dreary  line, 

Time  with  his  retinue  of  ages  fled 
Backwards,  nor  checked  his  flight  until  I saw 
Our  dim  ancestral  Past  in  vision  clear; 

Saw  multitudes  of  men,  and,  here  and  there, 

A single  Briton  clothed  in  wolf-skin  vest. 

With  shield  and  stone-axe,  stride  across  the  wold  ; 
The  voice  of  spears  was  heard,  the  rattling  spear 
Shaken  by  arms  of  mighty  bone,  in  strength. 

Long  mouldered,  of  barbaric  majesty. 

I called  on  Darkness — but  before  the  word 
Was  uttered,  midnight  darkness  seemed  to  take 
All  objects  from  my  sight;  and  lo!  again 
The  Desert  visible  by  dismal  flames ; 

It  is  the  sacrificial  altar,  fed 

With  living  men  — how  deep  the  groans ! the  voice 
Of  those  that  erdwd  the  giant  wicker  thrills 
The  monumental  hillocks,  and  tlie  pomp 
Is  for  both  worlds,  the  living  and  the  dead. 

At  other  moments  (for  through  that  wide  waste 
Three  summer  days  I roamed)  where’er  the  Plain 
Was  figured  o’er  with  circles,  lines  or  mounds, 

That  yet  survive,  a work,  as  some  divine. 

Shaped  by  the  Druids,  so  to  represent 

Their  knowledge  of  the  heavens,  and  image  forth 

The  constellations  ; gently  was  I charmed 

Into  a waking  dream,  a reverie 

That,  with  believing  eyes,  where’er  I turned. 

Beheld  long-bearded  teachers,  with  white  wands 
Uplifted,  pointing  to  the  starry  sky. 


Alternately,  and  plain  below,  while  breath 
Of  music  swayed  their  motions,  and  the  waste 
Rejoiced  with  them  and  me  in  those  sweet  sounds. 


This  for  the  past,  and  things  that  may  be  viewed 
Or  fancied  in  the  obscurity  of  years 
From  monumental  liints:  and  thou,  O Friend! 
Pleased  with  some  unpremeditated  strains 
That  served  those  wanderings  to  beguile,  hast  said 
That  then  and  there  my  mind  had  exercised 
Upon  the  vulgar  forms  of  present  things, 

The  actual  world  of  our  familiar  days. 

Yet  higher  power ; had  caught  from  them  a tone. 
An  image,  and  a character,  by  books 
Not  hitherto  reflected.  Call  we  this 
A partial  judgment  — and  yet  whyl  for  then 
We  were  as  strangers;  and  I may  not  speak 
Thus  wrongfully  of  verse,  however  rude. 

Which  on  thy  young  imagination,  trained 
In  the  great  City,  broke  like  light  from  far. 
Moreover,  each  man’s  Mind  is  to  herself 
Witness  and  judge;  and  I remember  well 
That  in  life’s  every-day  appearances 
I seemed  about  this  time  to  gain  clear  sight 
Of  a new  world  — a world,  too,  that  was  fit 
To  he  transmitted,  and  to  other  eyes 
Made  visible;  as  ruled  by  those  fixed  laws 
Whence  spiritual  dignity  originates. 

Which  do  both  give  it  being  and  maintain 
A balance,  an  ennobling  interchange 
Of  action  from  without  and  from  within  ; 

The  excellence,  pure  function,  and  best  power 
Both  of  the  object  seen,  and  eye  that  sees. 


BOOK  FOURTEENTH. 


CONCLUSION. 


In  one  of  those  excursions  (may  they  ne’er 

Fade  from  remembrance !)  through  the  Northern  tracts 

Of  Cambria  ranging  with  a youtliful  friend, 

I left  Bethgelert’s  huts  at  couching-time. 

And  westward  took  my  way,  to  see  the  sun 
Rise  from  the  top  of  Snowdon.  To  the  door 
Of  a rude  cottage  at  the  mountain’s  base 
We  came,  ami  roused  the  shepherd  who  attends 
The  adventurous  stranger’s  steps,  a trusty  guide; 
Then,  cheered  by  short  refreshment,  sallied  forth. 

It  was  a close,  warm,  breezeless  summer  night. 
Wan,  dull,  and  glaring,  with  a dripping  fog 


Low-hung  and  thick  that  covered  all  the  sky; 

But  undiscouraged,  we  began  to  climb 
The  mountain-side.  The  misfsoon  girt  us  round. 
And,  after  ordinary  travellers’  talk 
With  our  conductor,  pensively  we  sank 
Each  into  commerce  with  his  private  thoughts: 
Thus  did  we  breast  tlie  ascent,  and  by  myself 
Was  notiling  eitlier  seen  or  heard  that  checked 
Those  musings  or  diverted,  save  that  once 
The  shepherd’s  lurcher,  who,  among  the  crags. 
Had  to  his  joy  unearllicd  a hedgehog,  teased 
His  coiled-up  prey  with  barkings  turbulent. 

This  small  adventure,  for  even  such  it  seemed 


THE  PRELUDE. 


545 


In  that  wild  place  and  at  the  dead  of  night, 

Being  over  and  forgotten,  on  we  wound 

In  silence  as  before.  With  forehead  bent 

Earthward,  as  if  in  opposition  set 

Against  an  enemy,  I panted  up 

With  eager  pace,  and  no  less  eager  thoughts. 

Thus  might  we  wear  a midnight  hour  away. 
Ascending  at  loose  distance  each  from  each. 

And  I,  as  chanced,  the  foremost  of  the  band  ; 

When  at  my  feet  the  ground  appeared  to  brighten, 
And^ith  a step  or  two  seemed  brighter  still ; 

Nor  was  time  given  to  ask  or  learn  the  cause. 

For  instantly  a light  upon  the  turf 
Fell  like  a flash,  and  lo ! as  I looked  up, 

The  Moon  hung  naked  in  a firmament 
Of  azure  without  cloud,  and  at  my  feet 
Rested  a silent  sea  of  hoary  mist. 

A hundred  hills  their  dusky  backs  upheaved 
All  over  this  still  ocean  ; and  beyond. 

Far,  far  beyond,  the  solid  vapours  stretched. 

In  headlands,  tongues,  and  promontory  shapes, 

Into  the  main  Atlantic,  that  appeared 
To  dwindle,  and  give  up  his  majesty. 

Usurped  upon  far  as  the  sight  could  reach. 

Not  so  the  ethereal  vault;  encroachment  none 
Was  there,  nor  loss ; only  the  inferior  stars 
Had  disappeared,  or  shed  a fainter  light 
In  the  clear  presence  of  the  full-orbed  Moon, 

Who,  from  her  sovereign  elevation,  gazed 
Upon  the  billowy  ocean,  as  it  lay  ^ 

All  meek  and  silent,  save  that  through  a rift  — 

Not  distant  from  the  shore  whereon  we  stood, 

A fixed,  abysmal,  gloomy,  breathing-place  — 

Mounted  the  roar  of  waters,  torrents,  streams 
Innumerable,  roaring  with  one  voice! 

Heard  over  earth  and  sea,  and,  in  that  hour. 

For  so  it  seemed,  felt  by  the  starry  heavens. 

When  into  air  had  partially  dissolved 
That  vision,  given  to  spirits  of  the  night 
And  three  chance  human  wanderers,  in  calm  thought 
Reflected,  it  appeared  to  me  the  type 
Of  a majestic  intellect,  its  acts 
And  its  possessions,  what  it  has  and  craves. 

What  in  itself  it  is,  and  would  become. 

There  I beheld  the  emblem  of  a mind 
That  feeds  upon  infinity,  that  broods 
Over  the  dark  abyss,  intent  to  hear 
Its  voices  issuing  forth  to  silent  light 
In  one  continuous  stream  ; a mind  sustained 
By  recognitions  of  transcendent  power. 

In  sense  conducting  to  ideal  form. 

In  soul  of  more  than  mortal  privilege. 

One  function,  above  all,  of  such  a mind 
Had  Nature  shadowed  there,  by  putting  forth, 

’Mid  circumstances  awful  and  sublime. 

That  mutual  domination  which  she  loves 
To  exert  upon  the  face  of  outward  things. 

So  moulded,  joined,  abstracted,  so  endowed 
3T 


With  interchangeable  supremacy. 

That  men,  least  sensitive,  .see,  hear,  perceive. 

And  cannot  choose  but  feel.  The  power,  which  all 
Acknowledge  when  thus  moved,  which  Nature  thus 
To  bodily  sense  exhibits,  is  the  express 
Resemblance  of  that  glorious  faculty 
That  higher  minds  bear  with  them  as  their  own. 
This  is  the  very  spirit  in  which  tliey  deal 
With  the  whole  compass  of  the  universe  : 

They  from  their  native  selves  can  send  abroad 
Kindred  mutations;  for  themselves  create 
A like  existence;  and,  whene’er  it  dawns 
Created  for  them,  catch  it,  or  are  caught 
By  its  inevitable  mastery, 

Like  angels  stopped  upon  the  wing  by  sound 
Of  harmony  from  Heaven’s  remotest  spheres. 

Them  the  enduring  and  the  transient  both 
Serve  to  exalt ; they  build  up  greatest  things 
From  least  suggestions;  ever  on  the  watch. 

Willing  to  work  and  to  b’e  wrought  upon. 

They  need  not  extraordinary  calls 
To  rouse  them  ; in  a world  of  life  they  live. 

By  sensible  impressions  not  enthralled. 

But  by  their  quickening  impulse  made  more  prompt 
To  hold  fit  converse  with  the  spiritual  world. 

And  with  the  generations  of  mankind 
Spread  over  time,  past,  present,  and  to  come 
Age  after  age,  till  Time  shall  be  no  more. 

Such  minds  are  truly  from  the  Deity, 

For  they  are  Powers;  and' hence  the  highest  bliss 
That  flesh  can  know  is  theirs  — the  consciousness 
Of  Whom  they  are,  habitually  infused 
Through  every  image  and  through  every  thought. 
And  all  affections  by  communion  raised 
From  earth  to  heaven,  from  human  to  divine 
Hence  endless  occupation  for  the  Soul, 

Whether  discursive  or  intuitive; 

Hence  cheerfulness  for  acts  of  daily  life. 

Emotions  which  best  foresight  need  not  fear. 

Most  worthy  then  of  trust  when  most  intense. 
Hence,  amid  ills  that  vex  and  wrongs  that  crush 
Our  hearts  — if  here  the  words  of  Holy  Writ 
May  with  fit  reverence  be  applied  — that  peace 
Which  passeth  understanding,  that  repose 
In  moral  judgments  which  from  this  pure  source 
Must  come,  or  will  by  man  be  sought  in  vain. 

Oh  ! who  is  he  that  hath  his  whole  life  long 
Preserved,  enlarged,  this  freedom  in  himself] 

For  this  alone  is  genuine  liberty : 

Where  is  the  favoured  being  who  hath  held 
That  course  unchecked,  unerring,  and  untired. 

In  one  perpetual  progress  smooth  and  bright]  — 

A humbler  destiny  have  we  retraced. 

And  told  of  lapse  and  hesitating  choice, 

And  backward  wanderings  along  thorny  ways: 

Yet  — compassed  round  by  mountain  solitudes, 
Within  whose  solemn  temple  I received 
My  earliest  visitations,  careless  then 
46* 


516 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETIC AL  WORKS. 


Of  wiiat  was  given  me ; and  which  now  I range, 

A meditative,  oft  a suffering  man  — 

Do  I declare  — in  accents  which,  from  truth 
Deriving  cheerful  confidence,  shall  blend 
Their  modulation  with  these  vocal  streams  — 

That,  whatsoever  falls  my  better  mind. 

Revolving  with  the  accidents  of  life. 

May  have  sustained,  that,  howsoe’er  misled. 

Never  did  I,  in  quest  of  right  and  wrong. 

Tamper  with  conscience  from  a private  aim 
Nor  was  in  any  public  hope  the  dupe 
Of  selfish  passions;  nor  did  ever  yield 
Wilfully  to  mean  cares  or  low  pursuits. 

But  shrunk  with  apprehensive  jealousy 
From  every  combination  which  might  aid 
The  tendency,  too  potent  in  itself. 

Of  use  and  custom  to  bow  down  the  soul 
Under  a growing  weight  of  vulgar  sense, 

And  substitute  a universe  of  death 
• For  that  which  moves  with  lijlit  and  life  informed. 
Actual,  divine,  and  true.  To  fear  and  love. 

To  love  as  prime  and  chief,  for  there  fear  ends. 

Be  this  ascribed  ; to  early  intercourse, 

In  presence  of  sublime  or  beautiful  forms, 

With  the  adverse  principles  of  pain  and  joy  — 

Evil  as  one  is  rashly  named  by  men 

Who  know  not  what  they  speak.  By  love  subsists 

All  lasting  grandeur,  by  pervading  love ; 

That  gone,  we  are  as  dust.  — Behold  the  fields 
In  balmy  spring-time  full  of  rising  flowers 
And  joyous  creatures  ; see  that  pair,  the  lamb 
And  the  lamb’s  mother,  and  their  tender  ways 
Shall  touch  thee  to  the  heart;  thou  callest  this  love. 
And  not  inaptly  so,  for  love  it  is. 

Far  as  it  carries  thee.  In  some  green  bower 
Rest,  and  be  not  alone,  but  have  thou  there 
The  One  who  is  thy  choice  of  all  the  world ; 

There  linger,  listening,  gazing,  with  delight 
Impassioned,  but  delight  how  pitiable  ! 

Unless  this  love  by  a still  higher  love 
Be  hallowed,  love  that  breathes  not  without  awe; 
Love  that  adores,  but  on  the  knees  of  prayer. 

By  heaven  inspired  ; that  frees  from  chains  the  soul, 
Lifted,  in  union  with  the  purest,  best. 

Of  earth-born  passions,  on  the  wings  of  praise 
Bearing  a tribute  to  the  Almighty’s  Throne. 

This  spiritual  Love  acts  not  nor  can  e.xist 
Without  Imagination,  which,  in  truth. 

Is  but  another  name  for  absolute  power 
And  clearest  insight,  amplitude  of  mind. 

And  Reason  in  her  most  exalted  mood. 

This  faculty  hath  been  the  feeding  source 
Of  our  long  labour ; we  have  traced  the  stream 
From  the  blind  cavern  whence  is  faintly  heard 
Its  natal  murmur;  followed  it  to  light 
And  open  day  ; accompanied  its  course 
Among  the  ways  of  Nature,  for  a time 
Lost  sight  of  it  bewildered  and  ingulphed; 


Then  given  it  greeting  as  it  rose  once  more 
In  strength,  reflecting  from  its  placid  breast 
The  works  of  man  and  face  of  human  life ; 

And  lastly,  from  its  progre.ss  have  we  drawn 
J^,Tuth  in  life  endless,  the  sustaining  thought 
Of  human  Being,  Eternity,  and  God. 

^Imagination  having  been  our  theme. 

So  also  hath  that  intellectual  Love, 

For  they  are  each  in  each,  and  cannot  stand 
Dividually.  — Here  must  thou  be,  O Man! 
Power  to  thyself;  no  helper  hast  thou  here  ; 
Here  keepest  thou  in  singleness  thy  state  : 

No  other  can  divide  with  thee  this  work: 

No  secondary  hand  can  intervene 
To  fashion  this  ability  ; ’tis  thine. 

The  prime  and  vital  principle  is  thine. 

In  the  recesses  of  thy  nature,  far 
From  any  reach  of  outward  fellowship. 

Else  is  not  thine  at  all.  But  joy  to  him. 

Oh,  joy  to  him  who  here  hath  sown,  hath  laid 
Here,  the  foundation  of  bis  future  years! 

For  all  that  friendsliip,  all  that  love  can  do. 

All  that  a darling  countenance  can  look 
Or  dear  voice  utter,  to  complete  the  man. 
Perfect  him,  made  imperfect  in  himself, 

All  shall  be  his:  and  he  whose  soul  hath  risen 
Up  to  the  height  of  feeling  intellect 
Shall  want  no  humbler  tenderness;  his  heart 
Be  tender  as  a nursing  mother’s  heart; 

Of  female  softness  shall  his  life  be  full. 

Of  humble  cares  and  delicate  desires, 

Mild  interests  and  gentlest  sympathies. 

Child  of  my  parents  ! Sister  of  my  soul ! 
Thanks  in  sincerest  verse  have  been  elsewhere 
Poured  out  for  all  the  early  tenderness 
Which  I from  thee  imbibed  : and  ’tis  most  true 
That  later  seasons  owed  to  thee  no  less; 

For,  spite  of  thy  sweet  influence  and  the  touch 
Of  kindred  hands  that  opened  out  the  springs 
Of  genial  thought  in  childhood,  and  in  spite 
Of  all  that  unassisted  I had  marked 
In  life  or  nature  of  those  charms  minute 
That  win  their  way  into  the  heart  by  stealth 
(Still  to  the  very  going-out  of  youth), 

I too  exclusively  esteemed  that  love. 

And  sought  that  beauty,  which,  as  IMilton  sings. 
Hath  terror  in  it.*  Thou  didst  soften  down 
This  over-sternness;  but  for  thee,  dear  Friend  ! 
My  soul,  too  reckless  of  mild  grace,  had  stood 
In  her  original  self  too  confident. 

Retained  too  long  a countenance  severe  : 

A rock  with  torrents  roaring,  with  the  clouds 
Familiar,  and  a favourite  of  the  stars: 

But  thou  didst  plant  its  crevices  with  flowers, 
Hang  it  with  shrubs  that  twinkle  in  the  breeze. 
And  teach  the  little  birds  to  build  their  nests 


[*  See  Paradise  Lost,  Book  IX.,  490-1. — H.  R.] 


THE  PRELUDE. 


517 


And  warble  in  its  cliambers.  At  a time 
When  Nature,  destined  to  remain  so  lon^ 

Foremost  in  my  atfections,  had  fallen  back 
Into  a second  place,  pleased  to  become 
A handmaid  to  a nobler  than  herself. 

When  every  day  brought  with  it  some  new  sense 
Of  exquisite  regard  for  common  things. 

And  all  the  earth  was  budding  with  these  gifts 
Of  more  refined  humanity,  thy  breath. 

Dear  Sister!  was  a kind  of  gentler  spring 
That  went  before  my  steps.  Thereafter  came 
One  whom  with  thee  friendship  had  early  paired; 

She  came,  no  more  a phantom  to  adorn 
A moment,  but  an  inmate  of  the  heart. 

And  yet  a spirit,  there  for  me  enshrined 
To  penetrate  the  lofty  and  the  low  ;* 

Even  as  one  essence  of  pervading  light 
Shines,  in  the  brightest  of  ten  thousand  stars. 

And,  the  meek  worm  that  feeds  her  lonely  lamp 
Couched  in  the  dewy  gras.s. 

With  such  a theme, 

Coleridge  ! with  this  my  argument,  of  thee 
Shall  I be  silent  1 O capacious  Soul ! 

Placed  on  this  earth  to  love  and  understand. 

And  from  thy  presence  shed  the  light  of  love. 

Shall  I be  mute,  ere  thou  be  spoken  of? 

Thy  kindred  influence  to  my  heart  of  hearts 
Did  also  find  its  way.  Thus  fear  relaxed 
Her  overweening  grasp;  thus  thoughts  and  things 
In  the  self-haunting  spirit  learned  to  take 
More  rational  proportions;  mystery. 

The  incumbent  mystery  of  sense  and  soul. 

Of  life  and  death,  time  and  eternity. 

Admitted  more  habitually  a mild 
Interposition  — a serene  delight 
In  closelier  gathering  cares,  such  as  become 
A human  creature,  howsoe’er  endowed, 

Poet,  or  destined  for  a humbler  name; 

And  so  the  deep  enthusiastic  joy. 

The  rapture  of  the  hallelujah  sent 

From  all  that  breathes  and  is,  was  chastened,  stemmed. 

And  balanced  by  pathetic  truth,  by  trust 

In  hopeful  reason,  leaning  on  the  stay 

Of  Providence  ; and  in  reverence  for  duty. 

Here,  if  need  be,  struggling  v/ith  storms,  and  there 
Strewing  in  peace  life’s  humblest  ground  with  herbs. 
At  every  season  green,  sweet  at  all  hours. 

And  now,  O Friend ! this  history  is  brought 
To  its  appointed  close:  the  discipline 
And  consummation  of  a Poet’s  mind. 

In  every  thing  that  stood  most  prominent. 

Have  faithfully  been  pictured  ; we  have  reached 
The  time  (our  guiding  object  from  the  first) 

When  we  may,  not  presumptuously,  I hope. 

Suppose  my  powers  so  far  confirmed,  and  such 
My  knowledge,  as  to  make  me  capable 


Of  building  up  a Work  that  shall  endure. 

Yet  much  hath  been  omitted,  as  need  was; 

Of  books  how  much ! and  even  of  the  other  wealti 
That  is  collected  among  woods  and  fields 
Far  more:  for  Nature’s  secondary  grace 
Hath  hitherto  been  barely  touched  upon. 

The  charm  more  superficial  that  attends 
Her  works,  as  they  present  to  Fancy’s  choice 
Apt  illustrations  of  the  moral  W'orld, 

Caught  at  a glance,  or  traced  with  curious  pains. 

Finally,  and  above  all,  O Friend ! (I  speak 
With  due  regret)  how  much  is  overlooked 
In  human  nature  and  her  subtle  W'ays, 

As  studied  first  in  our  own  hearts,  and  then 
In  life  among  the  passions  of  mankind, 

Varying  their  composition  and  their  hue, 

Where’er  we  move,  under  the  diverse  shapes 
That  individual  character  presents 
To  an  attentive  eye.  For  progress  meet. 

Along  this  intricate  and  difficult  path, 

Whate’er  was  wanting,  something  had  I gained, 
As  one  of  many  schoolfellows  compelled. 

In  hardy  independence,  to  stand  up 
Amid  conflicting  interests,  and  the  shock 
Of  various  tempers;  to  endure  and  note 
What  was  not  understood,  though  known  to  be; 
Among  the  mysteries  of  love  and  hate. 

Honour  and  shame,  looking  to  right  and  left. 
Unchecked  by  innocence  too  delicate. 

And  moral  notions  too  intolerant. 

Sympathies  too  contraeted.  Hence,  when  called 
To  take  a station  among  men,  the  step 
Was  easier,  the  transition  more  secure, 

More  profitable  also ; for,  the  mind 
Learns  from  such  timely  exercise  to  keep 
In  wholesome  separation  the  two  natures. 

The  one  that  feels,  the  other  that  observes. 

Yet  one  word  more  of  personal  concern  — 

Since  I withdrew  unwillingly  from  France, 

I led  an  undomestic  wanderer’s  life. 

In  London  chiefly  harboured,  whence  I roamed, 
Tarrying  at  will  in  many  a pleasant  spot 
Of  rural  England’s  cultivated  vales 
Or  Cambrian  solitudes.  A youth  — (he  bore 
The  name  of  Calvert — it  shall  live,  if  words 
Of  mine  can  give  it  life,)  in  firm  belief 
That  by  endowments  not  from  me  withheld 
Good  might  be  furthered  — in  his  last  decay 
By  a bequest  sufficient  for  my  needs 
Enabled  me  to  pause  for  choice,  and  walk 
At  large  and  unrestrained,  nor  damped  too  soon 
By  mortal  cares.  Himself  no  Poet,  yet 
Far  less  a common  follower  of  the  world. 

He  deemed  that  my  pursuits  and  labours  lay 
Apart  from  all  that  leads  to  wealth,  or  even 
A necessary  maintenance  insures. 

Without  some  hazard  to  the  finer  sense ; 


[*  See  ante,  p.  1C6.  — H.  R.] 


548 


WOKDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


He  cleared  a passage  for  me,  and  the  stream 
Flowed  in  the  bent  of  Nature.* 

Having  now 

Told  what  best  merits  mention,  further  pains 
Our  present  purpose  seems  not  to  require. 

And  I have  other  tasks.  Recall  to  mind 
The  mood  in  which  this  labour  was  begun, 

0 Friend  ! The  termination  of  my  course 
Is  nearer  now,  much  nearer ; yet  even  then. 

In  that  distraction  and  intense  desire, 

. said  unto  the  life  which  I had  lived, 

Where  art  thoul  Hear  I not  a voice  from  thee 
Wliich  ’tis  reproach  to  hear]  Anon  I rose 
As  if  on  wings,  and  saw  beneath  me  stretched 
Vast  prospect  of  the  world  which  I had  been 
And  was ; and  hence  this  Song,  which  like  a lark 

1 have  protracted,  in  the  unwearied  heavens 
Singing,  and  often  with  more  plaintive  voice 
To  earth  attempered  and  her  deep-drawn  sighs. 

Yet  centring  all  in  love,  and  in  the  end 

All  gratulant,  if  rightly  understood. 

Whether  to  me  shall  be  allotted  life. 

And,  with  life,  power  to  accomplish  aught  of  worth. 
That  will  be  deemed  no  insufficient  plea 
For  having  given  the  story  of  myself. 

Is  all  uncertain:  but,  beloved  Friend  ! 

When,  looking  back,  thou  seest,  in  clearer  view 
Than  any  liveliest  sight  of  yesterday. 

That  summer,  under  whose  indulgent  skies. 

Upon  smooth  Quantock’s  airy  ridge  we  roved 
Unchecked,  or  loitered  ’mid  her  sylvan  combs. 

Thou  in  bewitching  words,  with  happy  heart. 

Didst  chaunt  the  vision  of  that  Ancient  Man, 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner,  and  rueful  woes 
Didst  utter  of  the  Lady  Christabel  ; 

And  I,  associate  with  such  labour,  steeped 
In  soft  forgetfulness  the  livelong  hours. 

Murmuring  of  him  who,  joyous  hap,  was  found. 

After  the  perils  of  his  moonlight  ride. 

Near  the  loud  waterfall ; or  her  who  sat 
In  misery  near  the  miserable  Thorn; 

When  thou  dost  to  that  summer  turn  thy  thoughts. 
And  hast  before  thee  all  which  then  we  w.ere. 

To  thee,  in  memory  of  that  happiness. 

It  will  be  known,  by  thee  at  least,  my  Friend ! 

[*  See  Sonnet  “To  the  memory  of  Raisley  Calvert,” 
»nte,  p.  223.  — H.  R.] 


Felt  that  the  history  of  a Poet’s  mind 
Is  labour  not  unworthy  of  regard  : 

To  thee  the  work  shall  justify  itself. 

The  last  and  later  portions  of  this  gift 
Have  been  prepared,  not  with  the  buoyant  spirits 
That  were  our  daily  portion  when  we  first 
Together  wantoned  in  wild  Poesy, 

But,  under  pressure  of  a private  grief, f 
Keen  and  enduring,  which  the  mind  and  heart. 

That  in  this  meditative  history 

Have  been  laid  open,  needs  must  make  me  feel 

More  deeply,  yet  enable  me  to  bear 

More  firmly  ; and  a comfort  now  hath  risen 

From  hope  that  thou  art  near,  and  wilt  be  soon 

Restored  to  us  in  renovated  health ; 

When,  after  the  first  mingling  of  our  tears, 

’Mong  other  consolations,  we  may  draw 
Some  pleasure  from  this  offering  of  my  love. 

Oh  ! yet  a few  short  years  of  useful  life. 

And  all  will  be  complete,  thy  race  be  run. 

Thy  monument  of  glory  will  be  raised  ; 

Then,  though  (too  weak  to  tread  the  ways  of  truth) 
This  age  fall  back  to  old  idolatry. 

Though  men  return  to  servitude  as  fast 

As  the  tide  ebbs,  to  ignominy  and  shame 

By  nations  sink  together,  we  shall  still 

Find  solace  — knowing  what  we  have  learnt  to  know, 

Rich  in  true  happiness  if  allowed  to  be 

Faithful  alike  in  forwarding  a day 

Of  firmer  trust,  joint  labourers  in  the  work 

(Should  Providence  such  grace  to  us  vouchsafe) 

Of  their  deliverance,  surely  yet  to  come. 

Prophets  of  Nature,  we  to  them  will  speak 

A lasting  inspiration,  sanctified 

By  reason,  blest  by  faith : what  we  have  loved. 

Others  will  love,  and  we  will  teach  them  how ; 
Instruct  them  how  the  mind  of  man  becomes 
A thousand  times  more  beautiful  than  the  earth 
On  which  he  dwells,  above  this  frame  of  things 
(Which,  ’mid  all  revolution  in  the  hopes 
And  fears  of  men,  doth  still  remain  unchanged) 

In  beauty  exalted,  as  it  is  itself 
Of  quality  and  fabric  more  divine. 

[t  See  “ Elegiac  Verses  in  Memory  of  my  Brother  Johi 
Wordsworth,”  who  perished  by  shipwreck,  February  C, 
1805  ; a7ite,  p.  462.  — II.  R.] 


THE  EXCURSION, 

BEING  A PORTION  OF 

THE  R E C L U S E. 


TO 


THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE 

WILLIAM,  EARL  OF  LONSDALE,  K.G.  &c.d:c. 


Oi  r,  through  thy  fair  domains,  illustrious  Pfpr  1 
h you  h I roamed,  on  youthful  pleasures 
And  mused  in  rocky  cell  or  sylvan  tent. 

Beside  swift-flowing  Lowther’s  current  clear. 

— Now,  by  thy  care  befriended,  I appear 
Before  thee,  Lonsdale,  and  this  Work  preseni- 
A Irk  3n  (may  it  prove  a monument  ’) 

Of  high  respect  and  gratitude  sincere- 
Gladly  would  I have  waited  till  my  task 
Had  reached  its  close ; but  Life  is  insecure, 
And  Hope  full  oft  fallacious  as  a dream  : 
Therefore,  for  what  is  here  produced  I ask 
Thy  favour  ; trusting  that  thou  wilt  not  deem 
Tlie  Offering,  though  imperfect,  premature. 


Rydal  Moun't  Westmoreland, 
Juh/  29,  1814. 


WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


THE  EXCURSION 


rUEFACE. 


The  Title-page  announces  that  tliis  is  only  a Portion 
of  a Poem  ; and  the  Reader  must  be  here  apprised  that 
it  belongs  to  the  second  part  of  a long  and  laborious 
Work,  which  is  to  consist  of  three  parts. — The  Author 
will  candidly  acknowledge  that,  if  the  first  of  these  had 
been  completed,  and  in  such  a manner  as  to  satisfy 
his  own  mind,  he  should  have  preferred  the  natural 
order  of  publication,  and  have  given  that  to  tlie  w’orld 
first ; but,  as  the  second  division  of  the  Work  was  de- 
signed to  refer  more  to  passing  events,  and  to  an  existing 
state  of  things,  than  the  others  were  meant  to  do,  more 
continuous  exertion  was  naturally  bestowed  upon  it,  and 
greater  progress  made  here  than  in  the  rest  of  the 
Poem  ; and  as  this  part  does  not  depend  upon  the  pre- 
ceding, to  a degree  which  will  materially  injure  its  own 
peculiar  interest,  the  Author,  complying  with  the 
earnest  entreaties  of  some  valued  Friends,  presents  the 
following  pages  to  the  Public. 

It  may  be  proper  to  state  whence  the  Poem,  of  which 
The  Excursion  is  a part,  derives  its  Title  of  The 
Recluse. — Several  years  ago,  when  tlie  Author  re- 
tired to  his  native  Mountains,  with  the  liope  of  being 
enabled  to  construct  a literary  Work  tliat  miglit  live, 
it  was  a reasonable  thing  that  he  should  take  a review 
of  his  own  Mind,  and  examine  how  far  Nature  and 
Education  had  qualified  him  for  such  employment.  As 
subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he  undertook  to  record, 
in  Verse,  the  origin  and  progress  of  his  own  powers, 
as  far  as  he  was  acquainted  with  them.  That  Work, 
addressed  to  a dear  Friend,  most  distinguished  for  his 
knowledge  and  genius,  and  to  whom  the  Author’s  In- 
tellect is  deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished;  and 
the  result  of  the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it 
was  a determination  to  compose  a philosophical  Poem, 
containing  views  of  Man,  Nature,  and  Society ; and  to 
be  entitled.  The  Recluse ; as  having  for  its  principal 
subject  tbe  sensations  and  opinions  of  a Poet  living  in 
retirement.  — The  preparatory  Poem  is  biographical, 
and  conducts  the  history  of  the  Author’s  mind  to  the 
point  when  he  was  emboldened  to  hope  that  his  facul- 
ties were  sufficiently  matured  for  entering  upon  the 
arduous  labour  which  he  had  proposed  to  himself ; and 
the  two  Works  have  the  same  kind  of  relation  to  each 
other,  if  he  may  so  express  himself,  as  the  Ante-chapel 
has  to  the  body  of  a Gothic  Church.  Continuing  this 


allusion,  he  may  be  permitted  to  add,  that  his  minor 
Pieces,  which  have  been  long  before  the  Public,  when 
they  shall  be  properly  arranged  ;*  will  be  found  by  the 
attentive  Reader  to  have  such  connection  with  the 
main  Work  as  may  give  them  claim  to  be  likened  to 
the  little  cells.  Oratories,  and  sepulchral  Reces.ses,  or- 
dinarily included  in  those  Edifices. 

The  Author  would  not  have  deemed  himself  justi- 
fied in  saying,  upon  this  occasion,  so  much  of  per- 
formances either  unfinished,  or  unpublished,  if  he  had 
not  thought  that  the  labour  bestowed  by  him  upon 
what  he  has  heretofore  and  now  laid  before  the  Pub- 
lic, entitled  him  to  candid  attention  for  such  a state- 
ment as  he  thinks  necessary  to  throw  light  upon  his 
endeavours  to  please,  and  he  would  hope,  to  benefit  his 
countrymen. — Nothing  further  need  be  added,  than 
that  the  first  and  third  parts  of  The  Recluse  will  con- 
sist chiefly  of  meditations  in  the  Author’s  own  Per- 
son ; and  that  in  the  intermediate  part  (The  E.vcursion) 
the  intervention  of  Characters  speaking  is  employed, 
and  something  of  a dramatic  form  adopted. 

It  is  not  the  Author’s  intention  formally  to  announce 
a system : it  was  more  animating  to  him  to  proceed  in 
a difi’erent  course ; and  if  he  shall  succeed  in  conveying 
to  the  mind  clear  thoughts,  lively  images,  and  strong 
feelings,  the  Reader  will  have  no  difficulty  in  extract- 
ing the  system  for  himself.  And  in  the  meantime  the 
following  passage,  taken  from  the  conclusion  of  the 
first  book  of  The  Recluse,  may  be  acceptable  as  a 
kind  of  Prospectus  of  the  design  and  scope  of  the 
whole  Poem. 

“ On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  Human  Life, 

Musing  in  Solitude,  I oft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise. 

Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 
Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixed  ; 

And  I am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances,  whose  presence  soothes 
Or  elevates  the  Mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 

— To  these  emotions,  whencesoe’er  they  come. 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance. 

Or  from  the  Soul  — an  impulse  to  herself, 

[*  See  Appendix  I.,  p.  641.  — H.  R.] 


551 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


£)52 


I would  give  utterance  in  numerous  Verse. 

Of  Truth,  of  Grandeur,  Beauty,  Love,  and  Hope  — 
And  melancholy  Fear  subdued  by  J^aith  ; 

Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress; 

Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  Power; 

Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 

Of  the  individual  Mind  that  keeps  her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  Conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all; 

I sing  — ‘ fit  audience  let  me  find,  though  few  !’ 

“ So  prayed,  more  gaining  than  he  asked,  the  Bard, 
Holiest  of  Men,  — Urania,  I shall  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a greater  Muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven ! 

For  I must  tread  on  shadowy  ground,  must  sink 
Deep  — and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  worlds 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a veil. 

All  strength  — all  terror,  single  or  in  bands. 

That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal  form  ; 

Jehovah  — with  his  thunder  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  Angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones  — 

I pass  them  unalarmed.  Not  Chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 

Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy  — scooped  out 
By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  Minds,  into  the  Mind  of  Man, 

My  haunt,  and  flie  main  region  of  my  Song. 

— Beauty  — a living  Presence  of  the  earth, 

Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  Forms  . 

Which  craft  of  delicate  Spirits  hath  composed 
From  earth’s  materials  — waits  upon  my  steps ; 
Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I move, 

An  hourly  neighbour.  Paradise,  and  groves 
Elysian,  Fortunate  Fields  — like  those  of  old 
Sought  in  the  Atlantic  Main,  why  should  they  be 
A history  only  of  departed  things, 

Or  a mere  fiction  of  what  never  was  1 
For  the  discerning  intellect  of  Man, 

When  wedded, to  tliis  goodly  universe 
In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 
A simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

— I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives. 

Would  chant,  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 
Of  this  great  consummation;  — and,  by  words 
Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 
Would  I arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 

Of  Death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 


To  noble  raptures ; while  my  voice  proclaims 
IIow  exquisitely  the  individual  Mind 
(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 
Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  World 
Is  fitted  : — and  how  exquisitely,  too. 

Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  Men, 

The  external  World  is  fitted  to  the  Mind ; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  called)  which'  they  with  blended  might 

Accomplish ; — this  is  our  high  argument. 

— Such  grateful  haunts  foregoing,  if  I oft 
Must  turn  elsewhere  — to  travel  near  the  tribes 
And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 

Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed; 

Must  hear  Humanity  in  fields  and  groves 

Pipe  solitary  anguish  ; or  must  hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 

Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 

Within  tire  walls  of  Cities ; may  these  sounds 

Have  their  authentic  comment,  — that  even  these 

Hearing,  I be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  ! 

— Descend,  prophetic  Spirit ! that  inspirest 
The  human  Soul  of  universal  earth. 

Dreaming  on  things  to  come;*  and  dost  possess 
A metropolitan  Temple  in  the  hearts 

Of  mighty  Poets  ; upon  me  bestow 
A gift  of  genuine  insight ; that  my  Song 
With  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine ; 
Shedding  benignant  influence,  — and  secure. 

Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 
Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 
Throughout  the  nether  sphere  ! — And  if  with  this 
I mix  more  lowly  matter;  with  the  thing 
Contemplated,  describe  the  Mind  and  Man 
Contemplating,  and  who,  and  what  he  was. 

The  transitory  Being  that  beheld 

This  Vision,  — when  and  where,  and  how  he  lived  ; — 

Be  not  this  labour  useless.  If  such  theme 

May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then,  dread  Power, 

Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 

Of  all  illumination,  may  my  Life 

Express  the  image  of  a better  time. 

More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners  ; — nurse 
ISIy  heart  in  genuine  freedom  : — All  pure  thoughts 
Be  with  me;  — so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 
Guide  and  support,  and  cheer  me  to  the  end !’’ 

* Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  Soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come. 

Su*vspeare’s  Sonnets. 


THE  EXCUE  SION 


BOOK  THE  FIRST. 
THE  WANDERER. 


ARGUMENT. 

A summer  forenoon  — The  Author  reaches  a ruined  Cottage  upon  a Common,  and  there  meets  with  a revered 
F'riend,  the  NV'anderer,  of  whom  he  gives  an  account  — The  Wanderer,  wliile  resting  under  the  sliade  of  the  Trees 
that  surround  the  Cottage,  relates  the  History  of  its  last  Inhabitant 


'T  WAS  summer,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high : 
Southward  the  landscape  indistinctly  glared 
Through  a pale  steam ; but  all  the  northern  downs, 

In  clearest  air  ascending,  showed  far  off 
A surface  dappled  o’er  with  shadows  flung 
From  brooding  clouds;  shadows  that  lay  in  spots 
Determined  and  unmoved,  with  steady  beams 
Of  bright  and  pleasant  sunshine  interposed ; 

Pleasant  to  him  who  on  the  soft  cool  moss 
Extends  his  careless  limbs  along  the  front 
Of  some  huge  cave,  whose  rocky  ceiling  casts 
A twilight  of  its  own,  an  ample  shade. 

Where  the  Wren  warbles ; while  the  dreaming  Man, 
Half  conscious  of  the  soothing  melody. 

With  side-long  eye  looks  out  upon  the  scene. 

By  power  of  that  impending  covert  thrown 
To  finer  distance.  Other  lot  was  mine; 

Yet  with  good  hope  that  soon  I should  obtain 
As  grateful  resting-place,  and  livelier  joy. 

Across  a bare  wide  Common  I was  toiling 
With  languid  steps  that  by  the  slippery  ground 
Were  baffled ; nor  could  my  weak  arm  disperse 
The  host  of  insects  gathering  round  my  face, 

And  ever  with  me  as  I paced  along. 

Upon  that  open  level  stood  a Grove, 

The  wished-for  port  to  which  my  course  was  bound. 

. Thither  I came,  and  there,  amid  the  gloom 
Spread  by  a brotherhood  of  lofty  elms. 

Appeared  a roofless  Hut ; four  naked  walls 
That  stared  upon  each  other!  I looked  round. 

And  to  my  wish  and  to  my  hope  espied 
Him  whom  I sought;  a Man  of  reverend  age. 

But  stout  and  hale,  for  travel  unimpaired. 


There  was  he  seen  upon  the  Cottage  bench. 
Recumbent  in  the  shade,  as  if  asleep; 

An  iron-pointed  staff  lay  at  his  side. 

Him  had  I marked  the  day  before  — alone 
And  stationed  in  the  public  way,  with  face 
Turned  toward  the  sun  then  setting,  while  that  staff 
Afforded  to  the  Figure  of  the  Man 
Detained  for  contemplation  or  repose. 

Graceful  support ; his  countenance  meanwhile 
Was  hidden  from  my  view,  and  he  remained 
Unrecognised ; but,  stricken  by  the  sight. 

With  slackened  footsteps  I advanced,  and  soon 
A glad  congratulation  we  exchanged 
At  such  unthought-of  meeting.  — For  the  night 
We  parted,  nothing  willingly  ; and  now 
He  by  appointment  waited  for  me  here. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  these  clustering  elms. 

We  were  tried  Friends:  amid  a pleasant  vale, 

In  the  antique  market  village  where  were  passed 
My  school-days,  an  apartment  he  had  owned. 

To  which  at  intervals  the  Wanderer  drew. 

And  found  a kind  of  home  or  harbour  there. 

He  loved  me  ; from  a swarm  of  rosy  Boys 
Singled  out  me,  as  he  in  sport  would  say. 

For  my  grave  looks  — too  thoughtful  for  my  years. 

As  I grew  up,  it  was  my  best  delight 
To  be  his  chosen  Comrade.  Many  a time. 

On  holidays,  we  rambled  through  the  woods : 

We  sate  — we  walked;  he  pleased  me  with  report 
Of  things  which  he  had  seen ; and  often  touched 
Abstrusest  matter,  reasonings  of  the  mind, 

Turned  inward ; or  at  my  request  would  sing 

47  oaj 


55-1 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


OH  songs  — the  product  of  his  native  hills; 

A skilful  distribution  of  sweet  sounds, 

Feeding  the  soul,  and  eagerly  imbibed 

As  cool  refreshing  Water,  by  the  care 

Of  the  industrious  husbandman,  diffused 

Through  a parched  meadow-ground,  in  time  of  drought. 

Still  deeper  welcome  found  his  pure  discourse; 

How  precious  when  in  riper  days  I learned 
To  weigh  with  care  his  words,  and  to  rejoice 
In  the  plain  presence  of  his  dignity  ! 

Oil ! many  are  the  Poets  that  are  sown 
By  Nature;  Men  endowed  with  highest  gifts. 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine; 

Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  Verse 
(Wliich,  in  the  docile  season  of  their  youth. 

It  was  denied  them  to  acquire,  through  lack 
Of  culture  and  the  inspiring  aid  of  books. 

Or  haply  by  a temper  too  severe. 

Or  a nice  backwardness  afraid  of  shame) 

Nor  having  e’er,  as  life  advanced,  been  led 
By  circumstance  to  take  unto  the  height 
The  measure  of  themselves,  these  favoured  Beings, 
All  but  a scattered  few,  live  out  their  time. 
Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within, 

And  go  to  the  grave,  unthought  of.  Strongest  minds 
Are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy  world 
Hears  least ; else  surely  this  Man  had  not  left 
His  graces  unrevealed  and  unproclaimed. 

But,  as  the  mind  was  filled  with  inward  light. 

So  not  without  distinction  had  he  lived. 

Beloved  and  honoured  — far  as  he  was  known. 

And  some  small  portion  of  his  eloquent  speech. 

And  something  that  may  serve  to  set  in  view 
The  feeling  pleasures  of  his  loneliness. 

His  observations,  and  the  thoughts  his  mind 
Had  dealt  with  — I will  here  record  in  verse; 

Which,  if  with  truth  it  correspond,  and  sink 
Or  rise  as  venerable  Nature  leads. 

The  high  and  tender  Muses  shall  accept 
With  gracious  smile,  deliberately  pleased. 

And  listening  Time  reward  with  sacred  praise. 

Among  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born ; 

Where,  on  a small  hereditary  Farm, 

An  unproductive  slip  of  rugged  ground. 

His  Parents,  with  their  numerous  Offspring,  dwelt ; 

A virtuous  Household,  though  exceeding  poor ! 

Pure  Livers  were  they  all,  austere  and  grave. 

And  fearing  God  ; the  very  Children  taught 
Stern  self-respect,  a reverence  for  God's  word. 

And  an  habitual  piety,  maintained 

With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground. 

From  his  sixth  year,  the  Boy  of  whom  I speak, 

In  summer,  tended  cattle  on  tlie  Hills; 

But,  through  the  inclement  and  the  perilous  days 
Of  long-continuing  winter,  he  repaired. 


Equipped  with  satchel,  to  a School,  that  stood 
Sole  Building  on  a mountain’s  dreary  edge. 

Remote  from  view  of  City  spire,  or  sound 
I Of  Minster  clock  ! From  that  bleak  Tenement 
1 He,  many  an  evening,  to  his  distant  home 
In  solitude  returning,  saw  the  Hills 
I Grow  larger  in  the  darkness,  ail  alone 
I Beheld  the  stars  come  out  above  his  head. 

And  travelled  through  the  wood,  with  no  one  near 
I To  whom  he  miglit  confess  the  things  he  saw. 

So  the  foundations  of  his  mind  were  laid. 

In  such  communion,  not  from  terror  free. 

While  yet  a Child,  and  long  before  his  time. 

He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  greatness;  and  deep  feelings  had  impressed 
Great  objects  on  his  mind,  with  portraiture 
And  colour  so  distinct,  that  on  his  mind 
I They  lay  like  substances,  and  almost  seemed 
I To  haunt  the  bodily  sense.  He  had  received 
A precious  gift ; for,  as  he  grew  in  years, 

I With  these  impressions  would  he  still  compare 
All  his  remembrances,  thoughts,  shapes,  and  forms ; 
! And,  being  still  unsatisfied  with  aught 
, Of  dimmer  character,  he  thence  attained 
An  active  power  to  fasten  images 
i Upon  his  brain  ; q,nd  on  their  pictured  lines 
I Intensely  brooded,  even  til!  they  acquired 
‘ The  liveliness  of  dreams.  Nor  did  he  fail, 

; While  yet  a Child,  with  a Child’s  eagerness 
‘ Incessantly  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 
j On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brought 
1 To  feed  such  appetite  : nor  this  alone 
j Appeased  his  yearning:  — in  the  after  day 
Of  Boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn, 

I And  ’mid  the  hollow  depths  of  naked  crags 
' He  sate,  and  even  in  their  fixed  lineaments. 

Or  from  the  power  of  a peculiar  eye, 
j Or  hy  creative  feeling  overborne. 

Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppressed. 

Even  in  their  fixed  and  steady  lineaments 
He  traced  an  ebbing  and  a flowing  mind. 

Expression  ever  varying ! 

Thus  informed. 

He  had  small  need  of  books;  for  many  a Tale 
Traditionary,  round  the  mountains  hung. 

And  many  a Legend,  peopling  the  dark  woods. 
Nourished  Imagination  in  her  growth. 

And  gave  the  Mind  that  apprehensive  pow'er 
By  which  she  is  made  quick  to  recognise 
The  moral  properties  and  scope  of  things. 

But  eagerly  he  read,  and  read  again, 
j Whate’er  the  Minister’s  old  Shelf  supplied ; 

I The  life  and  death  of  iMartyrs,  who  sustained, 

With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  displayed  in  records  left 
Of  Persecution,  and  the  Covenant — Times 
Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour! 


THE  EXCURSION. 


555 


And  there,  by  lucky  hap,  had  been  preserved 
A straggling  volume,  torn  and  incomplete. 

That  leH,  half-told  the  preternatural  tale, 

Romance  of  Giants,  chronicle  of  Fiends, 

Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncouth ; dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-knee’d,  sharp-elbowed,  and  lean-ankled  too. 
With  long  and  ghostly  shanks — forms  which  once  seen 
Could  never  be  forgotten  ! 

In  his  heart. 

Where  Fear  sate  thus,  a cherished  visitant. 

Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 
By  sound  diffused,  or  by  the  breathing  air. 

Or  by  the  silent  looks  of  happy  things. 

Or  flowing  from  the  universal  face 

Of  earth  and  sky.  But  he  had  felt  the  power 

Of  Nature,  and  already  was  prepared. 

By  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 
Deeply  the  lesson  deep  of  love  which  he. 

Whom  Nature,  by  whatever  means,  has  taught 
To  feel  intensely,  cannot  but  receive. 

Such  was  the  Boy  — but  for  the  growing  Youth 

What  soul  was  his,  when,  from  the  naked  top 

Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 

Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light ! lie  looked  — 

Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 

And  ocean’s  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 

In  gladness  and  deep  joy.  The  clouds  were  touched. 

And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 

Unutterable  love.  Sound  needed  none. 

Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ; his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle  ; sensation,  soul,  and  form 
All  melted  into  him ; they  swallowed  up 
His  animal  being;  in  them  did  he  live. 

And  by  them  did  he  live;  they  were  his  life. 

In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 

Thought  was  not ; in  enjoyment  it  expired. 

No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffered  no  request ; 

Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
The  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise. 

His  mind  was  a thanksgiving  to  the  power 
That  made  him;  it  was  blessedness  and  love ! 

A Herdsman  on  the  lonely  mountain  tops. 

Such  intercourse  was  his,  and  in  this  sort 
Was  his  existence  oftentimes  possessed. 

O then  how  beautiful,  how  bright  appeared 
The  written  Promise ! Early  had  he  learned 
To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 
The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die  ; 

But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feel  his  faith. 

All  things,  responsive  to  the  Writing,  there 
Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life, 

And  greatness  still  revolving ; infinite ; 

There  littleness  was  not ; the  least  of  things 


Seemed  infinite;  and  there  his  spirit  shaped 
Her  prospects,  nor  did  he  believe,  — he  saw. 

What  wonder  if  his  being  tlius  became 
Sublime  and  comprehensive  ! Low  desires. 

Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place  ; yet  was  his  heart 
Lowly  ; for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude. 

Oft  as  he  called  those  ecstasies  to  mind. 

And  whence  they  flowed  ; and  from  them  he  acquiree 
Wisdom,  which  works  thro’  patience ; thence  he  learned 
In  oft-recurring  hours  of  sober  thought 
To  look  on  Nature  with  a humble  heart. 
Self-questioned  where  it  did  not  understand. 

And  with  a superstitious  eye  of  love. 

So  passed  the  time ; yet  to  the  nearest  Town 
He  duly  went  with  what  small  overplus 
His  earnings  might  supply,  and  brought  away 
The  Book  that  most  had  tempted  his  desires 
While  at  the  stall  he  read.  Among  the  hills 
He  gazed  upon  that  mighty  Orb  of  Song, 

The  divine  Milton.  Lore  of  different  kind. 

The  annual  savings  of  a toilsome  life. 

His  School-master  supplied  ; books  that  explain 
The  purer  elements  of  truth  involved 
In  lines  and  numbers,  and,  by  charm  severe, 
(Especially  perceived  where  Nature  droops 
And  feeling  is  suppre-ssed)  preserve  the  mind 
Busy  in  solitude  and  poverty. 

These  occupations  oftentimes  deceived 
The  listless  hours,  while  in  the  hollow  vale. 

Hollow  and  green,  he  lay  on  the  green  turf 
In  pensive  idleness.  What  could  he  do. 

Thus  daily  thirsting,  in  that  lonesome  life, 

With  blind  endeavours!  Yet,  still  uppermost. 

Nature  was  at  his  heart  as  if  he  felt. 

Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a wasting  power 
In  all  things  that  from  her  sweet  influence 
Might  tend  to  wean  him.  Therefore  with  her  hues, 
Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms. 

He  clothed  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 

While  yet  he  lingered  in  the  rudiments 
Of  science,  and  among  her  simplest  laws. 

His  triangles  — they  were  the  stars  of  heaven. 

The  silent  stars ! Oft  did  he  take  delight 
To  measure  the  altitude  of  some  tall  crag 
That  is  the  eagle’s  birth-place,  or  some  peak 
Familiar  with  forgotten  years,  that  shows 
Inscribed,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought. 

Upon  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides. 

The  history  of  many  a winter  storm. 

Or  obscure  records  of  the  path  of  fire. 

And  thus  before  his  eighteenth  year  was  told. 
Accumulated  feelings  pressed  his  heart 
With  still  increasing  weight ; he  was  o’erpowered 
By  Nature,  by  the  turbulence  subdued 


556 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  his  own  mind ; by  mystery  and  hope, 

And  the  first  virgin  passion  of  a soul 
Communing  with  the  glorious  Universe. 

Full  often  wished  he  that  the  winds  might  rage 
When  they  were  silent ; far  more  fondly  now 
Than  in  his  earlier  season  did  he  love 
Tempestuous  nights  — the  conflict  and  the  sounds 
That  live  in  darkness:  — from  his  intellect 
And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought 
He  asked  repose;  and,  failing  oft  to  win 
The  peace  required,  he  scanned  the  laws  of  light 
Amid  the  roar  of  torrents,  where  they  send 
From  hollow  clefts  up  to  the  clearer  air 
A cloud  of  mist,  that  smitten  by  the  sun 
Varies  its  rainbow  hues.  But  vainly  thus. 

And  vainly  by  all  other  means,  he  strove 
To  mitigate  the  fever  of  his  heart. 

In  dreams,  in  study,  and  in  ardent  thought. 

Thus  was  he  reared*  much  wanting  to  assist 
The  growth  of  intellect,  yet  gaining  more. 

And  every  moral  feeling  of  his  soul 
Strengthened  and  braced,  by  breathing  in  content 
The  keen,  the  wholesome  air  of  poverty. 

And  drinking  from'  the  well  of  homely  life. 

— But,  from  past  liberty,  and  tried  restraints. 

He  now  was  summoned  to  select  the  course 
Of  humble  industry  that  promised  best 
To  yield  him  no  unworthy  maintenance. 

Urged  by  his  Mother,  he  essayed  to  teach 
A Village-school  — but  wandering  thoughts  were  then 
A misery  to  him;  and  the  Youth  resigned 
A task  he  was  unable  to  perform. 

That  stern  yet  kindly  Spirit,  who  constrains 
The  Savoyard  to  quit  his  naked  rocks. 

The  free-born  Swiss  to  leave  his  narrow  vales, 

(Spirit  attached  to  regions  mountainous 
Like  their  own  steadfast  clouds)  did  now  impel 
His  restless  mind  to  look  abroad  with  hope. 


* [The  reader  of  Coleridge’s  philosophical  works  may  by  these 
passages  be  reminded  of  a brilliant  paragraph  in  ‘ The  Friend’ : 
“We  have  been  discoursing  of  infancy,  childhood,  boyhood, 
and  youth,  of  pleasures  lying  upon  the  unfolding  intellect  plen- 
teously  as  morning  dew-drops  — of  knowledge  inhaled  insensi- 
bly like  the  fragrance  — of  dispositions  stealing  into  the  spirit 
like  music  from  unknown  quarters  — of  images  uncalled  for  and 
rising  up  like  exhalations  — of  hopes  plucked  like  beautiful  wild 
flowers  from  the  ruined  tombs  that  border  the  highways  of  an- 
tiquity, to  make  a garland  lor  a living  forehead:  in  a word,  we 
have  been  treating  of  nature  as  a teacher  of  truth  through  joy 
and  through  gladness,  and  as  a creatress  of  the  faculties  by  a 
process  of  smoothness  and  delight.  We  have  made  no  mention 
offear,  shame,  sorrow,  nor  of  ungovernable  and  vexing  thoughts ; 
because,  although  these  have  been  and  have  done  mighty  ser- 
vice, they  are  overlooked  in  that  stage  of  life  when  youth  is 
passing  intc  manhood  — overlooked,  or  forgotten.” 

The  Friend  Vo  . Ill  p.  46.  — II.  R.] 


— An  irksome  drudgery  seems  it  to  plod  on. 

Through  hot  and  dusty  ways,  or  pelting  storm, 

A vagrant  Merchant  bent  beneath  his  load  ! 

Yet  do  such  Travellers  find  their  own  delight; 

And  their  hard  service,  deemed  debasing  now. 

Gained  merited  respect  in  simpler  times; 

When  Squire,  and  Priest,  and  they  who  round  them 
dwelt 

In  rustic  sequestration  — all  dependent 
Upon  the  Pedl.vr’s  toil  — supplied  their  wants. 

Or  pleased  their  fancies  with  the  wares  he  brought. 
Not  ignorant  was  the  Youth  that  still  no  few 
Of  his  adventurous  Countrymen  were  led 
By  perseverance  in  this  track  of  life 
To  competence  and  ease;  — for  him  it  bore 
Attractions  manifold  ; — and  this  he  chose. 

His  Parents  on  the  enterprise  bestowed 
Their  farewell  benediction,  but  with  hearts 
Foreboding  evil.  From  his  native  hills 
He  wandered  far ; much  did  he  see  of  Men,f 
Their  manners,  their  enjoyments,  and  pursuits, 

Their  passions  and  their  feelings  ; chiefly  those 
Essential  and  eternal  in  the  heart. 

That,  ’mid  the  simpler  forms  of  rural  life. 

Exist  more  simple  in  their  elements. 

And  speak  a plainer  language.  In  the  woods, 

A lone  Enthusiast,  and  among  the  fields. 

Itinerant  in  this  labour,  he  had  passed 
The  better  portion  of  his  time  ; and  there 
Spontaneously  had  his  affections  thriven 
Amid  the  bounties  of  the  year,  the  peace 
And  liberty  of  Nature ; there  he  kept 
In  solitude  and  solitary  thought 
His  mind  in  a just  equipoise  of  love. 

Serene  it  w'as,  unclouded  by  the  cares 
Of  ordinary  life ; unvexed,  unwarped 
By  partial  bondage.  In  his  steady  course. 

No  piteous  revolutions  had  he  felt. 

No  wild  varieties  of  joy  and  grief. 

Unoccupied  by  sorrow  of  its  own. 

His  heart  lay  open  ; and,  by  Nature  tuned 
And  constant  disposition  of  his  thoughts 
To  sympathy  with  Man,  he  was  alive 
To  all  that  was  enjoyed  where’er  he  went. 

And  all  that  was  endured ; for  in  himself 
Happy,  and  quiet  in  his  cheerfulness. 

He  had  no  painful  pressure  from  without 
That  made  him  turn  aside  from  wretchedness 
With  coward  fears.  He  could  afford  to  suffer 
With  those  whom  he  saw  suffer.  Hence  it  came 
That  in  our  best  experience  he  was  rich, 

And  in  the  wisdom  of  our  daily  life. 

For  hence,  minutely,  in  his  various  rounds. 

He  had  observed  the  progress  and  decay 
Of  many  minds,  of  minds  and  bodies  too ; 


t See  Note  1. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


557 


The  History  of  many  Families; 

IIow  they  had  prospered  ; how  they  were  o’erthrown 
By  passion  or  mischance  ; or  such  misrule 
Amon^  the  unthinking  masters  of  the  earth 
As  makes  the  nations  groan.  — This  active  course 
He  followed  till  provision  for  his  wants 
Had  been  obtained;  — the  Wanderer  then  resolved 
To  pass  the  remnant  of  his  days — untasked 
With  needless  services  — from  hardship  free. 

His  calling  laid  aside,  he  lived  at  ease; 

But  still  he  loved  to  pace  the  public  roads 

And  the  wild  paths;  and,  by  the  summer’s  warmth 

Invited,  often  would  he  leave  his  home 

And  journey  far,  revisiting  the  scenes 

That  to  his  memory  were  most  endeared. 

Vigorous  in  health,  of  hopeful  spirits,  undamped 
By  worldly-mindedness  or  anxious  care; 

Observant,  studious,  thoughtful,  and  refreshed 
By  knowledge  gathered  up  from  day  to  day ; — 

Thus  had  he  lived  a long  and  innocent  life. 

The  Scottish  Church,  both  on  himself  and  those 
With  whom  from  childhood  he  grew  up,  had  held 
The  strong  hand  of  her  purity  ; and  still 
Had  watched  him  with  an  unrelenting  eye. 

This  he  remembered  in  his  riper  age 
With  gratitude,  and  reverential  thoughts. 

But  by  the  native  vigour  of  his  mind, 

By  his  habitual  wanderings  out  of  doors, 

By  loneliness,  and  goodness,  and  kind  works, 
Whate’er,  in  docile  childhood  or  in  youth, 

He  had  imbibed  of  fear  or  darker  thought 
Was  melted  all  away  : so  true  was  this. 

That  sometimes  his  religion  seemed  to  me 
Self-taught,  as  of  a dreamer  in  the  woods  ; 

Who  to  the  model  of  his  own  pure  heart 
Shaped  his  belief  as  grace  divine  inspired, 

Or  human  reason  dictated  with  awe. 

— And  surely  never  did  there  live  on  earth 
A man  of  kindlier  nature.  The  rough  sports 
And  teasing  ways  of  Children  vexed  not  him  ; 
Indulgent  listener  was  he  to  the  tongue 
Of  garrulous  age  ; nor  did  the  sick  man’s  tale, 

To  his  fraternal  sympathy  addressed, 

Obtain  reluctant  hearing. 

Plain  his  garb; 

Such  as  might  suit  a rustic  Sire,  prepared 
For  Sabbath  duties;  yet  he  was  a Man 
Whom  no  one  could  have  passed  without  remark. 
Active  and  nervous  was  his  gait;  his  limbs 
And  his  whole  figure  breathed  intelligence. 

Time  had  compressed  the  freshness  of  his  cheek 
Into  a narrower  circle  of  deep  red. 

But  had  not  tamed  his  eye ; that,  under  brows 
Shaggy  and  gray,  had  meanings  which  it  brought 
From  years  of  youth ; which,  like  a Being  made 


Of  many  Being.s,  he  had  wondrous  skill 
To  blend  with  knowledge  of  the  years  to  come, 
Human,  or  such  as  lie  beyond  the  grave. 


So  was  He  framed ; and  such  his  course  of  life 
\Vho  now,  with  no  Appendage  but  a Staff, 

The  prized  memorial  of  relimpiished  toils. 

Upon  that  Cottage  bench  reposed  his  limbs. 

Screened  from  the  sun.  Supine  the  Wanderer  lay. 
His  eyes  as  if  in  drowsiness  half  shut. 

The  shadows  of  the  breezy  elms  above 
Dappling  his  face.  He  had  not  heard  the  sound 
j Of  my  approaching  step.s,  and  in  the  shade 
Unnoticed  did  I stand,  some  minutes’  space. 

At  length  I hailed  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scooped  a running  stream.  He  rose. 

And  ere  our  lively  greeting  into  peace 
Had  settled,  “’Tis,”  said  I,  “a  burning  day  : 

My  lips  are  parched  with  thirst,  but  you,  it  seems, 

' Have  somewhere  found  relief.”  He,  at  the  word, 
i Pointing  towards  a sweet-briar,  bade  me  climb 
j The  fence  where  that  aspiring  shrub  looked  out 
j Upon  the  public  way.  It  was  a plot 
I Of  garden  ground  run  wild,  its  matted  weeds 
Marked  with  the  steps  of  those,  whom,  as  they  passed. 
The  gooseberry  trees  that  shot  in  long  lank  slips. 

Or  currants,  hanging  from  their  leafless  stems 
In  scanty  strings,  had  tempted  to  o’erleap 
The  broken  wall.  I looked  around,  and  there. 

Where  two  tall  hedge-rows  of  thick  alder  boughs 
Joined  in  a cold  damp  nook,  espied  a Well 
Shrouded  with  willow-flow'ers  and  plumy  fern. 

My  thirst  I slaked,  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 
Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  returned 
: Where  sate  the  Old  Man  on  the  Cottage  bench ; 

■ And,  while,  beside  him,  with  uncovered  head, 

I yet  was  standing,  freely  to  respire. 

And  cool  my  temples  in  the  fanning  air, 

Thus  did  he  speak.  “ I see  around  me  here 
I Things  which  you  cannot  see : we  die,  my  Friend, 

I Nor  we  alone,  but  that  which  each  man  loved 
I And  prized  in  his  peculiar  nook  of  earth 
j Dies  with  him,  or  is  changed ; and  very  soon 
I Even  of  the  good  is  no  memorial  left. 

I — The  Poets,  in  their  elegies  and  songs 
j Lamenting  the  departed,  call  the  groves. 

They  call  upon  the  hills  and  streams  to  mourn, 

And  senseless  rocks;  nor  idly  ; for  tliey  speak. 

In  these  their  invocations,  with  a voice 
Obedient  to  the  strong  creative  power 
Of  human  passion.  Sympathies  there  are 
More  tranquil,  yet  perhaps  of  kindred  birth. 

That  steal  upon  the  meditative  mind. 

And  grow  with  thought.  Beside  yon  Spring  I stood. 
And  eyed  its  waters  till  we  seemed  to  feel 
One  sadness,  they  and  I.  For  them  a bond 

47# 


558 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  brotherhood  is  broken ; time  has  been 
\\^hen,  every  day,  the  touch  of  human  hand 
Dislodged  the  natural  sleep  that  binds  them  up 
In  mortal  stillness ; and  they  ministered 
To  human  comfort.  Stooping  down  to  drink, 

Upon  the  slimy  foot-stone  I espied 
The  useless  fragment  of  a wooden  bowl. 

Green  with  the  moss  of  years,  and  subject  only 
To  the  soft  handling  of  the  Elements : 

There  let  the  relic  lie  — fond  thought  — vain  words! 
Forgive  them;  — never  — never  did  my  steps 
Approach  this  door,  but  she  who  dwelt  within 
A daughter’s  welcome  gave  me,  and  I loved  her 
As  my  own  child.  Oh,  Sir  ! the  good  die  first. 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Burn  to  the  socket.  Many  a Passenger 
Hath  blessed  poor  Margaret  for  her  gentle  looks, 
When  she  upheld  the  cool  refreshment  drawn 
From  that  forsaken  Spring:  and  no  one  came 
But  he  was  welcome  ; no  one  went  away 
But  that  it  seemed  she  loved  him.  She  is  dead, 

The  light  extinguished  of  her  lonely  Hut, 

The  Hut  itself  abandoned  to  decay. 

And  She  forgotten  in  the  quiet  grave ! 

“ I speak,”  continued  he,  “ of  One  whose  stock 
Of  virtues  bloomed  beneath  this  lowly  roof. 

Slie  was  a Woman  of  a steady  mind. 

Tender  and  deep  in  her  excess  of  love. 

Not  speaking  much,  pleased  rather  with  the  joy 
Of  her  own  thoughts : by  some  especial  care 
Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 
A Being  — who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
jMight  live  on  earth  a life  of  happiness. 

Her  wedded  Partner  lacked  not  on  his  side 
The  humble  worth  that  satisfied  her  heart : 

Frugal,  affectionate,  sober,  and  withal 
Keenly  industrious.  She  with  pride  would  tell 
That  he  was  often  seated  at  his  loom. 

In  summer,  ere  the  Mower  was  abroad 
Among  the  dewy  grass,  — in  early  spring. 

Ere  the  last  Star  had  vanished.  — They  who  passed 
At  evening,  from  behind  the  garden  fence 
Might  hear  his  busy  spade,  which  he  w'ould  ply, 
After  his  daily  work,  until  the  light 
Had  failed,  and  every  leaf  and  flower  were  lost 
In  the  dark  hedges.  So  their  days  w’ere  spent 
In  peace  and  comfort;  and  a pretty  Boy 
Was  their  best  hope,  — next  to  the  God  in  Heaven. 

“ Not  twenty  years  ago,  but  you  I think 
Can  scarcely  bear  it  now  in  mind,  there  came 
Two  blighting  seasons,  when  the  fields  were  left 
With  half  a harvest.  It  pleased  i leaven  to  add 
A worse  affliction  in  the  plague  of  war; 

This  happy  Land  was  stricken  to  the  heart! 

A Wanderer  then  among  the  Cottages 
I,  with  my  freight  of  winter  raiment,  saw 


The  hardships  of  that  season ; many  rich 
Sank  down,  as  in  a dream,  among  the  poor ; 

And  of  the  poor  did  many  cease  to  be. 

And  their  place  kiiew  them  not.  Meanwhile,  abridged 
Of  daily  comforts,  gladly  reconciled 
To  numerous  self-denials,  Margaret 
Went  struggling  on  through  those  calamitous  years 
With  cheerful  hope,  until  the  second  autumn. 

When  her  life’s  Helpmate  on  a sick-bed  lay. 

Smitten  with  perilous  fever.  In  disease 
He  lingered  long;  and  when  his  strength  returned 
He  found  the  little  he  had  stored,  to  meet 
The  hour  of  accident  or  crippling  age. 

Was  all  consumed.  A second  Infant  now 
Was  added  to  the  troubles  of  a time 
Laden,  for  them  and  all  of  their  degree. 

With  care  and  sorrow  ; shoals  of  Arti.sans 
From  ill  requited  labour  turned  adrift 
Sought  daily  bread  from  public  charity. 

They,  and  their  wives  and  children  — happier  far 
Could  they  have  lived  as  do  the  little  birds 
That  peck  along  the  hedge-rows,  or  the  Kite 
That  makes  her  dwelling  on  the  mountain  Rocks 

“A  sad  reverse  it  was  for  Him  who  long 
Had  filled  with  plenty,  and  possessed  in  peace. 

This  lonely  Cottage.  At  his  door  he  stood. 

And  whistled  many  a snatcli  of  merry  tunes 
That  had  no  mirth  in  them ; or  with  liis  knife 
Carved  uncouth  figures  on  the  heads  of  sticks  — 
Then,  not  less  idly,  sought,  throirgh  every  nook 
In  house  or  garden,  any  casual  work 
Of  use  or  ornament ; and  w'ith  a strange. 

Amusing,  yet  uneasy  novelty. 

He  blended,  where  he  might,  the  various  tasks 
Of  summer,  autumn,  winter,  and  of  spring. 

But  this  endured  not ; his  good  humour  soon 
Became  a weight  in  which  no  pleasure  was: 

And  poverty  brought  on  a petted  mood 
And  a sore  temper:  day  by  day  he  drooped. 

And  he  would  leave  his  work  — and  to  the  Town. 
Without  an  errand,  would  direct  his  ste])s. 

Or  wander  here  and  there  among  the  fields. 

One  while  he  would  sjx;ak  lightly  of  his  Babes, 

And  with  a cruel  tongue  : at  other  times 
He  tossed  them  with  a false  unnatural  joy: 

And ’t  was  a rueful  thing  to  see  the  looks 
Of  the  poor  innocent  children.  ‘Every  smile,’ 

Said  Margaret  to  me,  here  beneath  these  trees, 

‘ Made  my  heart  bleed.’  ” 

At  this  the  Wanderer  paused 
And,  looking  up  to  those  enormous  Elms, 

Ho  said,  “’T  is  now  the  hour  of  deepest  noon. — 

At  this  still  season  of  repose  and  peace. 

This  hour  when  all  things  which  are  not  at  rest 
Are  cheerful ; while  this  multitude  of  flies 
Is  filling  all  the  air  with  melody ; 


THE  EXCURSION. 


r)59 


Why  should  a tear  be  in  an  Old  Man’s  eye  1 
Why  should  we  thus,  with  an  untoward  mind, 

And  in  the  weakness  of  humanity 

From  natural  wisdom  turn  our  hearts  away. 

To  natural  comfort  shut  our  eyes  and  ears. 

And,  feeding  on  disquiet,  thus  dislurb 

The  calm  of  nature  with  our  restless  thoughts  1” 

He  spake  with  somewhat  of  a solemn  tone: 

But,  when  he  ended,  there  was  in  his  face 
Such  easy  cheerfulness,  a look  so  mild. 

That  for  a little  time  it  stole  away 
All  recollection,  and  that  simple  Tale 
Passed  from  my  mind  like  a forgotten  sound. 

A while  on  trivial  things  we  held  discourse, 

To  me  soon  tasteless.  In  my  own  despite, 

I thought  of  that  poor  Woman  as  of  one 
Whom  I had  known  and  loved.  He  had  rehearsed 
Her  homely  Tale  with  such  familiar  power. 

With  such  an  active  countenance,  an  eye 
So  busy,  that  the  things  of  which  he  spake 
Seemed  present;  and,  attention  now  relaxed, 

A heart-felt  dullness  crept  along  my  veins. 

I rose ; and,  having  left  the  breezy  shade. 

Stood  drinking  comfort  from  the  warmer  sun. 

That  had  not  cheered  me  long — ere,  looking  round 
Upon  that  tranquil  Ruin,  I returned. 

And  begged  of  the  Old  Man  that,  for  my  sake. 

He  would  resume  his  story. — 

He  replied, 

“ It  were  a wantonness,  and  would  demand 
Severe  reproof,  if  we  were  Men  whose  hearts 
Could  hold  vain  dalliance  with  the  misery 
Even  of  the  dead ; contented  thence  to  draw 
A momentary  pleasure,  never  marked 
By  reason,  barren  of  all  future  good. 

But  we  have  known  that  there  is  often  found 
In  mournful  thoughts,  and  always  might  be  found, 

A power  to  virtue  friendly  ; were’t  not  so, 

I am  a dreamer  among  men,  indeed 
An  idle  Dreamer!  ’Tie  a common  Tale, 

An  ordinary  sorrow  of  Man’s  life, 

A tale  of  silent  suffering,  hardly  clothed 
In  bodily  form. — But  without  further  bidding 
I will  proceed. 

“While  thus  it  fared  with  them, 

To  whom  this  Cottage,  till  those  hapless  years. 

Had  been  a blessed  home,  it  was  my  chance 
To  travel  in  a Country  far  remote ; 

And  when  these  lofty  Elms  once  more  appeared, 
What  pleasant  e.xpectations  lured  me  on 
O’er  the  flat  Common ! — With  quick  step  I reached 
The  thre.shold,  lifted  with  light  hand  the  latch; 

But,  when  I entered  Margaret  looked  at  me 
A little  wliile;  then  turned  her  head  away 
Speechless,  — and,  sifting  down  upon  a chair, 

Wept  bitterly.  I wist  not  what  to  do, 


Nor  how  to  speak  to  her.  Poor  Wretch  ! at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then,  — O Sir ! 

I cannot  Udl  how  she  pronounced  my  name;  — 

With  fervent  love,  and  with  a face  of  grief 
Unutterably  helpless,  and  a look 
That  seemed  to  cling  upon  me,  she  enquired 
If  I had  seen  her  Husband.  As  she  spake 
strange  surprise  and  fear  came  to  my  heart, 

Nor  had  I power  to  answer  ere  she  told 

That  he  had  disappeared  — not  two  months  gone. 

He  left  his  House;  two  wretched  days  had  past, 

And  on  the  tliird,  as  wistfully  she  raised 
Her  head  from  oft’  her  pillow,  to  look  forth. 

Like  one  in  trouble,  for  returning  light. 

Within  her  chamber-casement  she  espied 
A folded  paper,  lying  as  if  placed 
To  meet  her  waking  eyes.  This  tremblingly 
She  opened  — found  no  writing,  but  beheld 
Pieces  of  money  carefully  enclosed. 

Silver  and  gold.  — ‘ I shuddered  at  the  sight,’ 

Said  Margaret,  ‘ for  I knew  it  was  his  hand 
Which  placed  it  there : and  ere  that  day  was  ended. 
That  long  and  anxious  day  ! I learned  from  One 
Sent  hither  by  niy  Husband  to  impart 
The  heavy  news,  — that  he  had  joined  a Troop 
Of  Soldiers,  going  to  a distant  Land. 

— He  left  me  thus  — he  could  not  gather  heart 
To  take  a farewell  of  me ; for  he  feared 
That  I should  follow  with  my  Babes,  and  sink 
Beneatli  the  misery  of  that  wandering  Life.’ 

“Tliis  Tale  did  Margaret  tell  witli  many  tears; 

! And,  wlien  she  ended,  I had  little  power 
To  give  her  comfort,  and  was  glad  to  take 
Such  words  of  hope  from  her  own  mouth  as  served 
To  cheer  us  both : — but  long  we  had  not  talked 
Ere  we  built  up  a pile  of  better  thoughts, 

.And  with  a brighter  eye  she  looked  around 
As  if  she  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy. 

We  parted.  — ’T  was  the  time  of  early  spring ; 

I left  her  busy  with  her  garden  tools; 

And  well  remember,  o’er  that  fence  she  looked, 
And,  while  I paced  along  the  foot-way  path. 

Called  out,  and  sent  a blessing  after  me. 

With  tender  cheerfulness;  and  with  a voice 
That  seemed  the  very  sound  of  happy  thoughts. 

j “I  roved  o’er  many  a hill  and  many  a dale, 

With  my  accustomed  load  ; in  heat  and  cold, 
j Through  many  a wood,  and  many  an  open  ground, 

In  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  wet  and  fair, 

Drooping  or  blithe  of  heart,  as  might  befal ; 
j My  best  companions  now  the  driving  winds, 
j And  now  the  ‘trotting  brooks’  and  whispering  trees, 
j And  now  the  music  of  my  own  sad  steps. 

With  many  a short-lived  thought  that  passed  between, 
I And  disappeared,  — I journeyed  back  this  way, 


560 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


When,  ill  tlie  warmth  of  Midsummer,  the  wheat 
Was  yellow;  and  the  soft  and  bladed  grass, 
Springing  afresh,  had  o’er  the  hay-field  spread 
Its  tender  verdure.  At  tlie  door  arrived, 

I found  that  she  was  absent.  In  the  shade. 

Where  now  we  sit,  I waited  her  return. 

Her  Cottage,  then  a cheerful  Object,  wore 
Its  customary  look,  — only,  it  seemed. 

The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch, 

Hung  down  in  heavier  tufts : and  that  bright  weed, 
The  yellow  stone-crop,  suffered  to  take  root 
Along  the  window’s  edge,  profusely  grew. 

Blinding  the  lower  panes.  I turned  aside. 

And  strolled  into  her  garden.  It  appeared 
To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 
Its  pride  of  neatness.  Daisy-flowers  and  thrift 
Had  broken  their  trim  lines,  and  straggled  o’er 
The  paths  they  used  to  deck ; — Carnations,  once 
Prized  for  surpassing  beauty,  and  no  less 
For  the  peculiar  pains  they  had  required. 

Declined  their  languid  heads,  wanting  support. 

The  cumbrous  bind-weed,  with  its  wreaths  and  bells, 
Had  twined  about  her  two  small  rows  of  pease. 

And  dragged  them  to  the  earth.  — Ere  this  an  hour 
Was  wasted.  — Back  I turned  my  restless  steps; 

A Stranger  passed ; and,  guessing  whom  I sought. 
He  said  that  she  was  used  to  ramble  far.  — 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west;  and  now 
I sate  with  sad  impatience.  From  within 
Her  solitary  Infant  cried  aloud; 

Then,  like  a blast  that  dies  away  self-stilled. 

The  voice  was  silent.  From  the  bench  I rose ; 

But  neither  could  divert  nor  soothe  my  tlioughts. 

The  spot,  though  fair,  was  very  desolate  — 

The  longer  I remained  more  desolate : 

And,  looking  round  me,  now  I first  observed 
The  corner  stones,  on  either  side  the  porch. 

With  dull  red  stains  discoloured,  and  stuck  o’er 
With  tufts  and  hairs  of  wool,  as  if  tlie  Sheep, 

That  fed  upon  the  Common,  thither  came 
Familiarly  ; and  found  a couching-place 
Even  at  her  threshold.  Deeper  shadows  fell 
From  these  tall  elms ; — the  Cottage-clock  struck 
eight;  — 

I turned,  and  saw  her  distant  a few  steps. 

Her  face  was  pale  and  thin  — her  figure,  too, 

Was  changed.  As  she  unlocked  the  door,  she  said, 

‘ It  grieves  me  you  have  waited  here  so  long. 

But,  in  good  truth,  I ’ve  wandered  much  of  late. 

And,  sometimes  — to  my  shame  I speak  — have  need 
Of  my  best  prayers  to  bring  me  back  again. 

While  on  the  board  she  spread  our  evening  meal, 

She  told  me  — interrupting  not  the  work 
Which  gave  employment  to  her  listless  hands  — 
Tliat  she  had  parted  with  her  elder  Child; 

To  a kind  master  on  a distant  farm 
Now'  happily  apprenticed.  — ‘I  perceive 
Vo'i  look  at  me,  and  you  have  cause ; to-day 


I have  been  travelling  far;  and  many  days 
About  the  fields  I wander,  knowing  this 
Only,  that  what  I seek  I cannot  find; 

And  so  I waste  my  time  : for  I am  changed  ; 

And  to  myself,’  said  she,  ‘have  done  much  wrong, 
And  to  this  helpless  Infant.  I have  slept 
Weeping,  and  weeping  have  I waked  ; my  tear? 
Have  flowed  as  if  my  body  were  not  such 
As  others  are ; and  I could  never  die. 

But  I am  now  in  mind  and  in  my  heart 
More  easy ; and  I hope,’  said  she,  ‘ that  God 
Will  give  me  patience  to  endure  the  things 
Which  I behold  at  home.’  It  would  have  grieved 
Your  very  soul  to  see  her;  Sir,  I feel 
The  story  linger  in  my  heart;  I fear 
’T  is  long  and  tedious  ; but  my  spirit  clings 
To  that  poor  Woman : — so  familiarly 
Do  I perceive  her  manner,  and  her  look, 

And  presence,  and  so  deeply  do  I feel 
Her  goodness,  that,  not  seldom,  in  my  walks 
A momentary  trance  comes  over  me  ; 

And  to  myself  I seem  to  muse  on  One 
By  sorrow  laid  asleep;  — or  borne  away, 

A human  being  destined  to  awake 

To  human  life,  or  something  very  near 

To  human  life,  when  he  shall  come  again 

For  whom  she  suffered.  Yes,  it  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her:  evermore 

Her  eyelids  drooped,  her  eyes  were  downward  cast; 

And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food. 

She  did  not  look  at  me.  Her  voice  was  low. 

Her  body  was  subdued.  In  every  act 
Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appeared 
The  careless  stillness  of  a thinking  mind 
Self-occupied;  to  which  all  outw'ard  things 
Are  like  an  idle  matter.  Still  she  sighed, 

But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen. 

No  heaving  of  the  heart.  While  by  the  fire 
We  sate  together,  sighs  came  on  my  ear, 

I knew  not  how,  and  hardly  whence  they  came. 

“ Ere  my  departure,  to  her  care  I gave, 

For  her  son’s  use,  some  tokens  of  regard. 

Which  with  a look  of  welcome  she  received ; 

And  I exhorted  her  to  place  her  trust 

In  God’s  good  love,  and  seek  his  help  by  prayer. 

I took  my  staff,  and  when  I kissed  her  babe 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.  I left  her  then 
With  the  best  hope  and  comfort  I could  give; 

She  thanked  me  for  my  wish  ; — but  for  my  hope 
Methought  she  did  not  thank  me. 

“ I returned, 

And  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flower 
Peeped  forth,  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  Spring. 

I found  her  sad  and  drooping;  she  had  learned 
No  tidings  of  her  Husband  ; if  he  lived. 

She  knew  not  that  he  lived ; if  he  were  dnad. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


5Gl 


She  knew  not  he  was  dead.  She  seemed  the  same 
In  person  and  appearance  ; but  her  House 
Bespake  a sleepy  hand  of  negligence ; 

The  floor  was  neitlier  dry  nor  neat,  the  hearth 
Was  comfortless,  and  her  small  lot  of  books, 

Which,  in  the  Cottage  window,  heretofore 
Had  been  piled  up  against  the  corner  panes 
In  seemly  order,  now,  with  straggling  leaves 
Lay  scattered  here  and  there,  open  or  sliut, 

<\.s  they  had  chanced  to  fall.  Her  infant  Babe 
Had  from  its  Mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief. 

And  sighed  among  its  playthings.  Once  again 
I turned  towards  the  garden  gate,  and  saw, 

More  plainly  still,  that  poverty  and  grief 
Were  now  come  nearer  to  her ; weeds  defaced 
The  hardened  soil,  and  knots  of  withered  grass: 

No  ridges  there  appeared  of  clear  black  mould. 

No  winter  greenness  ; of  her  herbs  and  flowers, 

It  seemed  the  better  part  were  gnawed  away 
Or  trampled  into  earth  ; a chain  of  straw. 

Which  had  been  twined  about  the  slender  stem 
Of  a young  apple-tree,  lay  at  its  root. 

The  bark  was  nibbled  round  by  truant  Sheep. 

— IMargaret  stood  near,  her  Infant  in  her  arms. 

And,  noting  that  my  eye  was  on  the  tree. 

She  said,  ‘ I fear  it  will  be  dead  and  gone 
Ere  Robert  come  again.’  Towards  the  House 
Together  we  returned ; and  she  enquired 
If  I had  any  hope  : — but  for  her  Babe 
And  for  her  little  orphan  Boy,  she  said. 

She  had  no  wish  to  live,  that  she  must  die 
Of  sorrow.  Yet  I saw  the  idle  loom 
Still  in  its  place ; his  Sunday  garments  hung 
Upon  the  self-same  nail;  his  very  staff 
Stood  undisturbed  behind  the  door.  And  when. 

In  bleak  December,  I retraced  this  way. 

She  told  me  that  her  little  Babe  was  dead. 

And  she  was  left  alone.  She  now,  released 
From  her  maternal  cares,  had  taken  up 
The  employment  common  through  these  Wilds,  and 
gained, 

By  spinning  hemp,  a pittance  for  herself ; 

And  for  this  end  had  hired  a neighbour’s  Boy 
To  give  her  needful  help.  That  very  time 
Most  willingly  she  put  her  work  aside. 

And  walked  with  me  along  the  miry  road, 

Heedless  how  far ; and  in  such  piteous  sort 
That  any  heart  had  ached  to  hear  her,  begged 
That,  wheresoe’er  I went,  I still  would  ask 
For  him  whom  she  had  lost.  We  parted  then  — 
Our  final  parting;  for  from  that  time  forth 
Did  many  seasons  pass  ere  I returned 
Into  this  tract  again. 

“ Nine  tedious  years  ; 

From  their  first  separation,  nine  long  years. 

She  lingered  in  unquiet  widowhood ; 

3V 


A Wife  and  Widow.  Needs  must  it  have  been 
A sore  heart-wasting  ! I have  heard,  my  Friend, 

That  in  yon  arbour  oftentimes  she  sate 
Alone,  through  half  the  vacant  yabbatli  day  ; 

And,  if  a dog  passed  by,  she  still  would  quit 
The  shade,  and  look  abroad.  On  this  old  Bench 
For  hours  she  sate;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick  You  see  that  path. 
Now  faint,  — the  grass  has  crept  o’er  its  gray  line; 
There,  to  and  fro,  she  paced  through  many  a day 
Of  the  warm  summer,  from  a belt  of  hemp 
That  girt  her  waist,  spinning  the  long-drawn  thread 
With  backward  steps.  Yet  ever  as  there  passed 
A man  whose  garments  showed  the  soldier’s  red. 

Or  crippled  Mendicant  in  Sailor’s  garb. 

The  little  Child  who  sate  to  turn  the  wheel 
Ceased  from  his  task;  and  she  with  faltering  voice 
Made  many  a fond  enquiry ; and  when  they. 

Whose  presence  gave  no  comfort,  w'ere  gone  by. 

Her  heart  w'as  still  more  sad.  And  by  yon  gate. 

That  bars  the  Traveller’s  road,  she  often  stood. 

And  when  a stranger  Horseman  came,  the  latch 
Would  lift,  and  in  his  face  look  wistfully  ; 

Most  happy,  if,  from  aught  discovered  there 
Of  tender  feeling,  she  might  dare  repeat 
The  same  sad  question.  Meanwhile  her  poor  Hut 
Sank  to  decay : for  he  was  gone,  whose  hand. 

At  the  first  nipping  of  October  frost. 

Closed  up  each  chink,  and  with  fresh  bands  of  straw 
Chequered  the  green-grown  thatch.  And  so  she  lived 
Through  the  long  winter,  reckless  and  alone ; 

Until  her  House  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain. 

Was  sapped;  and  while  she  slept,  the  nightly  damps 
Did  chill  her  breast;  and  in  the  stormy  day 
Her  tattered  clothes  were  ruffled  by  the  wind ; 

Even  at  the  side  of  her  own  fire.  Yet  still 
She  loved  this  wretched  spot,  nor  would  for  worlds 
Have  parted  hence ; and  still  that  length  of  road. 
And  this  rude  bench,  one  torturing  hope  endeared. 
Fast  rooted  at  her  heart:  and  here,  my  Friend, 

In  sickness  she  remained;  and  here  she  died, 

Last  human  tenant  of  these  ruined  Walls.” 

The  Old  Man  ceased : he  saw  that  I was  moved ; 
From  that  low  Bench,  rising  instinctively 
I turned  aside  in  weakness,  nor  had  power 
To  thank  him  for  the  Tale  which  he  had  told. 

I stood,  and  leaning  o’er  the  Garden  wall. 

Reviewed  that  Woman’s  sufferings ; and  it  seemed 
To  comfort  me  while  with  a Brother’s  love 
I blessed  her — in  the  impotence  of  grief. 

At  length  towards  the  Cottage  I returned 
Fondly,  — and  traced,  with  interest  more  mild, 

That  secret  spirit  of  humanity 
Which,  ’mid  the  calm  oblivious  tendencies 


562 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS 


Of  nature,  ’mid  her  plants,  and  weeds,  and  flowers, 
And  silent  overgrowings,  still  survived. 

The  Old  Man,  noting  this,  resumed,  and  said, 

“ My  Friend  ! enough  to  sorrow  you  have  given, 
The  purposes  of  wisdom  ask  no  more; 

Be  wise  and  cheerful ; and  no  longer  read 
The  forms  of  things  with  an  unworthy  eye. 

She  sleeps  in  the  calm  earth,  and  peace  is  here. 

I well  remember  that  those  very  plumes. 

Those  weeds,  and  the  high  spear-grass  on  that  wall, 
By  mist  and  silent  rain-drops  silvered  o’er. 

As  once  I passed,  did  to  my  heart  convey 
So  still  an  image  of  tranquillity. 

So  calm  and  still,  and  looked  so  beautiful 
Amid  the  uneasy  thoughts  which  filled  my  mind. 
That  what  we  feel  of  sorrow  and  despair 
From  ruin  and  from  change,  and  all  the  grief 
The  passing  shows  of  Being  leave  behind. 


Appeared  an  idle  dream,  that  could  not  live 
Where  meditation  was.  I turned  away. 

And  walked  along  my  road  in  happiness.” 

He  ceased.  Ere  long  the  sun  declining  shot 
A slant  and  mellow  radiance,  which  began 
To  fall  upon  us,  while,  beneath  the  trees. 

We  sate  on  that  low  Bench  : and  now  we  felt. 
Admonished  thus,  the  sweet  hour  coming  on. 

A linnet  warbled  from  those  lofty  elms, 

A thrush  sang  loud,  and  other  melodies. 

At  distance  heard,  peopled  the  milder  air. 

The  Old  Man  rose,  and,  with  a sprightly  mien 
Of  hopeful  preparation,  grasped  his  Staff : 
Together  casting  then  a farewell  look 
Upon  those  silent  walls,  we  left  the  Shade ; 
And,  ere  the  stars  were  visible,  had  reached 
A Village  Inn,  — our  Evening  resting-place. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


BOOK  THE  SECOND. 
THE  SOLITARY. 


ARGUMENT. 

The  Author  describes  his  travels  with  the  Wanderer,  whose  character  is  further  illustrated  — Morning  scene,  and 
view  of  a Village  Wake  — Wanderer’s  account  of  a Friend  whom  he  purposes  to  visit  — View,  from  an  eminence, 
of  the  Valley  which  his  Friend  had  chosen  for  his  retreat  — feelings  of  the  Author  at  the  sight  of  it  — Sound  of 
singing  from  below  — a funeral  procession  — Descent  into  the  Valley  — Observations  drawn  from  the  Wanderer  at 
sight  of  a Book  accidentally  discovered  in  a recess  in  the  Valley  — Meeting  with  the  Wanderer’s  friend,  the  Solitary 
— Wanderer's  description  of  the  mode  of  burial  in  this  mountainous  district  — Solitary  contrasts  with  this,  that  of  the 
Individual  carried  a few  minutes  before  from  the  Cottage  — Brief  conversation — The  Cottage  entered  — description 
of  the  Solitary’s  apartment  — repast  there  — View  from  the  Window  of  two  mountain  summits  — and  the  Solitaiy’s 
description  of  the  Companionship  they  afford  him  — account  of  the  departed  Inmate  of  the  Cottage  — description  of 
a grand  spectacle  upon  the  mountains,  with  its  effect  upon  the  Solitary’s  mind  — Quit  the  House. 


In  days  of  yore  how  fortunately  fared 
The  Minstrel ! wandering  on  from  Hall  to  Hall, 
Baronial  Court  or  Royal ; cheered  with  gifts 
Munificent,  and  love,  and  Ladies’  praise ; 

Now  meeting  on  his  road  an  armed  Knight, 

Now  resting  with  a Pilgrim  by  the  side 
Of  a clear  brook ; — beneath  an  Abbey’s  roof 
One  evening  sumptuously  lodged  ; the  next 
Humbly  in  a religious  Hospital ; 

Or  with  some  merry  Outlaws  of  the  wood ; 

Or  haply  shrouded  in  a Hermit’s  cell. 


Him,  sleeping  or  awake,  the  Robber  spared ; 

He  walked  — protected  from  the  sword  of  war 

By  virtue  of  that  sacred  Instrument 

His  Harp,  suspended  at  the  Traveller’s  side  ; 

His  dear  companion  wheresoe’er  he  wont. 
Opening  from  Land  to  Land  an  easy  way 
By  melody,  and  by  the  charm  of  verse. 

Yet  not  the  noblest  of  that  honoured  Race 
Drew  happier,  loftier,  more  empassioned  thoughts 
From  his  long  journey ings  and  eventful  life. 

Than  this  obscure  Itinerant  had  skill 


THE  EXCURSION. 


5G3 


To  gather,  ranging  through  the  tamer  ground 
Of  these  our  unimaginative  days; 

Both  while  he  trod  the  eartli  in  humblest  guise 
Accoutred  with  his  burthen  and  his  staff; 

And  now,  when  free  to  move  with  lighter  pace. 

What  wonder,  then,  if  I,  whose  favourite  School 
Hath  been  the  fields,  the  roads,  and  rural  lanes. 
Looked  on  this  Guide  with  reverential  love  7 
Each  with  the  other  pleased,  we  now  pursued 
Our  journey  — beneatli  favourable  skies. 

Turn  wheresoe’er  we  would,  ho  was  a light 
Unfailing  ; not  a Hamlet  could  we  pass. 

Rarely  a House,  that  did  not  yield  to  him 
Remembrances  ; or  from  his  tongue  call  forth 
Some  way-beguiling  tale.  Nor  less  regard 
Accompanied  those  strains  of  apt  discourse. 

Which  Nature’s  various  objects  might  inspire  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  his  face  I read 
His  overflowing  spirit.  Birds  and  beasts. 

And  the  mute  fish  that  glances  in  the  stream. 

And  harmless  reptile  coiling  in  the  sun. 

And  gorgeous  insect  hovering  in  the  air. 

The  fowl  domestic,  and  the  household  dog. 

In  his  capacious  mind  — he  loved  them  all ; 

Their  rights  acknowledging,  he  felt  for  all. 

Ofl  was  occasion  given  me  to  perceive 
How  the  calm  pleasures  of  the  pasturing  Herd 
To  happy  contemplation  soothed  his  walk  ; 

How  the  poor  Brute’s  condition,  forced  to  run 
Its  course  of  suffering  in  the  public  road. 

Sad  contrast ! all  too  often  smote  his  heart 
With  unavailing  pity.  Rich  in  love 
And  sweet  humanity,  he  was,  himself. 

To  the  degree  that  he  desired,  beloved. 

— Greetings  and  smiles  we  met  with  all  day  long 
From  faces  that  he  knew  ; we  took  our  seats 

By  many  a cottage  hearth,  where  he  received 
The  welcome  of  an  Inmate  come  from  far. 

— Nor  was  he  loth  to  enter  ragged  Huts, 

Huts  where  his  charity  was  blest;  his  voice 
Heard  as  the  voice  of  an  experienced  Friend. 

And,  sometimes,  where  the  Poor  Man  held  dispute 
With  his  own  mind,  unable  to  subdue 
Impatience  through  inaptness  to  perceive 
General  distress  in  his  particular  lot; 

Or  cherishing  resentment,  or  in  vain 
Struggling  against  it,  with  a soul  perplexed. 

And  finding  in  himself  no  steady  power 
To  draw  the  line  of  comfort  that  divides 
Calamity,  the  chastisement  of  Heaven 
From  the  injustice  of  our  brother  men  ; 

To  Him  appeal  was  made  as  to  a judge  ; 

Who,  with  an  understanding  heart,  allayed 
The  perturbation  ; listened  to  the  plea  ; 

Resolved  the  dubious  point ; and  sentence  gave 
So  grounded,  so  applied,  that  it  was  heard 
With  softened  spirit  — even  when  it  condemned. 


Such  intercourse  I witnessed,  while  we  roved 
Now  as  his  choice  directed,  now  as  mine; 

Or  both,  with  equal  readiness  of  will. 

Our  course  submitting  to  tlie  changeful  breeze 
Of  accident.  But  when  the  rising  sun 
Had  three  times  called  us  to  renew  our  walk. 

My  Fellow-traveller,  with  earnest  voice. 

As  if  the  thought  were  but  a moment  old. 

Claimed  absolute  dominion  for  the  day. 

We  started  — and  he  led  towards  the  hills. 

Up  through  an  ample  vale,  with  higher  hills 
Before  us,  mountains  stern  and  desolate  ; 

But,  in  the  majesty  of  distance,  now 
Set  off,  and  to  our  ken  appearing  fair 
Of  aspect,  with  aerial  softness  clad, 

And  beautified  with  morning’s  purple  beams. 

The  Wealthy,  the  Luxurious,  by  the  stress 
Of  business  roused,  or  pleasure,  ere  their  time. 

May  roll  in  chariots,  or  provoke  the  hoofs 
Of  the  fleet  coursers  they  bestride,  to  raise 
From  earth  the  dust  of  morning,  slow  to  rise  ; 

And  They,  if  blest  with  health  and  hearts  at  ease. 
Shall  lack  not  their  enjoyment ; — but  how  faint 
Compared  with  ours!  who,  pacing  side  by  side. 
Could,  with  an  eye  of  leisure,  look  on  all 
That  we  beheld  ; and  lend  the  listening  sense 
To  every  grateful  sound  of  earth  and  air ; 

Pausing  at  will  — our  spirits  braced,  our  thoughts 
Pleasant  as  roses  in  the  thickets  blown. 

And  pure  as  dew  bathing  their  crimson  leaves. 

Mount  slowly.  Sun  ! that  we  may  journey  long. 

By  this  dark  hill  protected  from  thy  beams  I 
Such  is  the  summer  Pilgrim’s  frequent  wish ; 

But  quickly  from  among  our  morning  thoughts 
’T  was  chased  away : for,  toward  the  western  side 
Of  the  broad  Vale,  casting  a casual  glance. 

We  saw  a throng  of  People  ; — wherefore  met  1 
Blitiie  notes  of  music,  suddenly  let  loose 
On  the  thrilled  ear,  and  flags  uprising,  yield 
Prompt  answer:  they  proclaim  the  annual  Wake, 
Which  the  bright  season  favours.  — Tabor  and  Pipe 
In  purpose  join  to  hasten  and  reprove 
The  laggard  Rustic ; and  repay  with  boons 
Of  merriment  a party-coloured  Knot, 

Already  formed  upon  the  Village  green. 

— Beyond  the  limits  of  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  broad  hill,  glistened  upon  our  sight 
That  gay  Assemblage.  Round  them  and  above. 
Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed. 

Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 
Half-veiled  in  vapoury  cloud,  the  silver  steam 
Of  dews  fast  melting  on  their  leafy  boughs 
By  the  strong  sunbeams  smitten.  Like  a mast 
Of  gold,  the  Maypole  shines  ; as  if  the  rays 
Of  morning,  aided  by  exhaling  dew. 


564 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


With  gladsome  influence  could  re-animate 
The  faded  garlands  dangling  from  its  sides. 

Said  I,  “ The  music  and  the  sprightly  scene 
Invite  us;  shall  we  quit  our  road,  and  join 
These  festive  matins  ?” — He  replied,  “ Not  loth 
Here  would  I linger,  and  with  you  partake, 

Not  one  hour  merely,  but  till  evening’s  close, 

The  simple  pastimes  of  the  day  and  place. 

By  the  fleet  Racers,  ere  the  Sun  be  set. 

The  turf  of  yon  large  pasture  will  be  skimmed  ; 
There,  too,  the  lusty  Wrestlers  shall  contend  : 

But  know  we  not  that  he,  who  intermits 
The  appointed  task  and  duties  of  the  day. 

Untunes  full  ofl  the  pleasures  of  the  day; 

Checking  the  finer  spirits  that  refuse 
To  flow,  when  purposes  are  lightly  changed"! 

We  must  proceed  — a length  of  journey  yet 
Remains  untraced.”  Then,  pointing  with  his  staff" 
Raised  toward  those  craggy  summits,  his  intent 
He  thus  imparted. 

“In  a spot  that  lies 

Among  yon  mountain  fastnesses  concealed. 

You  will  receive,  before  the  hour  of  noon. 

Good  recompense,  I hope,  for  this  day’s  toil — 

From  sight  of  One  who  lives  secluded  there. 
Lonesome  and  lost : of  whom,  and  whose  past  life, 
(Not  to  forestall  such  knowledge  as  may  be 
More  faithfully  collected  from  himself) 

This  brief  communication  shall  suffice. 

“ Though  now  sojourning  there,  he,  like  myself. 
Sprang  from  a stock  of  lowly  parentage 
Among  the  wilds  of  Scotland,  in  a tract 
Where  many  a sheltered  and  well-tended  plant 
Bears,  on  the  humblest  ground  of  social  life. 

Blossoms  of  piety  and  innocence. 

Such  grateful  promises  his  youth  displayed  : 

And,  having  shown  in  study  forward  zeal. 

He  to  the  Ministry  was  duly  called ; 

And  straight  incited  by  a curious  mind 

Filled  with  vague  hopes,  he  undertook  the  charge 

Of  Chaplain  to  a Military  Troop 

Cheered  by  the  Highland  Bagpipe,  as  they  marched 

In  plaided  vest,  — his  Fellow-countrymen. 

This  Office  filling,  yet  by  native  power. 

And  force  of  native  inclination,  made 
An  intellectual  Ruler  in  the  haunts 
Of  social  vanity  — he  walked  the  World, 

Gay,  and  affecting  graceful  gaiety  ; 

Lax,  buoyant  — less  a Pastor  with  his  Flock 
Than  a Soldier  among  Soldiers  — lived  and  roamed 
Where  fortune  led:  — and  Fortune,  who  oft  proves 
The  careless  Wanderer’s  Friend,  to  him  made  known 
A blooming  Lady  — a conspicuous  Flower, 

Admired  for  beauty,  for  her  sweetness  praised ; 


Whom  he  had  sensibility  to  love. 

Ambition  to  attempt,  and  skill  to  win. 

“For  this  fair  Bride,  most  rich  in  gifts  of  mind, 

Nor  sparingly  endowed  with  worldly  wealth, 

His  Office  he  relinquished  ; and  retired 
From  the  world’s  notice  to  a rural  Home. 

South’s  season  yet  with  him  was  scarcely  past. 

And  she  was  in  youth’s  prime.  How  full  their  joy. 
How  free  their  love  I nor  did  that  love  decay. 

Nor  joy  abate,  till,  pitiable  doom  ! 

In  the  short  course  of  one  undreaded  year 
Death  blasted  all.  — Death  suddenly  o’erthrew 
Two  lovely  Children  — all  that  they  possessed! 

The  Mother  followed  : — miserably  bare 
The  one  Survivor  stood  ; he  wept,  he  prayed 
For  his  dismissal ; day  and  night,  compelled 
By  pain  to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  grave. 

And  face  the  regions  of  Eternity. 

An  uncomplaining  apathy  displaced 
This  anguish  ; and,  indifferent  to  delight. 

To  aim  and  purpose,  he  consumed  his  days. 

To  private  interest  dead,  and  public  care. 

So  lived  he ; so  he  might  have  died. 

“ But  now, 

To  the  wide  world’s  astonishment,  appeared 
A glorious  opening,  the  unlooked-for  dawn. 

That  promised  everlasting  joy  to  France  ! 

Her  voice  of  social  transport  reached  even  him! 

He  broke  from  his  contracted  bounds,  repaired 
To  the  great  City,  an  Emporium  then 
Of  golden  expectations,  and  receiving 
Freights  every  day  from  a new  world  of  hope. 

Thither  his  popular  talents  he  transferred  ; 

And,  from  the  Pulpit,  zealously  maintained 
The  cause  of  Christ  and  civil  liberty. 

As  one,  and  moving  to  one  glorious  end. 

Intoxicating  service ! I might  say 
A happy  service ; for  he  was  sincere 
As  vanity  and  fondness  for  applause. 

And  new  and  shapeless  wishes,  would  allow. 

“That  righteous  Cause  (such  power  hath  Freedom) 
bound. 

For  one  hostility,  in  friendly  league 
Ethereal  Natures  and  the  worst  of  Slaves ; 

Was  served  by  rival  Advocates  that  came 
From  regions  opposite  as  heaven  and  hell. 

One  courage  seemed  to  animate  them  all : 

And,  from  the  dazzling  conquests  daily  gained 
By  their  united  efforts,  there  arose 
A proud  and  most  presumptuous  confidence 
In  the  transcendent  wisdom  of  the  age. 

And  her  discernment ; not  alone  in  rights. 

And  in  the  origin  and  bounds  of  power 
Social  and  temporal ; but  in  laws  divine. 

Deduced  by  reason,  or  to  faith  revealed 


THE  EXCURSION. 


6G5 


An  overweening  trust  was  raised ; and  fear 
Cast  out,  alike  of  person  and  of  thing. 

Plague  from  this  union  spread,  whose  subtle  bane 
The  strongest  did  not  easily  escape; 

And  He,  what  wonder ! took  a mortal  taint. 

How  shall  I trace  the  change,  how  bear  to  tell 
That  he  broke  faith  with  them  whom  he  had  laid 
la  earth’s  dark  chambers,  with  a^Christian’s  hope ! 
An  infidel  contempt  of  holy  writ 
Stole  by  degrees  upon  his  mind ; and  hence 
life,  like  that  Roman  Janus,  double-faced; 

Vilest  hypocrisy,  the  laughing,  gay 
Hypocrisy,  not  leagued  with  fear,  but  pride. 
Smooth  words  he  had' to  wheedle  simple  souls  ; 
But,  for  disciples  of  the  inner  school. 

Old  freedom  was  old  servitude,  and  they 
The  wisest  whose  opinions  stooped  the  least 
To  known  restraints : and  who  most  boldly  drew 
Hopeful  prognostications  from  a creed. 

That,  in  the  light  of  false  philosophy. 

Spread  like  a halo  round  a misty  moon, 

Widening  its  circle  as  the  storms  advance. 

“ His  sacred  function  was  at  length  renounced ; 
And  every  day  and  every  place  enjoyed 
The  unshackled  Layman’s  natural  liberty; 

Speech,  manners,  morals,  all  without  disguise. 

I do  not  wish  to  wrong  him  ; — though  the  course 
Of  private  life  licentiously  displayed 
Unhallowed  actions  — planted  like  a crown 
Upon  the  insolent  aspiring  brow 
Of  spurious  notions  — worn  as  open  signs 
Of  prejudice  subdued  — he  still  retained, 

’JMid  such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 
From  nature  — an  intense  and  glowing  mind. 
VV'herefore,  when  humbled  Liberty  grew  weak. 
And  mortal  sickness  on  her  face  appeared, 

He  coloured  objects  to  his  own  desire 
As  with  a Lover’s  passion.  Yet  his  moods 
Of  pain  were  keen  as  those  of  better  men. 

Nay  keener  — as  his  fortitude  was  less. 

And  he  continued,  when  worse  days  were  come. 
To  deal  about  his  sparkling  eloquence. 

Struggling  against  the  strange  reverse  with  zeal 
That  showed  like  happiness;  but,  in  despite 
Of  all  this'oulside  bravery,  within. 

He  neither  felt  encouragement  nor  hope ; 

For  moral  dignity,  and  strength  of  mind. 

Were  wanting;  and  simplicity  of  Life; 

And  reverence  for  himself ; and,  last  and  best. 
Confiding  thoughts,  through  love  and  fear  of  Him 
Before  whose  sight  the  troubles  of  this  world 
Are  vain  as  billows  in  a tossing  sea, 

“ The  glory  of  the  times  fading  away. 

The  splendour,  which  had  given  a festal  air 
To  self-importance,  hallowed  it,  and  veiled 
From  his  own  sight,  — this  gone,  he  forfeited 


I All  joy  in  human  nature  ; was  consumed, 

I And  vexed,  and  chafed,  by  levity  and  scorn. 

And  fruitless  indignation;  galled  by  pride; 

Made  desperate  by  contempt  of  Men  who  throve 
Before  his  sight  in  power  or  fame,  and  won. 
Without  desert,  what  he  desired  ; weak  men. 

Too  weak  even  for  his  envy  or  his  hate ! 

Tormented  thus,  after  a wandering  course 
Of  discontent,  and  inwardly  opprest 
With  malady — in  part,  I fear,  provoked 
By  weariness  of  life,  he  fixed  his  Home, 

Or,  rather  say,  sate  down  by  very  chance. 

Among  these  rugged  hills;  where  now  he  dwells. 
And  wastes  the  sad  remainder  of  his  hours 
In  self-indulging  spleen,  that  doth  not  want 
Its  own  voluptuousness;  — on  this  resolved. 

With  this  content,  that  he  will  live  and  die 
Forgotten,  — at  safe  distance  from  a ‘ world 
Not  moving  to  his  mind.’  ” 

These  serious  words 
Closed  the  preparatory  notices 
That  served  my  Fellow-traveller  to  beguile 
The  way,  while  we  advanced  up  that  wide  Vale. 
Diverging  now  (as  if  his  quest  had  been 
Some  secret  of  the  Mountains,  Cavern,  Fall 
Of  water  — or  some  boastful  Eminence, 

Renowned  for  splendid  prospect  far  and  wide) 

We  scaled,  without  a track  to  ease  our  steps, 

A steep  ascent;  and  reached  a dreary  plain. 

With  a tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hill  tops 
Before  us;  savage  region  ! which  I paced 
Dispirited  : when,  all  at  once,  behold  '. 

Beneath  our  feet,  a little  lowly  Vale, 

A lowly  Vale,  and  yet  uplifted  high 
Among  the  mountains ; even  as  if  the  spot 
Had  been,  from  eldest  time  by  wish  of  tlieirs. 

So  placed,  to  be  shut  out  from  all  the  world  '. 
Urn-like  it  was  in  shape,  deep  as  an  Urn ; 

With  rocks  encompassed,  save  that  to  the  South 
Was  one  small  opening,  where  a heath-clad  ridge 
Supplied  a boundary  less  abrupt  and  close; 

A quiet  treeless  nook,  with  two  green  fields, 

A liquid  pool  that  glittered  in  the  sun, 

And  one  bare  Dwelling;  one  Abode,  no  more! 

It  seemed  the  home  of  poverty  and  toil. 

Though  not  of  want:  the  little  fields,  made  green 
By  husbandry  of  many  thrifty  years. 

Paid  cheerful  tribute  to  the  moorland  House. 

— There  crows  the  Cock,  single  in  his  domain: 

The  small  birds  find  in  spring  no  thicket  there 
To  shroud  them;  only  from  the  neighbouring  Vales 
The  Cuckoo,  straggling  up  to  the  hill  tops, 

Shouteth  faint  tidings  of  some  gladder  place. 

Ah  I what  a sweet  Recess,  thought  I,  is  here ' 
Instantly  throwing  down  my  limbs  at  ease 
Upon  a bed  of  heath  ; — full  many  a spot 
Of  hidden  beauty  have  I chanced  to  espy 
48 


5G6 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Among  the  mountains ; never  one  like  this ; 

So  lonesome,  and  so  perfectly  secure: 

Not  melancholy  — no,  for  it  is  green. 

And  bright,  and  fertile,  furnished  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 

— In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 

IIow  tenderly  protected  ! Far  and  near 
We  have  an  image  of  the  pristine  earth. 

The  planet  in  its  nakedness;  were  this 
ISIan’s  only  dwelling,  sole  appointed  seat. 

First,  last,  and  single  in  the  breathing  world, 

It  could  not  be  more  quiet:  peace  is  here 
Or  nowhere ; days  unruffled  by  the  gale 
Of  public  news  or  private ; years  that  pass 
Forgetfully ; uncalled  upon  to  pay 
The  common  penalties  of  mortal  life. 

Sickness,  or  accident,  or  grief,  or  pain. 

On  these  and  kindred  thoughts  intent  I lay 
In  silence  musing  by  my  Comrade’s  side. 

He  also  silent:  when  from  out  the  heart 
Of  that  profound  Abyss  a solemn  Voice, 

Or  several  voices  in  one  solemn  sound. 

Was  heard  — ascending:  mournful,  deep,  and  slow 
The  Cadence,  as  of  Psalms  — a funeral  dirge! 

We  listened,  looking  down  upon  the  Hut, 

But  seeing  no  One:  meanwhile  from  below 
The  strain  continued,  spiritual  as  before ; 

And  now  distinctly  could  I recognise 
These  words : — “ Shull  in  the  Grave  thy  love  be 
known. 

In  Death  thy  faithfulness  ?” — “ God  rest  his  soul !” 
The  Wanderer  cried,  abruptly  breaking  silence, — 

“ He  is  departed,  and  finds  peace  at  last  1” 

This  scarcely  spoken,  and  those  holy  strains 
Not  ceasing,  forth  appeared  in  view  a band 
Of  rustic  Persons,  from  behind  the  hut 
Bearing  a Coffin  in  the  midst,  with  which 
They  shaped  their  course  along  the  sloping  side 
Of  that  small  Valley  ; singing  as  they  moved ; 

A sober  company  and  few,  the  Men 
Bare-headed,  and  all  decently  attired  ! 

Some  steps  when  they  had  thus  advanced,  the  dirge 
Ended ; and,  from  the  stillness  that  ensued 
Recovering,  to  my  Friend  I said,  “ You  spake, 
Methought,  with  apprehension  that  these  rites 
Are  paid  to  Him  upon  whose  shy  retreat 
This  day  we  purposed  to  intrude.” — “I  did  so. 

But  let  us  hence,  that  we  may  learn  the  truth : 
Perhaps  it  is  not  he,  but  some  One  else, 

For  whom  this  pious  service  is  performed  ; 

Some  other  Tenant  of  the  Solitude.” 

So,  to  a steep  and  difficult  descent 
Trusting  ourselves,  we  wound  from  crag  to  crag. 
Where  passage  could  be  won ; and,  as  the  last 
Of  the  mute  train,  upon  the  heathy  top 


Of  that  off-sloping  Outlet,  disappeared, 

I,  more  impatient  in  my  downward  course, 
j Had  landed  upon  easy  ground ; and  there 
Stood  waiting  for  my  comrade.  When  behold 
An  object  that  enticed  my  steps  aside ! 

A narrow,  winding  Entry  opened  out 
Into  a platform  — that  lay,  sheepfold-wise, 

: Enclosed  between  an  upright  mass  of  rock 
And  one  old  moss-grown  wall ; — a cool  Recess, 

And  fanciful ! For,  where  the  rock  and  wall 
' Met  in  an  angle,  hung  a penthouse,  framed 
' By  thrusting  two  rude  staves  into  the  wall 
And  overlaying  them  with  mountain  sods; 

To  weather-fend  a little  turf-built  seat 
I Whereon  a full-grown  man  might  rest,  nor  dread 
I The  burning  sunshine,  or  a transient  shower; 

But  the  whole  plainly  wrought  by  Children’s  hands ! 
Whose  skill  had  thronged  the  floor  with  a proud  show 
I Of  baby-houses,  curiously  arranged ; 
i Nor  wanting  ornaments  of  walks  between, 

' With  mimic  trees  inserted  in  the  turf, 

' And  gardens  interposed.  Pleased  with  the  sight, 

' I could  not  choose  but  beckon  to  my  Guide, 

Who,  entering,  round  him  threw  a careless  glance, 
Impatient  to  pass  on,  when  I e.vclaimed, 

“ Lo  ! what  is  here  T”  and,  stooping  down,  drew  forth 
i A Book,  that,  in  the  midst  of  stones  and  mos.s 
And  wreck  of  party-coloured  earthen-w'are 
j Aptly  disposed,  had  lent  its  help  to  raise 
I One  of  those  petty  structures.  “ Gracious  Heaven  I” 
i The  Wanderer  cried,  “ it  cannot  but  be  his, 

' And  he  is  gonel”  The  Book,  which  in  my  hand 
' Had  opened  of  itself  (for  it  was  swoln 
I With  searching  damp,  and  seemingly  had  lain 
To  the  injurious  elements  exposed 
j From  week  to  week,)  I found  to  be  a work 
I In  the  French  Tongue,  a Novel  of  Voltaire, 

I His  famous  Optimist.  “ Unhappy  Man  !” 
j Exclaimed  my  Friend : “ here  then  has  been  to  him 
j Retreat  within  retreat,  a sheltering-place 
I Within  how  deep  a shelter  ! He  had  fits. 

Even  to  the  last,  of  genuine  tenderness. 

And  loved  the  haunts  of  children  : here,  no  doubt. 
Pleasing  and  pleased,  he  shared  their  simple  sports. 
Or  sate  companionless;  and  here  the  Book, 

Left  and  forgotten  in  his  careless  way, 

I Must  by  the  Cottage  Children  have  been  found : 

I Heaven  bless  them,  and  their  inconsiderate  work  * 

I To  what  odd  purpose  have  the  Darlings  turned 
I This  sad  Memorial  of  their  hapless  Friend !” 

! 

i “ Me,”  said  I,  “ most  doth  it  surprise,  to  find 
Such  Book  in  such  a place  !” — “ A Book  it  is,” 

He  answered,  “ to  the  Person  suite<l  well. 

Though  little  suited  to  surrounding  things  ; 

’T  is  strange,  I grant ; and  stranger  still  had  been 
: To  see  the  Man  who  owned  it,  dwelling  here, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


6G7 


With  one  poor  Shepherd,  far  from  all  the  world  ! 
Now,  if  our  errand  hath  been  thrown  away, 

As  from  these  intimations  I forebode, 

Grieved  shall  I be  — less  for  my  sake  than  yours ; 
And  least  of  all  for  Him  who  is  no  more.” 

By  this,  the  Book  was  in  the  Old  Man’s  hand ; 

And  he  continued,  glancing  on  the  leaves 
An  eye  of  scorn ; “ The  Lover,”  said  he,  “ doomed 
To  love  when  hope  hath  failed  him — whom  no  depth 
Of  privacy  is  deep  enough  to  hide. 

Hath  yet  his  bracelet  or  his  lock  of  hair, 

And  that  is  joy  to  him.  When  change  of  times 
Hath  summoned  Kings  to  scaffolds,  do  but  give 
The  faithful  Servant,  who  must  hide  his  head 
Henceforth  in  whatsoever  nook  he  may, 

A kerchief  sprinkled  with  his  Master’s  blood, 

And  he  too  hath  his  comforter.  How  poor. 

Beyond  all  poverty  how  destitute. 

Must  that  Man  have  been  left,  who,  hither  driven, 
Flying  or  seeking,  could  yet  bring  with  him 
No  dearer  relique,  and  no  better  stay. 

Than  this  dull  product  of  a Scoffer’s  pen. 

Impure  conceits  discharging  from  a heart 
Hardened  by  impious  pride  ! — I did  not  fear 
To  tax  you  v;ith  this  journey  — mildly  said 
My  venerable  Friend,  as  forth  we  stepped 
Into  the  presence  of  the  cheerful  light  — 

“ For  I have  knowledge  that  you  do  not  shrink 
From  moving  spectacles;  — but  let  us  on.” 

So  speaking,  on  he  went,  and  at  the  word 
I followed,  till  he  made  a sudden  stand: 

For  full  in  view,  approaching  through  a gate 
Tliat  opened  from  the  enclosure  of  green  fields 
Into  the  rough  uncultivated  ground. 

Behold  the  Man  whom  he  had  fancied  dead  ! 

I knew,  from  his  deportment,  mien,  and  dress. 

That  it  could  be  no  other;  a pale  face, 

A tall  and  meagre  person,  in  a garb 
Not  rustic,  dull  and  faded  like  himself! 

He  saw  us  not,  though  distant  but  few  steps; 

For  he  was  busy,  dealing,  from  a store 
Upon  a broad  leaf  carried,  choicest  strings 
Of  red  ripe  currants;  gift  by  which  he  strove, 

With  intermixture  of  endearing  words. 

To  soothe  a Child,  wfoo  walked  beside  him,  weeping 
As  if  disconsolate.  — “ They  to  the  Grave 
Are  bearing  him,  my  little  One,”  he  said, 

“ To  the  dark  pit;  but  he  will  feel  no  pain ; 

His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  Heaven,” 

More  might  have  followed  — but  my  honoured  Friend 
Broke  in  upon  the  Speaker  with  a frank 
And  cordial  greeting.  — Vivid  was  the  light 
That  flashed  and  sparkled  from  the  Other’s  eyes; 

He  was  all  fire;  the  sickness  from  his  face 


Passed  like  a fancy  that  is  swept  away  ; 

Hands  joined  he  with  his  Visitant,  — a grasp, 

An  eager  grasp;  and  many  moments’  space, 

When  the  first  glow  of  pleasure  was  no  more. 

And  much  of  what  had  vanished  was  returned, 

! An  amicable  smile  retained  the  life 
Which  it  had  unexpectedly  received. 

Upon  his  hollow  cheek.  “ How  kind,”  he  said, 

“ Nor  could  your  coming  have  been  better  timed  ; 

For  this,  you  see,  is  in  our  narrow  world 
A day  of  sorrow.  I have  here  a Charge,” 

And  speaking  thus,  he  patted  tenderly 

The  sun-burnt  forehead  of  the  weeping  Child  — 

“ A little  Mourner,  whom  it  is  my  task 
To  comfort;  — but  how  came  Yel  — if  yon  track 
(Which  doth  at  once  befriend  us  and  betray) 
Conducted  hither  your  most  welcome  feet. 

Ye  could  not  miss  the  Funeral  Train  — they  yet 
Have  scarcely  disappeared.”  “ This  blooming  Child,” 
Said  the  Old  Man,  “ is  of  an  age  to  weep  - 
At  any  grave  or  solemn  spectacle. 

Inly  distressed  or  overpowered  with  awe, 

I He  knows  not  why ; — but  he,  perchance,  this  day 
I Is  shedding  Orphan’s  tears;  and  you  yourself 
I Must  have  sustained  a loss.” — “The  hand  of  Death,” 
j He  answered,  “ has  been  here  ; but  could  not  well 
i Have  fallen  more  lightly,  if  it  had  not  fallen 
Upon  myself.”  — The  Other  left  these  words 
Unnoticed,  thus  continuing, — 

“From  yon  Crag, 

Down  whose  steep  sides  we  dropped  into  the  vale, 

We  heard  the  hymn  they  sang  — a solemn  sound 
Heard  any  where,  but  in  a place  like  this 
’T  is  more  than  human  ! Many  precious  rites 
I And  customs  of  our  rural  ancestry 
Are  gone,  or  stealing  from  us;  this,  I hope. 

Will  last  for  ever.  Often  have  I stopped 
When  on  my  way,  I could  not  choose  but  stop, 

So  much  I felt  the  awfulness  of  Life, 

In  that  one  moment  when  the  Corse  is  lifted 
In  silence,  with  a hush  of  decency. 

Then  from  the  threshold  moves  with  song  of  peace. 
And  confidential  yearnings,  to  its  home, 

Its  final  home  in  earth.  What  traveller — who  — 
(How  far  soe’er  a Stranger)  does  not  own 
The  bond  of  brotherhood,  when  he  sees  them  go, 

A mute  Procession  on  the  houseless  road ; 

Or  passing  by  some  single  tenement 
Or  clustered  dwellings,  where  again  they  raise 
The  monitory  voice  ! But  most  of  all 
It  touches,  it  confirms,  and  elevates. 

Then,  when  the  Body,  soon  to  be  consigned 
Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  bequeathed  to  dust, 
j Is  raised  from  the  church-aisle,  and  forward  borne 
j Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  next  in  love, 

The  nearest  in  affection  or  in  blood  ; 

1 Yea,  by  the  very  Mourners  who  had  knelt 


568 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Beside  the  Coffin,  resting  on  its  lid 
In  silent  grief  their  unuplifted  heads, 

And  heard  meanwhile  the  Psalmist’s  mournful  plaint, 
And  that  most  awful  scripture  which  declares 
We  shall  not  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed ! 

— Have  I not  sceni  — Ye  likewise  may  have  seen  — 
Son,  Husband,  Brothers  — Brothers  side  by  side. 

And  Son  and  Father  also  side  by  side. 

Rise  from  that  posture:  — and  in  concert  move. 

On  the  green  turf  following  the  vested  Priest, 

Four  dear  Supporters  of  one  senseless  Weight, 

From  which  they  do  not  shrink,  and  under  which 
They  faint  not,  but  advance  towards  the  grave 
Step  after  step — together,  witli  their  firm 
Unhidden  faces;  he  that  suffers  most 
He  outwardly,  and  inwardly  jrerhaps, 

The  most  serene,  with  most  undaunted  eye  ! 

Oh  ! blest  are  they  who  live  and  die  like  these. 

Loved  with  such  love,  and  with  such  sorrow  mourned  !” 

“That  po6r  Man  taken  hence  to-day,”  replied 

The  Solitary,  with  a faint  sarcastic  smile 

Which  did  not  please  me,  “must  be  deemed,  I fear. 

Of  tbe  unblest;  for  he  will  surely  sink 

Into  his  mother  earth  without  such  pomp 

Of  grief,  depart  without  occasion  given 

By  him  for  such  array  of  fortitude. 

Full  seventy  winters  hath  he  lived,  and  mark  ! 

This  simple  Child  will  mourn  his  one  short  hour. 

And  I shall  miss  him ; scanty  tribute ! yet. 

This  wanting,  he  would  leave  the  sight  of  men. 

If  love  were  his  sole  claim  upon  tlieir  care. 

Like  a ripe  date  which  in  the  desert  falls 
Without  a hand  to  gather  it.”  At  this 
I interposed,  though  loth  to  speak,  and  said, 

“ Can  it  be  thus  among  so  small  a band 
As  ye  must  needs  be  here!  in  such  a place 
I would  not  willingly,  methinks,  lose  sight 
Of  a departing  cloud.”  — “ ’T  was  not  for  love,” 
Answered  the  sick  man  with  a careless  voice  — 
“That  I came  hither;  neither  have  I found 
Among  Associates  who  have  power  of  speech, 

Xor  in  such  other  converse  as  is  here, 

Temptation  so  prevailing  as  to  change 
That  mood,  or  undermine  my  first  resolve.” 

Then,  speaking  in  like  careless  sort,  he  said 
To  my  benign  Companion, — “Pity  ’tis 
That  fortune  did  not  guide  you  to  this  house 
A few  days  earlier ; then  would  you  have  seen 
What  stuff  the  Dwellers  in  a Solitude, 

That  seems  by  Nature  hollowed  out  to  be 
The  seat  and  bosom  of  pure  innocence. 

Are  made  of;  an  ungracious  matter  this! 

Which,  for  truth’s  sake,  yet  in  remembrance  too 
Of  past  discussions  with  this  zealous  Friend 
And  Advocate  of  humble  life,  I now 
Will  force  upon  his  notice;  undeterred 
By  the  e.xample  of  his  own  pure  course, 


And  that  respect  and  deference  which  a Soul 
May  fairly  claim,  by  niggard  age  enriched 
In  what  she  values  most  — the  love  of  God 
And  his  frail  creature  Man;  — but  ye  shall  hear. 

I talk  — and  ye  are  standing  in  the  sun 
Without  refreshment !” 

Saying  this,  he  led 

Towards  the  Cottage  ; — homely  was  the  spot ; 

And,  to  my  feeling,  ere  we  reached  ftie  door, 

Had  almost  a forbidding  nakedness ; 

Less  fair,  I grant,  even  painfully  less  fair. 

Than  it  appeared  when  from  the  beetling  rock 
We  had  looked  down  upon  it.  All  within. 

As  left  by  the  departed  company. 

Was  silent ; and  the  solitary  clock 
Ticked,  as  I thought,  with  melancholy  sound. — 
Following  our  Guide,  we  clomb  the  cottage  stairs 
And  reached  a smalt  apartment  dark  and  low. 

Which  was  no  sooner  entered  than  our  Host 
Said  gaily,  “This  is  my  domain,  my  cell. 

My  hermitage,  my  cabin,  — what  you  will  — 

I love  it  better  than  a snail  his  house. 

But  now  Ye  shall  be  feasted  with  our  best.” 

So,  with  more  ardour  than  an  unripe  girl 
Left  one  day  mistress  of  her  mother’s  stores. 

He  went  about  his  hospitable  task. 

My  eyes  were  busy,  and  my  thoughts  no  less. 

And  pleased  I looked  upon  my  gray-haired  Friend 
As  if  to  thank  him ; he  returned  that  look. 

Cheered,  plainly,  and  yet  serious.  What  a wreck 
Had  we  around  us ! scattered  was  the  floor. 

And,  in  like  sort,  chair,  window-seat,  and  shelf. 

With  books,  maps,  fossils,  withered  plants  and  flower«, 
And  tufts  of  mountain  moss:  mechanic  tools 
Lay  intermixed  with  scraps  of  paper,  — some 
Scribbled  with  verse:  a broken  angling-rod 
And  shattered  telescope,  together  linked 
By  cobwebs,  stood  within  a dusty  nook ; 

And  instruments  of  music,  some  half-made. 

Some  in  disgrace,  hung  dangling  from  the  walls. 

— But  speedily  the  promise  w'as  fulfilled; 

A feast  before  us,  and  a courteous  Host 
Inviting  us  in  glee  to  sit  and  eat. 

A napkin,  white  as  foam  of  that  rough  brook 
By  which  it  had  been  bleached,  o’erspread  the  board ; 
And  was  itself  half-covered  with  a load- 
Of  dainties,  — oaten  bread,  curd,  cheese,  and  cream; 
And  cakes  of  butter  curiously  embossed. 

Butter  that  had  imbibed  from  meadow'-flowers 
A golden  hue,  delicate  as  their  own. 

Faintly  reflected  in  a lingering  stream ; 

Nor  lacked,  for  more  delight  on  that  warm  day, 

Our  Table,  small  parade  of  garden  fruits. 

And  whortle-berries  fVom  the  mountain-side. 

The  Child,  who  long  ere  this  had  stilled  his  sobs, 

Was  now  a help  to  his  late  Comforter, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


5G9 


And  moved,  a willing  Page,  as  he  was  bid. 

Ministering  to  our  need. 

In  genial  mood. 

While  at  our  pastoral  banquet  thus  we  sate 
Fronting  the  window  of  that  little  Cell, 

I could  not,  ever  and  anon,  forbear 
To  glance  an  upward  look  on  two  huge  Peaks, 

That  from  some  other  vale  peered  into  this. 

“Those  lusty  Twins,”  exclaimed  our  host,  “ if  here 
It  were  your  lot  to  dwell,  would  soon  become 
Your  prized  Companions.  — Many  are  the  notes 
Which,  in  his  tuneful  course,  the  wind  draws  forth 
From  rocks,  woods,  caverns,  heaths,  and  dashing  shores; 
And  well  those  lofty  Brethren  bear  their  part 
In  the  wild  concert  — chiefly  when  the  storm 
Bides  high  ; then  all  the  upper  air  they  fill 
With  roaring  sound,  that  ceases  not  to  flow. 

Like  smoke,  along  the  level  of  the  blast. 

In  mighty  current ; tiieirs,  too,  is  the  song 
Of  stream  and  headlong  flood  that  seldom  fails; 

And,  in  the  grim  and  breathless  hour  of  noon, 
Methinks  that  I have  heard  them  echo  back 
The  thunder’s  greeting: — nor  have  Nature’s  laws 
Left  them  ungifted  with  a power  to  yield 
Music  of  finer  tone;  a harmony. 

So  do  I call  it,  though  it  be  the  hand 

Of  silence,  though  there  be  no  voice;  — the  clouds. 

The  mist,  the  shadows,  light  of  golden  suns. 

Motions  of  moonlight,  all  come  thither  — touch. 

And  have  an  answer  — thither  come,  and  shape 
A language  not  unwelcome  to  sick  hearts 
And  idle  spirits:  — there  the  sun  himself. 

At  the  calm  close  of  summer’s  longest  day. 

Rests  his  substantial  Orb ; — between  those  heights 
And  on  the  top  of  either  pinnacle. 

More  keenly  than  elsewhere  in  night’s  blue  vault, 
Sparkle  the  Stars,  as  of  their  station  proud. 

Tiioughts  are  not  busier  in  the  mind  of  man 
Than  the  mute  Agents  stirring  there : — alone 
Here  do  I sit  and  watch.  — 

A fall  of  voice. 

Regretted  like  the  Nightingale’s  last  note. 

Had  scarcely  closed  this  high-wrought  Rhapsody, 

Ere  with  inviting  smile  the  Wanderer  said, 

“ Now  for  the  Tale  with  which  you  threatened  us !” 
“In  truth  the  threat  escaped  me  unawares; 

Should  the  tale  tire  you,  let  this  challenge  stand 
For  my  excuse.  Dissevered  from  mankind, 

As  to  your  eyes  and  thoughts  we  must  have  seemed 
When  yd  looked  down  upon  us  from  the  crag. 
Islanders  of  a stormy  mountain  sea. 

We  are  not  so ; — perpetually  we  touch 
Upon  the  vulgar  ordinance  of  the  world. 

And  he,  whom  this  our  Cottage  hath  to-day 
Relinquished,  lived  dependent  for  his  bread 
Upon  the  laws  of  public  charity. 

3 W ■ 


Tlie  Housewife,  tempted  by  such  slender  gains 
As  might  from  that  occasion  be  distilled. 

Opened,  as  she  betbre  had  done  for  me. 

Her  doors  to  admit  this  homeless  Pensioner; 

The  portion  gave  of  coarse  but  wholesome  fire 
Which  appetite  required  — a blind  dull  nook 
Such  as  she  had  — the  kennel  of  his  rest ! 

This,  in  itself  not  ill,  would  yet  have  been 
111  borne  in  earlier  life,  but  his  was  now 
The  still  contentedness  of  seventy  years. 

Calm  did  he  sit  beneath  the  wide-spread  tree 
Of  his  old  age ; and  yet  less  calm  and  meek. 
Willingly  meek  or  venerably  calm, 

' Than  slow  and  torpid  ; paying  in  tliis  wise 
i A penalty,  if  penalty  it  were, 
j For  spendthrift  feats,  excesses  of  his  prime, 
j I loved  the  Old  Man,  for  I pitied  him  ! 

A task  it  was,  I own,  to  hold  discourse 
With  one  so  slow  in  gathering  up  his  thoughts. 

But  he  was  a cheap  pleasure  to  my  eyes; 

Mild,  inoffensive,  ready  in  his  way. 

And  helpful  to  his  utmost  power : and  there 
Our  Housewife  knew  full  well  what  she  possessed! 
He  was  her  Vassal  of  all  labour,  tilled 
Her  garden,  from  the  pasture  fetched  her  Kine ; 
And,  one  among  the  orderly  array 
Of  Hay-makers,  beneath  the  burning  sun 
Maintained  his  place;  or  heedfully  pursued 
His  course,  on  errands  bound,  to  other  vales. 
Leading  sometimes  an  inexperienced  Cliild, 

Too  young  for  any  profitable  task. 

So  moved  he  like  a Shadow  that  performed 
Substantial  service.  Mark  me  now,  and  learn 
For  what  reward  ! The  Moon  her  monthly  round 
Hath  not  completed  since  our  Dame,  the  Queen 
Of  this  one  cottage  and  this  lonely  dale. 

Into  my  little  sanctuary  rushed  — 

Voice  to  a rueful  treble  humanized. 

And  features  in  deplorable  dismay.  — 

I treat  the  matter  lightly,  but,  alas! 

It  is  most  serious  : persevering  rain 
Had  fallen  in  torrents ; all  the  mountain  tops 
Were  hidden,  and  black  vapours  coursed  their  sides; 
Tliis  had  I seen,  and  saw ; but,  till  she  spake. 

Was  wholly  ignorant  that  my  ancient  Friend, 

Who  at  her  bidding,  early  and  alone. 

Had  clomb  aloft  to  delve  the  moorland  turf 
For  winter  fuel,  to  his  noontide  meal 
Returned  not,  and  now,  haply,  on  the  Heights 
Lay  at  the  mercy  of  this  raging  storm. 

‘Inhuman!’  — said  I,  ‘was  an  Old  Man’s  life 
Not  worth  the  trouble  of  a thought  1 — alas  ! 

This  notice  comes  too  late.’  With  joy  I saw 
Her  Husband  enter  — from  a distant  Vale. 

We  sallied  forth  togetlier;  found  the  tools 
Which  the  neglected  Veteran  had  dropped, 

But  through  all  quarters  looked  for  him  in  vain. 

We  shouted  — but  no  answer  ! Darkness  fell 
48* 


570 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Without  remission  of  the  blast  or  shower, 

And  fears  for  our  own  safety  drove  us  home. 

I,  who  weep  little,  did,  1 will  confess. 

The  moment  I w’as  seated  here  alone. 

Honour  my  little  Cell  with  some  few  tears 
Which  anger  and  resentment  could  not  dry. 

All  night  the  storm  endured  ; and,  soon  as  help 
Had  been  collected  from  the  neighbouring  Vale, 

With  morning  we  renewed  our  quest : the  wind 
Was  fallen,  the  rain  abated,  but  the  hills 
Lay  shrouded  in  impenetrable  mist; 

And  long  and  hopelessly  we  sought  in  vain. 

Till,  chancing  on  that  lofty  ridge  to  pass 
A heap  of  ruin,  almost  without  walls. 

And  wholly  without  roof,  (the  bleached  remains 
Of  a small  Chapel,  where,  in  ancient  time. 

The  Peasants  of  these  lonely  valleys  used 
To  meet  for  worship  on  that  central  heighO  — 

We  there  espied  the  Object  of  our  search. 

Lying  full  three  parts  buried  among  tufts 
Of  heath-plant,  under  and  above  him  strewn. 

To  baffle,  as  he  might,  the  watery  storm : 

And  there  we  found  him  breathing  peaceably. 

Snug  as  a child  that  hides  itself  in  sport 
’Mid  a green  hay-cock  in  a sunny  field. 

We  spake  — he  made  reply,  but  would  not  stir 
At  our  entreaty ; less  from  want  of  power 
Than  apprehension  and  bewildering  thoughts. 

So  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground. 

And  with  their  freight  the  Shepherds  homeward  moved 
Through  the  dull  mist,  I following  — when  a step, 

A single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  opened  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 

The  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed. 

Was  of  a mighty  City  — boldly  say 
A wilderness  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawm  into  a wondrous  depth. 

Far  sinking  into  splendour  — without  end  ! 

Fabric  it  seemed  of  diamond  and  of  gold. 

With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires. 

And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uplifted  ; here,  serene  pavilions  bright, 

In  avenues  disposed;  there  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars  — illumination  of  all  gems! 

By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified ; on  them,  and  on  the  coves 
And  mountain-steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a cerulean  sky. 


Oh,  ’t  was  an  unimaginable  sight ! 

Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald  turf. 
Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky. 
Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed. 

Molten  together,  and  composing  thus. 

Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 
Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 
Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name. 

In  fleecy  folds  voluminous,  enwrapped. 

Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appeared 
, Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a throne 
Beneath  a shining  canopy  of  state 
Stood  fixed  ; and  fixed  resemblances  were  seen 
To  implements  of  ordinary  use. 

But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified ; 

Such  as  by  Hebrew  Prophets  were  beheld 
In  vision  — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power 
For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 

Below  me  was  the  earth;  this  little  Vale 
Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ; ’twas  visible  — 

I saw  not,  but  I felt  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I saw  was  the  revealed  abode 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude:  my  heart 

Swelled  in  my  breast.  — ‘I  have  been  dead,’  1 cried, 

‘And  now  I live!  Oh  ! wherefore  do  I livel’ 

And  with  that  pang  I prayed  to  be  no  more ! — 

I — But  I forget  our  Charge,  as  utterly 
j I then  forgot  him  : — there  I stood  and  gazed ; 
j The  apparition  faded  not  away, 

' And  I descended.  — Having  reached  the  House, 

I found  its  rescued  Inmate  safely  lodged. 

And  in  serene  possession  of  himself. 

Beside  a genial  fire  ; that  seemed  to  Spread 
^ A gleam  of  comfort  o’er  his  pallid  face, 
j Great  show  of  joy  the  Housewife  made,  and  truly 
Was  glad  to  find  her  conscience  set  at  ease; 

' And  not  less  glad,  for  sake  of  her  good  name. 

That  the  poor  Sufterer  had  escaped  with  life. 

But,  though  he  seemed  at  first  to  have  received 
No  harm,  and  uncomplaining  as  before 
I Went  through  his  usual  tasks,  a silent  change 
Soon  showed  itself ; he  lingered  three  short  weens , 
And  from  the  Cottage  hath  been  borne  to-day. 

“ So  ends  my  dolorous  Tale,  and  glad  I am 
That  it  is  ended.”  At  these  words  he  turned  — 

And,  with  blithe  air  of  open  fellowship. 

Brought  from  the  Cupboard  wine  and  stouter  cheet. 
Like  one  who  would  be  merry.  Seeing  this. 

My  gray-haired  Friend  said  courteously  — “ Nay,  nay, 
You  have  regaled  us  as  a Hermit  ought; 

Now  let  us  forth  into  the  sun  !”  — Our  Host 
Rose,  though  reluctantly,  and  forth  we  went. 


THE  EXCURSION 


BOOK  THE  THIRD. 

DESPONDENCY. 


ARGUMENT. 

Images  in  the  Valley  — Another  Recess  in  it  entered  and  described  — Wanderer's  sensations  — Solitary's  excited 
by  the  same  objects  — Contrast  between  these  — Despondency  of  the  Solitaiy  gently  reproved  — Conversation  ex- 
hibiting the  Solitary’s  past  and  present  opinions  and  feelings,  till  he  enters  upon  his  ov\n  History  at  length  — His 
domestic  felicity — afflictions  — dejection  — roused  by  the  French  Revolution  — Disappointment  and  disgust  — Voy- 
age to  America  — disappointment  and  disgust  pursue  him  — his  return  — His  languor  and  depression  of  mind,  from 
want  of  faith  in  the  great  truths  of  Religion,  and  want  of  confidence  in  the  virtue  of  Mankind. 


A HUMMING  Bee  — a little  tinkling  Rill  — 

A pair  of  Falcons,  wheeling  on  tlie  wing, 

In  clamorous  agitation,  round  the  crest 
Of  a tall  rock,  their  airy  Citadel  — 

By  each  and  all  of  these  the  pensive  ear 
Was  greeted,  in  the  silence  that  ensued. 

When  through  the  Cottage-threshold  we  had  passed. 
And,  deep  within  that  lonesome  Valley,  stood 
Once  more,  beneath  the  concave  of  a blue 
And  cloudless  sky.  — Anon  ! e.xclaimed  our  Host, 
Triumphantly  dispersing  with  the  taunt 
The  shade  of  discontent  which  on  his  brow 
Had  gathered,  — “Ye  have  left  my  cell,  — but  see 
How  Nature  hems  you  in  with  friendly  arms  ! 

And  by  her  help  ye  are  my  Prisoners  still. 

But  which  way  shall  I lead  you  ? — how  contrive. 

In  Spot  so  parsimoniously  endowed. 

That  the  brief  hours,  which  yet  remain,  may  reap 
Some  recompense  of  knowledge  or  delight  1” 

So  saying,  round  he  looked,  as  if  perplexed  ; 

And,  to  remove  those  doubts,  my  gray-haired  Friend 
Said  — “ Shall  we  take  this  pathway  for  our  guide  I — 
Upward  it  winds,  as  if,  in  summer  heats. 

Its  line  had  first  been  fashioned  by  the  flock 
A place  of  refuge  seeking  at  the  root 
Of  yon  black  Yew-tree;  whose  protruded  boughs 
Darken  the  silver  bosom  of  the  crag. 

From  which  she  draws  her  meagre  sustenance. 

There  in  commodious  shelter  may  we  rest. 

Or  let  us  trace  this  Streamlet  to  his  source  ; 

Feebly  it  tinkles  with  an  earthly  sound. 

And  a few  steps  may  bring  us  to  the  spot 

Where,  haply,  crowned  with  flowerets  and  green  herbs, 


The  mountain  Infant  to  the  sun  comes  forth. 

Like  human  Life  from  darkness.”  — A quick  turn 
Through  a strait  passage  of  encumbered  ground. 
Proved  that  such  hope  was  vain : — for  now  we  stood 
Shut  out  from  prospect  of  the  open  Vale, 

And  saw  the  w’ater,  tliat  composed  this  Rill, 
Descending,  disembodied,  and  diffused 
O’er  the  smooth  surface  of  an  ample  Crag, 

Lofty,  and  steep,  and  naked  as  a Tower. 

All  further  progress  here  was  barred  ; — And  who, 
Thought  I,  if  master  of  a vacant  hour. 

Here  would  not  linger,  w’illingly  detained! 

Whether  to  such  wild  objects  he  were  led 
When  copious  rains  have  magnified  the  stream 
Into  a loud  and  white-robed  Waterfall, 

Or  introduced  at  this  more  quiet  time. 

Upon  a semicirque  of  turf-clad  ground, 

The  hidden  nook  discovered  to  our  view 
A mass  of  rock,  resembling,  as  it  lay 
I Right  at  the  foot  of  that  moist  precipice, 

! A stranded  Ship,  with  keel  upturned,  — that  rests 
Fearless  of  winds  and  waves.  Three  several  Stones 
Stood  near,  of  smaller  size,  and  not  unlike 
To  monumental  pillars ; and  from  these 
Some  little  space  disjoined,  a pair  were  seen. 

That  with  united  shoulders  bore  aloft 
A Fragment,  like  an  Altar,  flat  and  smooth : 
Barren  the  tablet,  yet  thereon  appeared 
A tall  and  shining  Holly,  that  had  found 
A hospitable  chink,  and  stood  upright. 

As  if  inserted  by  some  human  hand 
In  mockery,  to  wither  in  the  sun. 


572 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Or  lay  its  beauty  flat  before  a breeze, 

The  first  that  entered.  But  no  breeze  did  now 
Find  entrance; — high  or  low  appeared  no  trace 
Of  motion,  save  the  Water  that  descended. 

Diffused  adown  that  Barrier  of  steep  rock, 

And  softly  creeping,  like  a breath  of  air, 

Such  as  is  sometimes  seen,  and  hardly  seen. 

To  brush  the  still  breast  of  a crystal  lake. 

“Behold  a Cabinet  for  Sages  built. 

Which  Kings  might  envy  !” — Praise  to  this  effect 
Broke  from  the  happy  Old  Man’s  reverend  lip ; 

Who  to  the  Solitary  turned,  and  said, 

“In  sooth,  with  love’s  familiar  privilege. 

You  have  decried  the  wealth  which  is  your  own. 
Among  these  Rocks  and  Stones,  methinks,  I see 
More  than  the  heedless  impress  that  belongs 
To  lonely  Nature’s  casual  w'ork : they  bear 
A semblance  strange  of  power  intelligent. 

And  of  design  not  wholly  worn  away. 

Boldest  of  plants  that  ever  faced  the  wind. 

How  gracefully  that  slender  Shrub  looks  forth 
From  its  fantastic  birth-place ! And  I own. 

Some  shadowy  intimations  haunt  me  here. 

That  in  these  shows  a chronicle  survives 
Of  purposes  akin  to  those  of  Man, 

But  wrought  with  mightier  arm  than  now  prevails. 

— Voiceless  the  Stream  descends  into  the  gulf 
With  timid  lapse;  — and  lo  ! while  in  this  Strait 
I stand  — the  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 

Is  heaven’s  profoundest  azure  ; no  domain 
For  fickle,  short-lived  clouds  to  occupy. 

Or  to  pass  through,  but  rather  an  Abyss 
In  which  the  everlasting  Stars  abide; 

And  v.mnse  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might 
tempt 

T'ne  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  by  day. 

— Hail  Contemplation!  from  the  stately  towers. 
Reared  by  the  industrious  hand  of  human  art 
To  lift  thee  high  above  the  misty  air 

And  turbulence  of  murmuring  cities  vast ; 

From  academic  groves,  that  have  for  thee 
Been  planted,  hither  come  and  find  a Lodge 
To  which  thou  mayest  resort  for  holier  peace,  — 
From  whose  calm  centre  Thou,  through  height  or 
depth, 

Mayest  penetrate,  wherever  Truth  shall  lead ; 
Pleasuring  through  all  degrees,  until  the  scale 
Of  Time  and  conscious  Nature  disappear. 

Lost  in  unsearchable  Eternity  !’’* 

A pause  ensued  ; and  with  minuter  care 
We  scanned  the  various  features  of  the  scene : 

And  soon  the  Tenant  of  tliat  lonely  Vale 
With  courteous  Voice  thus  spake  — 

* See  Note  3. 


“ I should  have  grieved 
Hereafter,  not  escaping  self-reproach. 

If  from  my  poor  Retirement  ye  had  gone 
Leaving  this  Nook  unvisited  : but,  in  sooth. 

Your  unexpected  presence  had  so  roused 
My  spirits,  that  they  were  bent  on  enterprise ; 

And,  like  an  ardent  Hunter,  I forgot. 

Or,  shall  I say  1 — disdained,  the  game  that  lurks 
At  my  own  door.  The  shapes  before  our  eyes 
And  their  arrangement,  doubtless  must  be  deemed 
The  sport  of  Nature,  aided  by  blind  Chance 
Rudely  to  mock  the  works  of  toiling  Plan. 

And  hence,  this  upright  Shaft  of  unhewn  stone. 

From  Fancy,  willing  to  set  off  her  stores 
By  sounding  Titles,  hath  acquired  the  name 
Of  Pompey’s  Pillar ; that  I gravely  style 
My  Theban  Obelisk;  and,  there,  behold 
A Druid  Cromlech  ! — thus  I entertain 
The  antiquarian  humour,  and  am  pleased 
To  skim  along  the  surfaces  of  things. 

Beguiling  harmlessly  the  listless  hours. 

But  if  the  spirit  be  oppressed  by  sense 
Of  instability,  revolt,  decay. 

And  change,  and  emptiness,  these  freaks  of  Nature 
And  her  blind  helper  Chance,  do  then  suffice 
To  quicken,  and  to  aggravate  — to  feed 
Pity  and  scorn,  and  melancholy  pride. 

Not  less  than  that  huge  Pile  (from  some  abyss 
Of  mortal  power  unquestionably  sprung) 

Whose  hoary  Diadem  of  pendent  rocks 

Confines  the  shrill-voiced  whirlwind,  round  and  round 

Eddying  within  its  vast  circumference. 

On  Sarum’s  naked  plain;  — than  pyramid 
Of  Egypt,  iinsubverted,  undissolved  ; 

Or  Syria’s  marble  Ruins  towering  high 
Above  the  sandy  Desert,  in  the  light 
Of  sun  or  moon.  — Forgive  me,  if  I say 
That  an  appearance  which  hath  raised  your  minds 
To  an  exalted  pitch  (the  self-same  cause 
Different  effect  producing)  is  for  me 
Fraught  rather  with  depression  than  delight. 
Though  shame  it  were,  could  I not  look  around. 

By  the  reflection  of  your  pleasure,  pleased. 

Yet  happier  in  my  judgment,  even  than  you 
With  your  bright  transports  fairly  may  be  deemed. 
The  wandering  Herbalist,  — who,  clear  alike 
From  vain,  and,  that  worse  evil,  vexing  thoughts. 
Casts,  if  he  ever  chance  to  enter  here. 

Upon  these  uncouth  Forms  a slight  regard 
Of  transitory  interest,  and  peeps  round 
For  some  rare  Floweret  of  the  hills,  or  Plant 
Of  craggy  fountain ; what  he  hopes  for  wfins. 

Or  learns,  at  least,  that ’t  is  not  to  be  won : 

Then,  keen  and  eager,  ns  a fine-nosed  Hound 
By  soul-engrossing  instinct  driven  along 
Through  wood  or  open  field,  the  harmless  Man 
Departs,  intent  upon  his  onward  quest! 


THE  EXCURSION. 


573 


Nor  is  that  Fellow-wanderer,  so  deem  I, 

Less  to  be  envied,  (you  may  trace  him  oft 

By  scars  which  his  activity  has  left 

Beside  our  roads  and  pathways,  though,  thank  Heaven! 

This  covert  nook  reports  not  of  his  hand) 

He  who  with  pocket  hammer  smites  the  edge 
Of  luckless  rock  or  prominent  stone,  disguised 
In  weather-stains  or  crusted  o’er  by  Nature 
With  her  first  growths  — detaching  by  the  stroke 
A chip  or  splinter  — to  resolve  his  doubts ; 

And,  with  that  ready  answer  satisfied. 

The  substance  classes  by  some  barbarous  name, 

And  hurries  on;  or  from  the  fragments  picks 
His  specimen,  if  haply  interveined 
With  sparkling  mineral,  or  should  crystal  cube 
Lurk  in  its  cells  — and  thinks  himself  enriched. 
Wealthier,  and  doubtless  wiser,  than  before! 

Intrusted  safely  each  to  his  pursuit. 

Earnest  alike,  let  both  from  hill  to  hill 

Range  ; if  it  please  them,  speed  from  clime  to  clime  ; 

The  mind  is  full  — no  pain  is  in  their  sport.” 

“Then,”  said  I,  interposing,  “One  is  near. 

Who  cannot  but  possess  in  your  esteem 
Place  worthier  still  of  envy.  May  I name. 

Without  offence,  that  fair-faced  Cottage-boy  1 
Dame  Nature’s  Pupil  of  the  lowest  Form, 

Youngest  Apprentice  in  the  School  of  Art ! 

Him,  as  vve  entered  from  the  open  Glen, 

You  might  have  noticed,  busily  engaged. 

Heart,  soul,  and  hands,  — in  mending  the  defects 
Left  in  the  fabric  of  a leaky  dam. 

Raised  for  enabling  this  penurious  stream 
To  turn  a slender  mill  (that  new-made  plaything) 

For  his  delight — the  happiest  he  of  all !” 

“ Far  happiest,”  answered  the  desponding  Man, 

“ If,  such  as  now  he  is,  he  might  remain  ! 

Ah  ! what  avails  Imagination  high 
Or  Question  deep?  what  profits  all  that  Earth, 

Or  Heaven’s  blue  Vault,  is  suffered  to  put  forth 
Of  impulse  or  allurement,  for  the  Soul 
To  quit  the  beaten  track  of  life,  and  soar 
Far  as  she  finds  a yielding  element 
In  past  or  future;  far  as  she  can  go 
Through  time  or  space ; if  neither  in  the  one. 

Nor  in  the  other  region,  nor  in  aught 
That  Fancy,  dreaming  o’er  the  map  of  things. 

Hath  placed  beyond  these  penetrable  bounds. 

Words  of  assurance  can  be  heard ; if  nowhere 
A habitation,  for  consummate  good. 

Nor  for  progressive  virtue,  by  the  search 

Can  be  attained,  — a better  sanctuary 

From  doubt  and  sorrow,  than  the  senseless  grave  1” 

“ Is  this,”  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  mildly  said, 

“ The  voice,  which  we  so  lately  overheard, 


To  that  same  Child,  addressing  tenderly 
The  Consolations  of  a hopeful  mindl 
‘ Ills  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  heaven.' 

These  were  your  words  ; and,  verily,  methinks 
Wisdom  is  oft-times  nearer  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar.”  — 

The  Other,  not  displeased. 
Promptly  replied  — “ My  notion  is  the  same. 

And  I,  without  reluctance,  could  decline 
j All  act  of  Inquisition  whence  we  rise, 

1 And  what,  when  breath  hath  ceased,  we  may  become. 

I Here  are  we,  in  a bright  and  breathing  World  — 

Our  origin,  what  matters  it  1 In  lack 
Of  worthier  explanation,  say  at  once 
With  the  American  (a  thought  which  suits 
The  place  where  now  we  stand)  that  certain  Men 
Leapt  out  together  from  a rocky  Cave; 

And  these  were  the  first  Parents  of  Mankind  : 

Or,  if  a different  image  be  recalled 
By  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  jocund  voice 
Of  insects  — chirping  out  their  careless  lives 
On  these  soft  beds  of  thyme-besprinkled  turf. 

Choose,  with  the  gay  Athenian,  a conceit 

As  sound — blithe  race  ! whose  mantles  were  bedecked 

With  golden  Grashoppers,  in  sign  that  they 

Had  sprung,  like  those  bright  creatures,  from  the  soil 

Whereon  their  endless  generations  dwelt. 

But  stop  ! — these  theoretic  fancies  jar 
On  serious  minds;  then,  as  the  Hindoos  draw 
Their  holy  Ganges  from  a skiey  fount. 

Even  so  deduce  the  Stream  of  human  Life 
From  seats  of  power  divine;  and  hope,  or  trust. 

That  our  Existence  winds  her  stately  course 
Beneath  the  Sun,  like  Ganges,  to  make  part 
Of  a living  Ocean ; or,  to  sink  engulfed. 

Like  Niger,  in  impenetrable  sands 

And  utter  darkness  : thought  which  may  be  faced, 

Though  comfortless  ! — Not  of  myself  I speak  ; 

Such  acquiescence  neither  doth  imply. 

In  me,  a meekly-bending  spirit  — soothed 
By  natural  piety  ; nor  a lofty  mind. 

By  philosophic  discipline  prepared 
For  calm  subjection  to  acknowledged  law  ; 

Pleased  to  have  been,  contented  not  to  be. 

Such  palms  I boast  not;  — no  ! to  me,  who  find. 
Reviewing  my  past  way,  much  to  condemn. 

Little  to  praise,  and  nothing  to  regret 
(Save  some  remembrances  of  dream-like  joys 
That  scarcely  seem  to  have  belonged  to  me) 

If  I must  take  my  choice  between  the  pair 
That  rule  alternately  the  weary  hour.s. 

Night  is  than  Day  more  acceptable ; sleep 
Doth,  in  my  estimate  of  good,  appear 
I A better  state  than  waking ; death  than  sleep : 

I Feelingly  sweet  is  stillness  after  storm, 

1 Though  under  covert  of  the  wormy  ground ! 


574 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


“ Yet  be  it  said,  in  justice  to  myself, 

That  in  more  genial  times,  when  I was  free 
To  explore  the  destiny  of  human  kind, 

(Not  as  an  intellectual  game  pursued 
With  curious  subtilty,  from  wish  to  cheat 
Irksome  sensations;  but  by  love  of  truth 
Urged  on,  or  haply  by  intense  delight 
In  feeding  thought,  wherever  thought  could  feed) 

I did  not  rank  with  those  (too  dull  or  nice. 

For  to  my  judgment  such  they  then  appeared. 

Or  too  aspiring,  thankless  at  the  best) 

Who,  in  this  frame  of  human  life,  perceive 
An  object  whereunto  their  souls  are  tied 
In  discontented  wedlock ; nor  did  e’er, 

From  me,  those  dark  impervious  shades,  that  hang 
Upon  the  region  whither  we  are  bound. 

Exclude  a power  to  enjoy  the  vital  beams 
Of  present  sunshine.  — Deities  that  float 
On  wings,  angelic  Spirits,  I could  muse 
O’er  what  from  eldest  time  we  have  been  told 
Of  your  bright  forms  and  glorious  faculties. 

And  with  the  imagination  be  content. 

Not  wishing  more;  repining  not  to  tread 
The  little  sinuous  path  of  earthly  care. 

By  flowers  embellished,  and  by  springs  refreshed. 

— ‘ Blow,  winds  of  Autumn  ! — let  your  chilling  breath 
‘ Take  the  live  herbage  from  the  mead,  and  strip 
‘The  shady  forest  of  its  green  attire, — 

‘ And  let  the  bursting  clouds  to  fury  rouse 
‘The  gentle  Brooks  ! — Your  desolating  sway,’ 

Thus  I exclaimed,  ‘ no  sadness  sheds  on  me, 

‘ And  no  disorder  in  your  rage  I find. 

‘ What  dignity,  what  beauty,  in  this  change 
‘From  mild  to  angry,  and  from  sad  to  gay, 

‘Alternate  and  revolving!  How  benign, 

‘How  rich  in  animation  and  delight, 

‘ How  bountiful  these  elements  — compared 
‘With  aught,  as  more  desirable  and  fair 
‘ Devised  by  Fancy  for  the  Golden  Age  ; 

‘Or  the  perpetual  w’arbling  that  prevails 
‘ In  Arcady,  beneath  unaltered  skies, 

‘Through  the  long  Year  in  constant  quiet  bound, 

‘ Night  hushed  as  night,  and  day  serene  as  day  !’ 

— But  why  this  tedious  record?  — Age,  we  know. 

Is  garrulous;  and  solitude  is  apt 
To  anticipate  the  privilege  of  Age. 

From  far  ye  come ; and  surely  with  a hope 
Of  better  entertainment  — let  us  hence!” 

Loth  to  forsake  the  spot,  and  still  more  loth 
To  bo  diverted  from  our  present  tlieme, 

I said,  “ My  thoughts  agreeing.  Sir,  wutli  yours. 
Would  push  this  censure  farther;  — for,  if  smiles 
Of  scornful  pity  be  the  just  reward 
Of  Poesy,  thus  courteously  employed 
In  framing  models  to  improve  the  scheme 
Of  Man’s  existence,  and  recast  the  world. 

Why  should  not  grave  Philosophy  be  styled, 


Herself,  a Dreamer  of  a kindred  stock, 

A Dreamer  yet  more  spiritless  and  dull? 

Yes,  shall  the  fine  immunities  she  boasts 
Establish  sounder  titles  of  esteem 
For  Her,  who  (all  too  timid  and  reserved 
For  onset,  for  resistance  too  inert. 

Too  weak  for  suffering,  and  for  hope  too  tame) 
Placed  among  flowery  gardens,  curtained  round 
The  world-excluding  groves,  the  Brotherhood 
Of  soft  Epicureans,  taught  — if  tiiey 
The  ends  of  being  would  secure,  and  win 
The  crown  of  wisdom  — to  yield  up  their  souls 
To  a voluptuous  unconcern,  preferring 
Tranquillity  to  all  things.  Or  is  She,” 

I cried,  “ more  worthy  of  regard,  the  Power, 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  sterner  quiet,  closed 
The  Stoic’s  heart  against  the  vain  approach 
Of  admiration,  and  all  sense  of  joy  ?” 

His  Countenance  gave  notice  that  my  zeal 
Accorded  little  with  his  present  mind  ; 

I ceased,  and  he  resumed.  — “ Ah  ! gentle  Sir, 
Slight,  if  you  will,  the  means ; but  spare  to  slight 
The  end  of  those,  who  did,  by  system,  rank. 

As  the  prime  object  of  a wise  Man’s  aim. 

Security  from  shock  of  accident. 

Release  from  fear ; and  cherished  peaceful  days 
For  their  own  sakes,  as  mortal  life’s  chief  good. 
And  only  reasonable  felicity. 

What  motive  drew,  what  impulse,  I would  ask. 
Through  a long  course  of  later  ages,  drove 
The  Hermit  to  his  Cell  in  forest  wide  ; 

Or  what  detained  him,  till  his  closing  eyes 
Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  sun  and  stars. 

Fast  anchored  in  the  desert?  — Not  alone 
Dread  of  the  persecuting  sword  — remorse, 
Wrongs  unredressed,  or  insults  unavenged 
And  unavengeable,  defeated  pride. 

Prosperity  subverted,  maddening  want. 

Friendship  betrayed,  affection  unreturned. 

Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony ; — 

Not  always  from  intolerable  pangs 

He  fled ; but,  compassed  round  by  pleasure,  sighed 

For  independent  happiness ; craving  peace, 

The  central  feeling  of  all  happiness. 

Not  as  a refuge  from  distress  or  pain, 

A breathing-time,  vacation,  or  a truce. 

But  for  its  absolute  self;  a life  of  peace, 

Stability  without  regret  or  fear  ; 

That  hath  been,  is,  and  shall  be  evermore ! 

Such  the  reward  he  sought ; and  wore  out  life. 
There,  where  on  few  external  things  his  heart 
Was  set,  and  those  his  own  ; or,  if  not  his. 
Subsisting  under  Nature’s  steadfast  law. 

“ What  other  yearning  was  the  master  tie 
Of  the  monastic  Brotherhood,  upon  Rock 
Aerial,  or  in  green  secluded  Vale, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


575 


One  after  one,  collected  from  afar, 

An  undissolving  Fellowship  1 — What  but  this, 

The  universal  instinct  of  repose. 

The  longing  for  confirmed  tranquillity. 

Inward  and  outward;  humble,  yet  sublime:  — 

The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one ; 

Earth  quiet  and  unchanged ; the  human  Soul 
Consistent  in  self-rule ; and  heaven  revealed 
To  meditation  in  that  quietness  ! 

Such  was  their  scheme  : — thrice  happy  he  who  gained 
The  end  proposed  ! And,  — though  the  same  were 
missed 

By  mtiltitudes,  perhaps  obtained  by  none,  — 

They,  for  the  attempt,  and  for  the  pains  employed, 

Do,  in  my  present  cenStire,  stand  redeemed 
From  the  unqualified  disdain,  that  once 
Would  liave  been  cast  upon  them,  by  my  Voice 
Delivering  her  decisions  from  the  seat 
Of  forward  Youth  : — that  scruples  not  to  solve 
Doubts,  and  determine  questions,  by  the  rules 
Of  inexperienced  judgment,  ever  prone 
To  overweening  faith  ; and  is  inflamed. 

By  courage,  to  demand  from  real  life 
The  test  of  act  and  suffering  — to  provoke 
Hostility,  how  dreadful  when  it  comes. 

Whether  affliction  be  the  foe,  or  guilt ! 

“ A Child  of  earth,  I rested,  in  that  stage 

Of  my  past  course  to  which  these  thoughts  advert. 

Upon  earth’s  native  energies;  forgetting 

That  mine  was  a condition  which  required 

Nor  energy,  nor  fortitude  — a calm 

Without  vicissitude;  which,  if  the  like 

Had  been  presented  to  my  view  elsewhere, 

I might  have  even  been  tempted  to  despise. 

But  that  which  was  serene  was  also  bright ; 

Enlivened  happiness  with  joy  o’erflowing. 

With  joy,  and  — oh  ! that  memory  should  survive 
To  speak  the  word  — with  rapture ! Nature’s  boon, 
Life’s  genuine  inspiration,  happiness 
Above  what  rules  can  teach,  or  fancy  feign ; 

Abused,  as  all  possessions  are  abused 
That  are  not  prized  according  to  their  worth. 

And  yet,  what  worth  1 what  good  is  given  to  Men 
More  solid  than  the  gilded  clouds  of  heaven  1 
What  joy  more  lasting  than  a vernal  flower  1 
None!  ’tis  the  general  plaint  of  human  kind 
In  solitude,  and  mutually  addressed 
From  each  to  all,  for  wisdom’s  sake : — This  truth 
The  Priest  announces  from  his  holy  seat : 

And,  crowned  with  garlands  in  the  summer  grove. 
The  Poet  fits  it  to  his  pensive  lyre. 

Yet,  ere  that  final  resting-place  be  gained, 

Sharp  contradictions  may  arise  by  doom 
Of  this  same  life,  compelling  us  to  grieve 
That  the  prosperities  of  love  and  joy 
Should  be  permitted,  oft-times,  to  endure 
So  long,  and  be  at  once  cast  down  for  ever. 


Oh ! tremble.  Ye,  to  whom  hath  been  assigned 
A course  of  days  composing  happy  months, 

And  they  as  happy  years ; the  present  still 
So  like  the  past,  and  both  so  firm  a pledge 
Of  a congenial  future,  that  the  wheels 
Of  pleasure  move  without  the  aid  of  hope : 

For  Mutability  is  Nature’s  bane; 

And  slighted  Hope  toill  be  avenged  ; and,  when 
Ye  need  her  favours.  Ye  shall  find  her  not; 

But  in  her  stead  — fear  — doubt  — and  agony  !” 

This  was  the  bitter  language  of  the  heart : 

But,  while  he  spake,  look,  gesture,  tone  of  voice. 
Though  discomposed  and  vehetnent,  were  such 
As  skill  and  graceful  Nature  might  suggest 
To  a Proficient  of  the  tragic  scene 
Standing  before  the  multitude,  beset 
With  dark  events.  Desirous  to  divert 
Or  stem  the  current  of  the  Speaker’s  thoughts, 

We  signified  a wish  to  leave  that  Place 
Of  stillness  and  close  privacy,  a nook 
That  seemed  for  self-examination  made. 

Or,  for  confession,  in  the  sinner’s  need. 

Hidden  from  all  Men’s  view.  To  our  attempt 
He  yielded  not;  but  pointing  to  a slope 
Of  mossy  turf  defended  from  tlie  sun, 

And,  on  that  couch  inviting  us  to  rest. 

Full  on  that  tender-hearted  Man  he  turned 
A serious  eye,  and  thus  his  speech  renewed. 

“You  never  saw,  your  eyes  did  never  look 
On  the  bright  Form  of  Her  whom  once  I loved:  — 
Her  silver  voice  was  heard  upon  the  earth, 

A sound  unknown  to  you ; else,  honoured  Friend  ! 
Your  heart  had  borne  a pitiable  share 
Of  what  I suffered,  when  I wept  that  loss. 

And  suffer  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 
That  I remember,  and  can  weep  no  more.  — 
Stripped  as  I am  of  all  the  golden  fruit 
Of  self-esteem  ; and  by  the  cutting  blasts 
Of  self-reproach  familiarly  assailed; 

I would  not  yet  be  of  such  wintry  bareness 
But  that  some  leaf  of  your  regard  should  hang 
Upon  my  naked  branches: — lively  thoughts 
Give  birth,  full  often,  to  unguarded  words; 

I grieve  tliat,  in  your  presence,  from  my  tongue 
Too  much  of  frailty  hath  already  dropped ; 

But  that  too  much  demands  still  more. 

“You  know. 

Revered  Compatriot;  — and  to  you,  kind  Sir, 

(Not  to  be  deemed  a Stranger,  as  you  come 
Following  the  guidance  of  these  welcome  feet 
To  our  secluded  Vale)  it  may  be  told, 

That  my  demerits  did  not  sue  in  vain 
To  One  on  whose  mild  radiance  many  gazed 
With  hope,  and  all  with  pleasure.  This  fair  Bride, 
In  the  devotedness  of  youthful  Love, 


576 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Preferring  me  to  Parents,  and  the  choir 
Of  gay  companions,  to  the  natal  roof. 

And  all  known  places  «nd  familiar  sights 
(Resigned  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
Her  trembling  expectations,  but  no  more 
Than  did  to  her  due  honour,  and  to  me 
Yielded,  that  day,  a confidence  sublime 
In  what  I had  to  build  upon)  — this  Bride, 

Young,  modest,  meek,  and  beautiful,  I led 
To  a low  Cottage  in  a sunny  Bay, 

Where  the  salt  sea  innocuously  breaks. 

And  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes. 

On  Devon’s  leafy  shores;  — a sheltered  Hold, 

In  a soft  clime  encouraging  the  soil 

To  a luxuriant  bounty  ! — As  our  steps 

Approach  the  embowered  Abode  — our  chosen  Seat  — 

See,  rooted  in  the  earth,  her  kindly  bed. 

The  unendangered  Myrtle,  decked  with  flowers. 
Before  the  threshold  stands  to  welcome  us  ! 

While,  in  the  flowering  Myrtle’s  neighbourhood. 

Not  overlooked  but  courting  no  regard. 

Those  native  plants,  the  Holly  and  the  Yew, 

Gave  modest  intimation  to  the  mind 
How  willingly  their  aid  they  would  unite 
With  the  green  Myrtle,  to  endear  the  hours 
Of  winter,  and  protect  that  pleasant  place. 

— Wild  were  the  Walks  upon  those  lonely  Downs, 
Track  leading  into  Track,  how  marked,  how  worn 
Into  bright  verdure,  between  fern  and  gorse 
Winding  away  its  never-ending  line 
On  their  smooth  surface,  evidence  was  none : 

But,  there,  lay  open  to  our  daily  haunt, 

A range  of  unappropriated  earth. 

Where  youth’s  ambitious  feet  might  move  at  large ; 
Whence,  unmolested  Wanderers,  we  beheld 
The  shining  Giver  of  the  Day  diffuse 
His  brightness  o’er  a tract  of  sea  and  land 
Gay  as  our  spirits,  free  as  our  desii-es. 

As  our  enjoyments,  boundless.  — From  those  Heights 
We  dropped,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  Combs; 

Where  arbours  of  impenetrable  shade. 

And  mossy  seats,  detained  us  side  by  side. 

With  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 
‘ That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours.’ 

“ But  Nature  called  my  Partner  to  resign 
Her  share  in  the  pure  freedom  of  that  life. 

Enjoyed  by  us  in  common.  — To  my  hope, 

To  my  heart’s  wish,  my  tender  Mate  became 
The  thankful  captive  of  maternal  bonds ; 

And  those  wild  paths  were  left  to  me  alone. 

There  could  I meditate  on  follies  past; 

And,  like  a weary  Voyager  escaped 
From  risk  and  hardship,  inwardly  retrace 
A course  of  vain  delights  and  thoughtless  guilt. 

And  self-indulgence  — without  shame  pursued. 

There,  undisturbed,  could  think  of,  and  could  thank 
Her  — whose  submissive  spirit  was  to  me 


Rule  and  restraint  — my  Guardian  — shall  I say 
That  earthly  Providence,  whose  guiding  love 
Within  a port  of  rest  had  lodged  me  safe ; 

Safe  from  temptation,  and  from  danger  far  1 

Strains  followed  of  acknowledgment  addressed 

To  an  Authority  enthroned  above 

The  reach  of  sight ; from  whom,  as  from  their  source. 

Proceed  all  visible  ministers  of  good 

That  walk  the  earth  — Father  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Father,  and  King,  and  Judge,  adored  and  feared  ! 

These  acts  of  mind,  and  memory,  and  heart. 

And  spirit  — interrupted  and  relieved 
By  observations  transient  as  the  glance 
Of  flying  sunbeams,  or  to  the  outward  form 
Cleaving  with  power  inherent  tind  intense. 

As  the  mute  insect  fixed  upon  the  plant 
On  whose  soft  leaves  it  bangs,  and  from  whose  cup 
Draws  imperceptibly  its  nourishment  — 

Endeared  my  wanderings ; and  the  Mother’s  kiss 
And  Infant’s  smile  awaited  my  return. 

“In  privacy  we  dwelt  — a wedded  pair  — 
Companions  daily,  often  all  day  long  ; 

Not  placed  by  fortune  within  easy  reach 
Of  various  intercourse,  nor  wishing  aught 
Beyond  the  allowance  of  our  own  fire-side. 

The  Twain  within  our  happy  cottage  born. 

Inmates,  and  heirs  of  our  united  love ; 

Graced  mutually  by  difference  of  sex. 

By  the  endearing  names  of  nature  bound. 

And  with  no  wider  interval  of  time 
Between  their  several  births  than  served  for  One 
To  establish  something  of  a leader’s  sway ; 

Yet  left  them  joined  by  sympathy  in  age; 

Equals  in  pleasure,  fellows  in  pursuit. 

On  these  two  pillars  rested  as  in  air 
Our  solitude 

“ It  soothes  me  to  perceive. 

Your  courtesy  withholds  not  from  my  words 
Attentive  audience.  But,  oli ! gentle  Friends, 

As  times  of  quiet  and  unbroken  peace 
Though,  for  a Nation,  times  of  blessedness. 

Give  back  faint  echoes  from  the  Historian’s  page ; 

So,  in  the  imperfect  sounds  of  this  discourse. 
Depressed  I hear,  how  faithless  is  the  voice 
Which  those  most  blissful  days  reverberate. 

What  special  record  can,  or  need,  be  given 
To  rules  and  habits,  whereby  much  was  done. 

But  all  within  the  sphere  of  little  things. 

Of  humble,  though,  to  us,  important  cares. 

And  precious  interestsi  Smoothly  did  our  life 
Advance,  not  swerving  from  the  path  prescribe 
Her  annual,  her  diurnal  round  alike 
Maintained  with  faithful  care.  And  you  divine 
Tlie  worst  effects  that  our  condition  saw. 

If  you  imagine  changes  slowly  wrought, 

And  in  their  progress  imperceptible ; 


THE  EXCURSION. 


577 


Not  wished  for,  sometimes  noticed  with  a sigh, 
(VVliate’er  of  good  or  lovely  they  might  bring) 
Sighs  of  regret,  for  the  familiar  good. 

And  loveliness  endeared  — which  they  removed. 

“ Seven  years  of  occupation  undisturbed 
Established  seemingly  a right  to  hold 
That  happiness ; and  use  and  habit  gave 
To  what  an  alien  spirit  had  acquired 
A patrimonial  sanctity.  And  thus, 

With  thoughts  and  wishes  bounded  to  this  world, 

I lived  and  breathed ; most  grateful,  if  to  enjoy 
Without  repining  or  desire  for  more 
For  different  lot,  or  change  to  higher  sphere 
(Only  except  some  impulses  of  pride 
With  no  determined  object,  though  upheld 
By  theories  with  suitable  support) 

Most  grateful,  if  in  such  wise  to  enjoy 
Be  proof  of  gratitude  for  what  we  have ; 

Else,  I allow,  most  thankless. — But,  at  once, 

From  some  dark  seat  of  fatal  Power  was  urged 
A claim  that  shattered  all,  — Our  blooming  Girl, 
Caught  in  the  gripe  of  Death,  with  such  brief  time 
To  struggle  in  as  scarcely  would  allow 
Her  cheek  to  change  its  colour,  was  conveyed 
From  us  to  regions  inaccessible 
Where  height,  or  depth,  admits  not  the  approach 
Of  living  Man,  though  longing  to  pursue. 

— With  even  as  brief  a warning  — and  how  soon, 
With  what  short  interval  of  time  between, 

I tremble  yet  to  think  of  — our  last  prop. 

Our  happy  life’s  only  remaining  stay  — 

The  Brother  followed  ; and  was  seen  no  more! 

“ Calm  as  a frozen  Lake  when  ruthless  Winds 
Blow  fiercely,  agitating  earth  and  sky. 

The  Mother  now  remained ; as  if  in  her. 

Who,  to  the  lowest  region  of  the  soul, 

Had  been  erewhile  unsettled  and  disturbed, 

This  second  visitation  had  no  power 
To  shake ; but  only  to  bind  up  and  seal ; 

And  to  establish  thankfulness  of  heart 
In  Heaven’s  determinations,  ever  just. 

The  eminence  on  which  her  spirit  stood. 

Mine  was  unable  to  attain.  Immense 

The  space  that  severed  us ! But,  as  the  sight 

Communicates  with  Heaven’s  ethereal  orbs 

Incalculably  distant ; so,  I felt 

That  consolation  may  descend  from  far ; 

(And,  that  is  intercourse,  and  union,  too,) 

While,  overcome  with  speechless  gratitude. 

And,  with  a holier  love  inspired,  I looked 
On  her  — at  once  superior  to  my  woes 
And  Partner  of  my  loss.  — O heavy  change! 
Dimness  o’er  this  clear  Luminary  crept 
Insensibly  ; — the  immortal  and  divine 
Yielded  to  mortal  reflux;  her  pure  Glory, 

As  from  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  state 


Wretched  Ambition  drops  astounded,  fell 
Into  a gulf  obscure  of  silent  grief. 

And  keen  heart-anguish  — of  itself  ashamed, 

Yet  obstinately  cherishing  itself; 

And,  so  consumed.  She  melted  from  my  arms; 

And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate, 

“ What  followed  cannot  be  reviewed  in  thought ; 
Much  less,  retraced  in  words.  If  She,  of  life 
Blameless,  so  intimate  with  love  and  joy 
And  all  the  tender  motions  of  the  Soul, 

Had  been  supplanted,  could  I hope  to  stand  — 

Infirm,  dependent,  and  now  destitute! 

I called  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 
That  which  is  veiled  from  waking  thought;  conjured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a Ghost 
To  appear  and  answer ; to  the  grave  I spake 
Imploringly;  — looked  up,  and  asked  the  Heavens 
If  Angels  traversed  their  cerulean  floors. 

If  fixed  or  wandering  Star  could  tidings  yield 
Of  the  departed  Spirit  — what  Abode 
It  occupies  — what  consciousness  retains 
Of  former  loves  and  interests.  Then  my  Soul 
Turned  inward,  — to  examine  of  what  stuff 
Time’s  fetters  are  composed ; and  Life  was  put 
To  inquisition,  long  and  profitless! 

By  pain  of  heart — now  checked — and  now  impelled — 
The  intellectual  Power,  through  words  and  things. 
Went  sounding  on,  a dim  and  perilous  way  ! 

And  from  those  transports,  and  these  toils  abstruse. 
Some  trace  am  I enabled  to  retain 
Of  time,  else  lost ; — existing  unto  me 
Only  by  records  in  myself  not  found. 

“From  that  abstraction  I was  roused,  — and  how  ! — 
Even  as  a thoughtful  Sheplierd  by  a flash 
Of  lightning  startled  in  a gloomy  cave 
Of  these  wild  hills.  For,  lo ! the  dread  Bastile, 

With  all  the  chambers  in  its  horrid  Towers, 

Fell  to  the  ground : — by  violence  o’erthrown 
Of  indignation ; and  with  shouts  that  drowned 
The  crash  it  made  in  falling ! From  the  wreck 
A golden  Palace  rose,  or  seemed  to  rise, 

The  appointed  Seat  of  equitable  Law 
And  mild  paternal  Sway.  The  potent  shock 
I felt : the  transformation  I perceived. 

As  marvellously  seized  as  in  that  moment 
When,  from  the  blind  mist  issuing,  I beheld 
Glory — beyond  all  glory  ever  seen, 

Confusion  infinite  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Dazzling  the  soul.  Meanwhile,  prophetic  harps 
In  every  grove  were  ringing,  ‘ War  shall  cease; 

‘ Did  ye  not  hear  that  conquest  is  abjured  1 
‘ Bring  garlands,  bring  forth  choicest  flowers,  to  deck 
‘ The  Tree  of  Liberty.’  — My  heart  rebounded  ; 

My  melancholy  voice  the  chorus  joined ; 

— ‘Be  joyful  all  ye  Nations,  in  all  Lands, 


578 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


‘ Ve  that  are  capable  of  Joy,  be  glad ! 

‘ Henceforth,  whate’er  is  wanting  to  yourselves 
‘ In  others  ye  shall  promptly  find  ; — and  all, 
‘Enriched  by  mutual  and  reflected  wealth, 

‘ Shall  with  one  heart  honour  their  common  kind.’ 

“ Thus  was  I reconverted  to  the  world ; 

Society  became  my  glittering  Bride, 

And  airy  hopes  my  Children.  — From  the  depths 
Of  natural  passion,  seemingly  escaped. 

My  soul  diffused  herself  in  wide  embrace 
Of  institutions,  and  the  forms  of  things  ; 

As  they  exist,  in  mutable  array. 

Upon  life’s  surface.  What,  though  in  my  veins 
There  ffowed  no  Gallic  blood,  nor  had  I breathed 
The  air  of  France,  not  less  than  Gallic  zeal 
Kindled  and  burnt  among  the  sapless  twigs 
Of  my  exhausted  heart.  If  busy  Men 
In  sober  conclave  met,  to  weave  a web 
Of  amity,  whose  living  threads  should  stretch 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  to  the  farthest  pole. 

There  did  I sit,  assisting.  If,  with  noise 
And  acclamation,  crowds  in  open  air 
Expressed  the  tumult  of  their  minds,  my  voice 
There  mingled,  heard  or  not.  The  powers  of  song 
I left  not  uninvoked  ; and,  in  still  groves. 

Where  mild  enthusiasts  tuned  a pensive  lay 
Of  thanks  and  expectation,  in  accord 
With  their  belief,  I sang  Saturnian  Rule 
Returned,  — a progeny  of  golden  years 
Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind. 

— With  promises  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  teem : 

I felt  the  invitation ; and  resumed 
A long-suspended  office  in  the  House 
Of  public  worship,  where,  the  glowing  phrase 
Of  ancient  Inspiration  serving  me, 

I promised  also,  — with  undaunted  trust 
Foretold,  and  added  prayer  to  prophecy ; 

The  admiration  winning  of  the  crowd ; 

The  help  desiring  of  the  pure  devout. 

“ Scorn  and  contempt  forbid  me  to  proceed  ! 

But  History,  Time’s  slavish  Scribe,  will  tell 
How  rapidly  the  Zealots  of  the  cause 
Disbanded  — or  in  hostile  ranks  appeared  ; 

Some,  tired  of  honest  service ; these,  outdone. 
Disgusted,  therefore,  or  appalled,  by  aims 
Of  fiercer  Zealots  — so  Confusion  reigned, 

And  the  more  faithful  were  compelled  to  exclaim. 
As  Brutus  did  to  Virtue,  ‘ I.iberty, 

‘ I worshipped  Thee,  and  find  thee  but  a Shade  !’ 

“ Such  recantation  had  for  me  no  charm. 

Nor  would  I bend  to  it ; who  should  have  grieved 
At  aught,  however  fair,  tliat  bore  the  mien 
( )f  a conclusion,  or  catastrophe. 

Wliv  tlien  conceal,  that,  when  the  simply  good 


In  timid  ,«elfishness  withdrew,  I sought 
Other  support,  not  scrupulous  whence  it  came. 

And,  by  what  compromise  it  stood,  not  nice  T 
Enough  if  notions  seemed  to  be  high-pitched, 

And  qualities  determined.  — Among  men 
So  charactered  did  I maintain  a strife 
Hopeless,  and  still  more  hopeless  every  hour ; 

But,  in  the  process,  I began  to  feel 

That,  if  the  emancipation  of  the  world 

Were  missed,  I should  at  least  secure  my  own. 

And  be  in  part  compensated.  For  rights. 

Widely  — inveterately  usurped  upon, 

I spake  with  vehemence;  and  promptly  seized 
Whate’er  Abstraction  furnished  for  my  needs* 

Or  purposes ; nor  scrupled  to  proclaim. 

And  propagate,  by  liberty  of  life. 

Those  new  persuasions.  Not  that  I rejoiced. 

Or  even  found  pleasure,  in  such  vagrant  course, 

For  its  own  sake;  but  farthest  from  the  walk 
Which  I had  trod  in  happiness  and  peace. 

Was  most  inviting  to  a troubled  mind ; 

That,  in  a struggling  and  distempered  world. 

Saw  a seductive  image  of  herself. 

Yet,  mark  the  contradictions  of  which  Man 
Is  still  the  sport ! Here  Nature  was  my  guide, 

The  Nature  of  the  dissolute ; but  Thee, 

I O fostering  Nature  ! I rejected  — smiled 
At  others’  tears  in  pity ; and  in  scorn 
At  those,  which  thy  soft  influence  sometimes  drew 
From  my  unguarded  heart.  — The  tranquil  shores 
Of  Britain  circumscribed  me ; else,  perhaps, 

I might  have  been  entangled  among  deeds. 

Which,  now,  as  infamous,  I should  abhor  — 

Despise,  as  senseless ; for  my  spirit  relished 
Strangely  the  exasperation  of  that  Land, 

Which  turned  an  angry  beak  against  the  down 
Of  her  own  breast ; confounded  into  hope 
Of  disencumbering  thus  her  fretful  wings. 

' — But  all  was  quieted  by  iron  bonds 
Of  military  sway.  The  shifting  aims. 

The  moral  interests,  the  creative  might. 

The  varied  functions  and  high  attributes 
Of  civil  Action,  yielded  to  a Power 
Formal,  and  odious,  and  contemptible. 

— In  Britain,  ruled  a panic  dread  of  change ; 

The  weak  were  praised,  rewarded,  and  advanced  ; 
And,  from  the  impulse  of  a just  disdain. 

Once  more  did  I retire  into  myself. 

There  feeling  no  contentment,  I resolved 
To  fly,  for  safeguard,  to  some  foreign  shore. 

Remote  from  Europe  ; from  her  blasted  hopes ; 

Her  fields  of  carnage,  and  polluted  air. 

“ Fresh  blew  the  wind,  when  o’er  the  Atlantic  Main 
The  Ship  went  gliding  with  her  thoughtless  crew; 
And  who  among  them  but  an  Exile,  freed 

^ See  Note  3 


THE  EXCURSION. 


.570 


From  discontent,  indifferent,  pleased  to  sit 
Among  the  busily-employed,  not  more 
With  obligation  charged,  with  service  taxed. 

Than  the  loose  pendant — to  the  idle  wind 
Upon  the  tall  mast  streaming:  — but,  ye  Powers 
Of  soul  and  sense  — mysteriously  allied, 

O,  never  let  the  Wretched,  if  a choice 
Be  left  him,  trust  the  freight  of  his  distress 
To  a long  voyage  on  the  silent  deep ! 

For,  like  a Plague,  will  Memory  break  out; 

And,  in  the  blank  and  solitude  of  things, 

Upon  his  Spirit,  with  a fever’s  strength. 

Will  Conscience  prey.  — Feebly  must  they  have  felt 
Who,  in  old  time,  attired  with  snakes  and  whips 
The  vengeful  Furies.  Beantifiil  regards 
Were  turned  on  me — the  face  of  her  I loved; 

The  Wife  and  Mother,  pitifully  fixing 
Tender  reproaches,  insupportable ! 

Where  now  that  boasted  liberty  1 No  welcome 
From  unknown  Objects  I received ; and  those. 

Known  and  familiar,  which  the  vaulted  sky 
Did,  in  the  placid  clearness  of  the  night. 

Disclose,  had  accusations  to  prefer 
Against  my  peace.  Within  the  cabin  stood 
That  Volume  — as  a compass  for  the  soul  — 

Revered  among  the  Nations.  I implored 
Its  guidance;  but  the  infallible  support 
Of  faith  was  wanting.  Tell  me,  why  refused 
To  One  by  storms  annoyed  and  adverse  winds ; 
Perplexed  with  currents;  of  his  weakness  sick; 

Of  vain  endeavours  tired  ; and  by  his  own. 

And  by  his  Nature’s,  ignorance,  dismayed! 

“ Long-wished-for  sight,  the  Western  World  appeared ; 
And,  when  the  Ship  was  moored,  I leaped  ashore 
Indignantly  — resolved  to  be  a Man, 

Who,  having  o’er  the  past  no  power,  would  live 
No  longer  in  subjection  to  the  past. 

With  abject  mind  — from  a tyrannic  Lord 
Inviting  penance,  fruitlessly  endured. 

So,  like  a Fugitive,  whose  feet  have  cleared 
Some  boundary,  which  his  Followers  may  not  cross 
In  prosecution  of  their  deadly  chase. 

Respiring  I looked  round.  — How  bright  the  Sun, 
How  promising  the  Breeze  ! Can  aught  produced 
In  the  old  World  compare,  thought  I,  for  power 
And  majesty  with  this  gigantic  Stream, 

Sprung  from  the  Desert!  And  behold  a City 
Fresh,  youthful,  and  aspiring ! What  are  these 
To  me,  or  I to  them ! As  much  at  least 
As  He  desires  that  they  should  be,  whom  winds 
And  waves  have  wafted  to  this  distant  shore. 

In  the  condition  of  a damaged  seed. 

Whose  fibres  cannot,  if  they  would,  take  root. 

Here  may  I roam  at  large ; — iny  business  is. 

Roaming  at  large,  to  observe,  and  not  to  feel ; 

And,  therefore,  not  to  act  — convinced  that  all 


Which  bears  the  name  of  action,  howsoe’er 
Beginning,  ends  in  servitude  — still  painful. 

And  mostly  profitless.  And,  sooth  to  say, 

On  nearer  view,  a motley  .spectacle 
Appeared,  of  high  pretensions  — unreproved 
But  by  the  obstreperous  voice  of  higher  still; 

Big  Passions  strutting  on  a potty  stage  ; 

Which  a detached  Spectator  may  regard 
Not  unamused.  — But  ridicule  demands 
Quick  change  of  objects;  and,  to  laugh  alone. 

At  a composing  distance  from  the  haunts 
Of  strife  and  folly,  — though  it  be  a treat 
As  choice  as  musing  Leisure  can  bestow; 

Yet,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  crowd. 

To  keep  the  secret  of  a poignant  scorn. 

Howe’er  to  airy  Demons  suitable. 

Of  all  unsocial  courses,  is  least  fit 
For  the  gross  spirit  of  Mankind,  — the  one 
That  soonest  fails  to  please,  and  quickliest  turns 
Into  vexation.  — Let  us,  then,  I said. 

Leave  this  unknit  Republic  to  the  scourge 
Of  her  own  passions ; and  to  Regions  haste. 

Whose  shades  have  never  felt  the  encroaching  axe, 
Or  soil  endured  a transfer  in  the  mart 
Of  dire  rapacity.  There,  Man  abides. 

Primeval  Nature’s  Child.  A Creature  weak 
In  combination,  (wherefore  else  driven  back 
So  far,  and  of  his  old  inheritance 
So  easily  deprived !)  but,  for  that  cause. 

More  dignified,  and  stronger  in  himself ; 

Whether  to  act,  judge,  suffer,  or  enjoy. 

True,  the  Intelligence  of  social  Art 
Hath  overpowered  his  Forefathers,  and  soon 
Will  sweep  the  remnant  of  his  line  away; 

But  contemplations,  worthier,  nobler  far 
Than  her  destructive  energies,  attend 
His  Independence,  when  along  the  side 
Of  Mississippi,  or  that  Northern  Stream* 

That  spreads  into  successive  seas,  he  walks; 
Pleased  to  perceive  his  own  unshackled  life. 

And  his  innate  capacities  of  soul. 

There  imaged : or,  when  having  gained  the  top 
Of  some  commanding  Eminence,  which  yet 
Intruder  ne’er  beheld,  he  thence  surveys 
Regions  of  wood  and  wide  Savannah,  vast 
Expanse  of  unappropriated  earth. 

With  mind  that  sheds  a light  on  what  he  sees; 

Free  as  the  Sun,  and  lonely  as  the  Sun, 

Pouring  above  his  head  its  radiance  down 
Upon  a living,  and  rejoicing  World  ! 

“So,  westward,  toward  the  unviolated  Woods 
I bent  my  way ; and,  roaming  far  and  wide. 

Failed  not  to  greet  the  merry  Mocking-bird ; 

And,  while  the  melancholy  Muccawiss 


* See  Note  4. 


580 


WORDSWORTH  S POETICAL  WORKS. 


(The  sportive  Bird’s  companion  in  the  Grove) 
Repeated,  o’er  and  o’er,  his  plaintive  cry, 

I sympathized  at  leisure  with  the  sound; 

But  that  pure  Archetype  of  human  greatness, 

I found  him  not.  There,  in  his  stead,  appeared 
A Creature,  squalid,  vengeful,  and  impure ; 
Remorseless,  and  submissive  to  no  law 
But  superstitious  fear,  and  abject  sloth. 

— Enough  is  told  ! Here  am  I — Ye  have  heard 
What  evidence  I seek,  and  vainly  seek  ; 

What  from  my  Fellow-beings  I require. 

And  cannot  find ; what  I myself  have  lost. 

Nor  can  regain  ; how  languidly  I look 
Upon  this  visible  fabric  of  the  World, 

May  be  divined  — perhaps  it  hath  been  said ; — 
But  spare  your  pity,  if  there  be  in  me 
Aught  that  deserves  respect:  for  I exist  — 
Within  myself — not  comfortless.  — The  tenour 
Which  my  life  holds,  he  readily  may  conceive 
Whoe’er  hath  stood  to  watch  a mountain  Brook 
In  some  still  passage  of  its  course,  and  seen. 


Within  the  depths  of  its  capacious  breast. 

Inverted  trees,  and  rocks,  and  azure  sky ; 

And,  on  its  glassy  surface,  specks  of  foam. 

And  conglobated  bubbles  undissolved. 

Numerous  as  stars ; that,  by  their  onward  lapse. 
Betray  to  sight  the  motion  of  the  stream. 

Else  imperceptible  ; meanwhile,  is  heard 
A softened  roar,  a murmur ; and  the  sound 
Though  soothing,  and  the  little  floating  isles 
Though  beautiful,  are  both  by  Nature  charged 
With  tJie  same  pensive  office  ; and  make  known 
Through  what  perplexing  labyrinths,  abrupt 
Precipitations,  and  untoward  straits. 

The  earth-born  Wanderer  hath  passed ; and  quickly, 
That  respite  o’er,  like  traverses  and  toils 
Must  be  again  encountered.  — Such  a stream 
Is  human  Life ; and  so  the  Spirit  fares 
In  the  best  quiet  to  its  course  allowed  ; 

And  such  is  mine,  — save  only  for  a hope 
That  my  particular  current  soon  will  reach 
The  unfathomable  gulf,  where  all  is  still !” 


THE  EXCURSION. 

BOOK  THE  FOURTH. 
DESPONDENCY  CORRECTED, 


ARGUMENT. 

State  of  feeling  produced  by  the  foregoing  Narrative — A belief  in  a superintending  Providence  the  only  adequate 
support  under  affliction — Wanderer’s  ejaculation  — account  of  his  own  devotional  feelings  in  youth  involved  — 
Acknowledges  the  difficulty  of  a lively  faith  — Hence  immoderate  sorrow  — doubt  or  despondence  not  therefore  to 
be  inferred  — Consolation  to  the  Solitary  — Exhortations  — How  received  — Wanderer  applies  his  discourse  to  that 
other  cause  of  dejection  in  the  Solitary’s  mind  — disappointment  from  the  French  Revolution  — States  grounds  of 
hope — insists  on  the  necessity  of  patience  and  fortitude  with  respect  to  the  course  of  great  revolutions — Knowledge 
the  source  of  tranquillity  — Rural  Solitude  favourable  to  knowledge  of  the  inferior  Creatures  — Study  of  their  habits 
and  wa5TS  recommended  — Exhortation  to  bodily  exertion  and  Communion  w ith  Nature  — Morbid  Solitude  pitiable 

— Superstition  better  than  apathy  — Apathy  and  destitution  unknown  in  the  infancy  of  society  — The  various  modes 
of  Religion  prevented  it  — illustrated  in  the  Jewish,  Persitnii  Babylonian,  Chaldean,  and  Grecian  modes  of  belief 

— Solitary  interposes  — Wanderer  points  out  the  influence  of  religious  and  imaginative  feeling  in  the  humble  ranks 
of  society  — Illustrated  from  present  and  past  times  — These  principles  tend  to  recall  exploded  superstitions  and 
popery  — Wanderer  rebuts  this  charge,  and  contrasts  the  dignities  of  the  Imagination  with  the  presumptive  littleness 
of  certain  modern  Philosophers  — Recommends  other  lights  and  guides  — .<isserts  the  power  of  the  Soul  to  regenerate 
herself — Solitary  asks  how  — Reply  — Personal  appeal  — Happy  that  the  imagination  and  the  affections  mitigate 
the  evils  of  that  intellectual  slavery  which  the  calculating  understanding  is  apt  to  produce  — Exhortation  to  activity 
of  body  renewed  — How  to  commune  with  Nature  — Wanderer  concludes  with  a legitimate  union  of  the  imagina- 
tion, affections,  understanding,  and  reason  — Effect  of  his  discourse — Evening — Return  to  the  Cottage. 


Here  closed  the  Tenant  of  that  lonely  vale 
His  mournful  Narrative  — commenced  in  pain, 
In  pain  commenced,  and  ended  without  peace: 
Yet  tempered,  not  unfrequently,  with  strains 


Of  native  feeling,  grateful  to  our  minds; 

And  doubtless  yielding  some  relief  to  his. 
While  we  sate  listening  with  compassion  due. 
Such  pity  yet  surviving,  witli  firm  voice 


THE  EXCURSION. 


681 


That  did  not  falter  though  the  heart  was  moved, 

The  Wanderer  said  — 

“ One  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists,  one  only ; — an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe’er 
Sad  or  disturbed,  is  ordered  by  a Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power ; 

Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. 

— The  darts  of  anguish  not  where  the  seat 
Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly  fortified 

By  acquiescence  in  the  Will  Supreme 
For  Time  and  for  Eternity  ; by  faith. 

Faith  absolute  in  God,  including  hope. 

And  the  defence  that  lies  in  boundless  love 
Of  his  perfections ; with  habitual  dread 
Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  endured 
Impatiently  ; ill-done,  or  left  undone. 

To  the  dishonour  of  his  holy  Name. 

Soul  of  our  Souls,  and  safeguard  of  the  world ! 
Sustain,  Thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of  heart; 

Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  Thee  and  thine !” 

Then,  as  we  issued  from  that  covert  Nook, 

He  thus  continued  — lifting  up  his  eyes 
To  Heaven  — “ How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky. 

And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fixed 
At  thy  command,  how  awful ! Shall  the  Soul, 

Human  and  rational,  report  of  Thee 

Even  less  than  these  1 — Be  mute  who  will,  who  can. 

Yet  I will  praise  thee  with  impassioned  voice : 

My  lips,  that  may  forget  thee  in  the  crowd. 

Cannot  forget  thee  here;  where  Thou  hast  built. 

For  thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness ! 

Me  didst  thou  constitute  a Priest  of  thine. 

In  such  a Temple  as  we  now  behold 
Reared  for  thy  presence : therefore,  am  I bound 
To  worship,  here,  and  every  where  — as  One 
Not  doomed  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread. 
From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty ; 

From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved. 

And  from  debasement  rescued.  — By  thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remained  unquenched; 

And,  ’mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a rugged  soil. 

Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers 
From  Paradise  transplanted  ; wintry  age 
Impends;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart; 

And,  if  they  wither,  I am  worse  than  dead ! 

— Come,  Labour,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  sabbath;  come,  disease  and  want; 

And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense ; 

But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee  — 

And  let  thy  favour,  to  the  end  of  life. 

Inspire  me  with  ability  to  seek 
Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things  — 


Father  of  heaven  and  earth  ! and  I am  rich 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content ! 

“ And  what  are  things  Eternal  1 — Powers  depart,’* 
The  gray-haired  Wanderer  steadfastly  replied. 
Answering  the  question  which  himself  had  asked, 

“ Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change. 

And  Passions  hold  a fluctuating  seat: 

But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken. 

And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane. 

Duty  exists;  — immutably  survive. 

For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms. 

Which  an  abstract  Intelligence  supplies; 

Whose  kingdom  is,  where  Time  and  Space  are  not. 
Of  other  converse  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart. 

Do  with  united  urgency,  require. 

What  more  that  may  not  perish  1 Thou,  dread  Source^, 
Prime,  self-existing  Cause  and  End  of  all. 

That,  in  the  scale  of  Being,  fill  their  place, 

Above  our  human  region,  or  below. 

Set  and  sustained ; — Thou — Who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  Infancy  around  us,  that  Thyself, 

Therein,  with  our  simplicity  a while 

IMightest  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturbed  — 

Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep, 

Or  from  its  death-like  void,  with  punctual  care. 

And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 

Restorest  us,  daily,  to  the  powers  of  sense. 

And  reason’s  steadfast  rule  — Thou,  Thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  Spirits, 

I Which  thou  includest,  as  the  Sea  her  Waves: 
j For  adoration  thou  endur’st ; endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 

For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  Intellect,  that  stand  as  laws, 

(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power 
Even  to  thy  Being’s  infinite  majesty  ! 

This  Universe  shall  pass  away  — a work 
Glorious!  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 

A step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  Thee. 

Ah  ! if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 
No  more  shall  stray  where  Meditation  leads. 

By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  crairgy  wild. 
Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unirnprisoned  Mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own. 

Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 

If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail. 

Still,  it  may  be  allowed  me  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 
In  youth  were  mine ; when,  stationed  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill  — expectant,  I beheld 
The  Sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  returned 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day 
His  bounteous  gift!  or  saw  him  toward  the  Deep 
Sink  — with  a retinue  of  flaming  Clouds 
Attended ; then,  my  Spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude; 

The  measure  of  tny  soul  was  filled  with  bliss. 


582 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  holiest  love;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light, 

With  pomp,  with  glory,  vvith  magnificence ! 

“ Those  fervent  raptures  are  for  ever  flown  ; 

And,  since  their  date,  my  Soul  hath  undergone 
Change  manifold,  for  better  or  for  worse : 

Yet  cease  I not  to  struggle,  and  aspire 
Heavenward;  and  chide  the  part  of  me  that  flags. 
Through  sinful  choice  ; or  dread  necessity, 

On  human  Nature  from  above  imposed. 

’T  is,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task* 

Earth  to  despise;  but,  to  converse  with  Heaven  — 

This  is  not  easy  : — to  relinquish  all 
We  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy. 

And  stand  in  freedom  loosened  from  this  world, 

I deem  not  arduous:  — but  must  needs  confess 
That ’t  is  a thing  impossible  to  frame 
Conceptions  equal  to  the  Soul’s  desires ; 

And  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  keep 
Heights  w’hich  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain. 

— Man  is  of  dust : ethereal  hopes  are  his, 

Which,  when  they  should  sustain  themselves  aloft. 
Want  due  consistence  ; like  a pillar  of  smoke. 

That  with  majestic  energy  from  earth 

Rises  ; but,  having  reached  the  thinner  air, 

Melts,  and  dissolves,  and  is  no  longer  seen. 

From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 

Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not;  — at  least. 

If  Grief  be  something  hallowed  and  ordained. 

If,  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet. 

Through  this,  ’t  is  able  to  maintain  its  hold. 

In  that  excess  which  Conscience  disapproves. 

For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 
Of  selfishness  ; so  senseless  who  could  be 
As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 
For  any  Object  of  his  love,  removed 
From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix 
A satisfying  view  upon  that  state 
Of  pure,  imperishable  blessedness, 

Which  reason  promises,  and  Holy  Writ 
Ensures  to  all  Believers  I — Yet  mistrust 
Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks. 

No  natural  branch;  despondency  far  less. 

— And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have  drooped 
Even  to  the  dust;  apparently,  through  weight 

Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 
An  agonizing  sorrow  to  transmute. 

Infer  not  hence  a hope  from  those  withheld 
When  wanted  most ; a confidence  impaired 
So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 
With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 
Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret. 

Oh  ! no,  full  oft  the  innocent  Sufferer  secs 
Too  clearly  ; feels  too  vividly  ; and  longs 

*See,  iqxjn  this  subject,  Baxter's  most  interesting  review  of  j 
Ills  own  opinions  and  sentiments  in  the  decline  of  life.  It  may 
be  found  (lately  reprinted)  in  Dr.  Wordsworth's  Ecclesiastical 
Biography.  ' 


To  realize  the  Vision,  with  intense 

And  over-constant  yearning  — there  — there  lies 

The  excess,  by  which  the  balance  is  destroyed. 

Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh, 

This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs. 
Though  inconceivably  endowed,  too  dim 
For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 
To  ecstasy ; and,  all  the  crooked  paths 
Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 
Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 

I,  speaking  now  from  such  disorder  free. 

Nor  rapt,  nor  craving,  but  in  settled  peace, 

I cannot  doubt  that  They  whom  you  deplore 
Are  glorified  ; or,  if  they  sleep,  shall  wake 
From  sleep,  and  dwell  with  God  in  endless  love. 
Hope,  below  this,  consists  not  with  belief 
In  mercy,  carried  infinite  degrees 
Beyond  the  tenderness  of  human  hearts  : 

Hope,  below  this,  consists  not  with  belief 
In  perfect  Wisdom,  guiding  mightiest  Power, 

Tliat  finds  no  limits  but  her  own  pure  Will. 

“ Here  then  we  rest : not  fearing  for  our  creed 
The  worst  that  human  reasoning  can  achieve. 

To  unsettle  or  perplex  it : yet  with  pain 
Acknowledging,  and  grievous  self-reproach. 

That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  want 
Zeal,  and  the  virtue  to  exist  by  faith 
As  Soldiers  live  by  courage ; as,  by  strength 
Of  heart,  the  Sailor  fights  with  roaring  seas. 

Alas  ! the  endowment  of  immortal  Power 
I Is  matched  unequally  with  custom,  time,-]: 

And  domineering  faculties  of  sense 
In  all ; in  most  with  superadded  foes. 

Idle  temptations  — open  vanities. 

Ephemeral  offspring  of  the  unblushing  world  ; 

And,  in  the  private  regions  of  the  mind. 

Ill-governed  passions,  ranklings  of  despite, 
Immoderate  wishes,  pining  discontent. 

Distress  and  care.  What  then  remains ! — To  seek 
Those  helps,  for  his  occasions  ever  near. 

Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them;  vows,  renewed 
On  the  first  motion  of  a holy  thought ; 

Vigils  of  contemplation  ; praise ; and  prayer, 

A Stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart 
Issuing,  however  feebly,  nowhere  flows 
Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 

But,  above  all,  the  victory  is  nrost  sure 
For  Him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 
To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 
Of  Conscience ; Conscience  reverenced  and  obeyed. 
As  God’s  most  intimate  Presence  in  the  soul, 

And  his  most  perfect  Image  in  the  world. 

— Endeavour  thus  to  live;  these  rules  regard, 
These  helps  solicit;  and  a steadfast  seat 
* Shall  then  be  yours  among  the  happy  few 


t See  Note  5. 


THE  EXCURSION 


583 


Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 

Sons  of  th?  morning.  For  your  nobler  Part, 

Ere  disencumbered  of  her  mortal  chains. 

Doubt  shall  be  quelled  and  trouble  chased  away ; 
With  only  such  degree  of  sadness  left 
As  may  support  longings  of  pure  desire  ; 

And  strengthen  love,  rejoicing  secretly 
In  the  sublime  attractions  of  the  Grave.” 

While,  in  this  strain,  the  venerable  Sage 
Poured  forth  his  aspirations,  and  announced 
His  judgments,  near  that  lonely  House  we  paced 
A plot  of  green-sward,  seemingly  preserved 
By  Nature’s  care  from  wreck  of  scattered  stones, 
And  from  encroachment  of  encircling  heath: 

Small  space  ! but,  for  reiterated  steps. 

Smooth  and  commodious;  as  a stately  deck 
Which  to  and  fro  the  Mariner  is  used 
To  tread  for  pastime,  talking  with  his  Mates, 

Or  haply  thinking  of  far-distant  Friends, 

While  the  Ship  glides  before  a steady  breeze. 
Stillness  prevailed  around  us:  and  the  Voice, 

That  spake,  was  capable  to  lift  the  soul 
Toward  regions  yet  more  tranquil.  But,  methought. 
That  He,  whose  fi.xed  despondency  had  given 
Impulse  and  motive  to  that  strong  discourse. 

Was  less  upraised  in  spirit  than  abaslied ; 

Shrinking  from  admonition,  like  a man 
Who  feels,  that  to  exhort,  is  to  reproach. 

^et  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  aim. 

The  Sage  continued  — “For  that  other  loss, 

The  loss  of  confidence  in  social  Man, 

By  the  unexpected  transports  of  our  Age 
Carried  so  high,  that  every  thought  — which  looked 
Beyond  the  temporal  destiny  of  the  Kind 
To  many  seemed  superfluous;  as,  no  cause 
For  such  exalted  confidence  could  e’er 
Exist;  so,  none  is  now  for  fixed  despair; 

The  two  extremes  are  equally  disowned 
By  reason ; if,  with  sharp  recoil,  from  one 
You  have  been  driven  far  as  its  opposite. 

Between  them  seek  the  point  whereon  to  build 
Sound  expectations.  So  doth  he  advise 
Who  shared  at  first  the  illusion ; but  was  soon 
Cast  from  the  pedestal  of  pride  by  shocks 
Which  Nature  gently  gave,  in  woods  and  fields ; 

Nor  unreproved  by  Providence,  thus  speaking 
To  the  inattentive  Children  of  the  World, 

‘ Vain-glorious  Generation  ! what  new  powers 
‘On  you  have  been  conferred?  what  gifts,  withheld 
‘From  your  Prosrenitors,  have  Ye  received, 

‘ Fit  recompense  of  new  desert?  what  claim 
‘Are  ye  prepared  to  urge,  that  my  decrees 
‘ For  you  should  undergo  a sudden  change  ; 

‘And  the  weak  functions  of  one  busy  day, 
‘Reclaiming  and  extirpating,  perform 
‘What  all  tlie  slowly-moving  Years  of  Time, 

‘ With  their  united  force,  have  left  undone  ? 


‘By  Nature’s  gradual  processes  be  taught; 

‘By  Story  be  confounded  ! Ye  aspire 
‘Rashly,  to  fall  once  more;  and  that  false  fruit, 
‘Which,  to  your  overweening  spirits,  yields 
‘Hope  of  a flight  celestial,  will  produce 
‘ Misery  and  shame.  But  Wisdom  of  her  sons 
‘ Shall  not  the  less,  though  late,  be  justified.’ 

Such  timely  warning,”  said  the  Wanderer,  “gave 
That  visionary  Voice;  and,  at  this  day. 

When  a Tartarian  darkness  overspreads 
The  groaning  nations;  when  the  Impious  rule. 

By  will  or  by  established  ordinance. 

Their  own  dire  agents,  and  constrain  the  Good 
To  acts  which  they  abhor ; though  I bewail 
This  triumph,  yet  the  pity  of  my  heart 
Prevents  me  not  from  owning,  that  the  law. 

By  which  Mankind  now  suffers,  is  most  just. 

For  by  superior  energies ; more  strict 
Affiance  in  each  other;  faith  more  firm 
In  their  unhallowed  principles ; the  Bad 
Have  fairly  earned  a victory  o’er  the  weak. 

The  vacillating,  inconsistent  Good. 

Therefore,  not  unconsoled,  I wait  — in  hope 
To  see  the  moment,  when  the  righteous  Cause 
Shall  gain  Defenders  zealous  and  devout 
As  they  who  have  opposed  her ; in  which  Virtue 
Will,  to  her  efforts,  tolerate  no  bounds 
That  are  not  lofty  as  her  rights ; aspiring 
By  impulse  of  her  own  ethereal  zeal. 

That  Spirit  only  can  redeem  Mankind ; 

And  when  that  sacred  Spirit  shall  appear, 

Then  shall  our  triumph  be  complete  as  theirs. 

Yet,  should  this  confidence  prove  vain,  the  Wise 
Have  still  the  keeping  of  their  proper  peace ; 

Are  guardians  of  their  own  tranquillity. 

They  act,  or  they  recede,  observe,  and  feel ; 

‘ Knowing  the  heart  of  Man  is  set  to  be 
The  centre  of  this  World,  about  the  which 
Those  revolutions  of  disturbances 
Still  roll ; where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate ; whose  strong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress; 

And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a thing  is  Man  !'  * 

Happy  is  He  who  lives  to  understand  — 

Not  human  Nature  only,  but  explores 
All  Natures,  — to  the  end  that  he  may  find 
The  law  that  governs  each ; and  where  begins 
The  union,  the  partition  where,  that  makes 
Kind  and  degree,  among  all  visible  Beings; 

The  constitutions,  powers,  and  faculties. 

Which  they  inherit,  — cannot  step  beyond,  — 

And  cannot  fall  beneath  ; that  do  assign 
To  every  Class  its  station  and  its  office. 

Through  all  the  mighty  Commonwealth  of  things; 

* Daniel.  — See  Note  6. 


584 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Up  from  the  creeping-  plant  to  sovereign  Man. 

Such  Converse,  if  directed  by  a meek, 

Sincere,  and  humble  Spirit,  teaches  love; 

For  knowledge  is  delight;  and  such  delight 
Breeds  love ; yet,  suited  as  it  rather  is 
To  thought  and  to  the  climbing  intellect, 

It  teaches  less  to  love,  than  to  adore ; 

If  that  be  not  indeed  the  highest  Love !” 

“Yet,”  said  I,  tempted  here  to  interpose, 

“ 7'he  dignity  of  Life  is  not  impaired 
By  aught  that  innocently  satisfies 
The  humbler  cravings  of  the  heart;  and  He 
Is  a still  happier  Man,  who,  for  those  heights 
Of  speculation  not  unfit,  descends ; 

And  such  benign  affections  cultivates 
Among  the  inferior  Kinds ; not  merely  those 
That  he  may  call  his  own,  and  which  depend. 

As  individual  objects  of  regard. 

Upon  his  care,  — from  whom  lie  also  looks 
For  signs  and  tokens  of  a mutual  bond,  — 

But  others,  far  beyond  this  narrow  sphere, 

Whom,  for  the  very  sake  of  love,  he  loves. 

Nor  is  it  a mean  praise  of  rural  life 
And  solitude,  tha-t  they  do  favour  most, 

Most  frequently  call  forth,  and  best  sustain 
These  pure  sensations  ; that  can  penetrate 
The  obstreperous  City  ; on  the  barren  Seas 
Are  not  unfelt,  — and  much  might  recommend. 

How  much  they  might  inspirit  and  endear. 

The  loneliness  of  this  sublime  Retreat  t” 

“ Yes,”  said  the  Sage,  resuming  the  discourse 
Again  directed  to  his  downcast  Friend, 

“If,  v/ith  the  froward  will  and  grovelling  soul 
Of  Man  offended,  liberty  is  here. 

And  invitation  every  hour  renewed. 

To  mark  their  placid  state,  who  never  heard 
Of  a command  which  they  have  power  to  break. 

Or  rule  which  they  are  tempted  to  transgress ; 
These,  with  a soothed  or  elevated  heart. 

May  we  behold;  their  knowledge  register; 

Observe  their  ways ; and,  free  from  envy,  find 
Complacence  there  : — but  wherefore  this  to  You? 

I guess  that,  welcome  to  your  lonely  hearth. 

The  Redbreast  feeds  in  winter  from  your  hand  ; 

A box,  perchance,  is  from  your  casement  hung 
For  the  small  Wren  to  build  in  ; — not  in  vain. 

The  barriers  disregarding  that  surround 
This  deep  Abiding-place,  before  your  sight 
Mounts  on  the  breeze  the  Butterfly — and  soars, 
Small  Creature  as  she  is,  from  earth’s  bright  flowers 
Into  the  dewy  clouds.  Ambition  reigns 
In  the  waste  wilderness ; the  Soul  ascends 
Towards  her  native  firmament  of  heaven. 

When  the  fresh  Eagle,  in  the  month  of  May, 
Upborne,  at  evening,  on  replenished  wing. 

This  shaded  valley  leaves,  — and  leaves  the  dark 


Empurpled  hills,  — conspicuously  renewing 
A proud  communication  with  the  sun 
Low  sunk  beneath  the  horizon  ! — List ! — I heard. 
From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a solemn  bleat; 
Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  Mountain’s  voice. 

As  if  the  visible  Mountain  made  the  cry. 

Again  ! — The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 
As  he  expressed ; from  out  the  mountain’s  heart 
The  solemn  bleat  appeared  to  issue,  startling 
The  blank  air  — for  the  region  all  around 
Stood  silent,  empty  of  all  shape  of  life; 

— It  was  a Lamb  — left  somewhere  to  itself. 

The  plaintive  Spirit  of  the  Solitude  ’ — 

He  paused,  as  if  unwilling  to  proceed, 

I Through  consciousness  that  silence  in  such  place 
Was  best, — the  most  affecting  eloquence. 

But  soon  his  thoughts  returned  upon  themselves. 
And,  in  soft  tone  of  speech,  he  thus  resumed. 

“Ah!  if  the  heart,  too  confidently  raised. 
Perchance  too  lightly  occupied,  or  lulled 
Too  easily,  despise  or  overlook 
The  vassalage  that  binds  her  to  the  earth. 

Her  sad  dependence  upon  time,  and  all 
The  trepidations  of  mortality. 

What  place  so  destitute  and  void — but  there- 

The  little  Flower  her  vanity  shall  check 

The  trailing  Worm  reprove  her  thoughtless  pride? 

“ These  craggy  regions,  these  chaotic  wilds 
! Does  that  benignity  pervade,  that  warms 
The  Mole  contented  with  her  darksome  walk 
In  the  cold  ground ; and  to  the  Emmet  gives 
Her  foresight,  and  intelligence  that  makes 
The  tiny  Creatures  strong  by  social  league  ; 
Supports  the  generations,  multiplies 
Their  tribes,  till  we  behold  a spacious  plain 
Or  grassy  bottom,  all,  with  little  hills  — 

Their  labour  — covered,  as  a Lake  with  waves; 
Thousands  of  Cities,  in  the  desert  place 
j Built  up  of  life,  and  food,  and  means  of  life ! 

Nor  wanting  here,  to  entertain  the  thought. 
Creatures  that  in  communities  e.xist. 

Less,  as  might  seem,  for  general  guardianship 
I Or  through  depxendence  upon  mutual  aid, 

Than  by  participation  of  delight 

And  a strict  love  of  fellowship,  combined. 

What  other  spirit  can  it  be  that  prompts 
The  gilded  summer  Flies  to  mix  and  weave 
Their  sports  together  in  the  solar  beam. 

Or  in  the  gloom  of  twilight  hum  their  joy? 

More  obviously,  the  selfsame  influence  rules 
The  Feathered  kinds;  the  Fieldfare’s  pensive  flock, 
The  cawing  Rooks,  and  Sea-mews  from  afar, 
Hovering  above  these  inland  Solitudes, 

By  the  rough  wind  unsfcattered,  at  whose  call 
Their  voyage  was  begun : nor  is  its  power 
Unfelt  among  the  sedentary  Fowl 
That  seek  yon  Pool,  and  there  prolong  their  stay 


THE  EXCURSION. 


585 


In  silent  confrress;  or  togetlier  roused 

Take  flight;  while  with  their  clang  the  air  resounds. 

And,  over  all,  in  that  ethereal  vault. 

Is  the  mute  company  of  changeful  clouds; 

— Bright  apparition  suddenly  put  forth 
The  Rainbow,  smiling  on  the  faded  storm; 

The  mild  assemblage  of  the  starry  heavens; 

And  the  great  Sun,  earth’s  universal  Lord  ! 

“ How  bountiful  is  Nature  ! he  sliall  find 
Who  seeks  not ; and  to  him,  who  hath  not  asked. 
Large  measure  shall  be  dealt.  Three  sabbath-days 
Are  scarcely  told,  since,  on  a service  bent 
Of  mere  humanity.  You  clomb  those  Heights; 

And  what  a marvellous  and  heavenly  Show 
Was  to  your  sight  revealed  ! the  Swains  moved  on. 
And  heeded  not;  you  lingered,  and  perceived. 

There  is  a luxury  in  self-dispraise ; 

And  inward  self-disparagement  affords 
To  meditative  Spleen  a grateful  feast. 

Trust  me,  pronouncing  on  your  own  desert, 

You  judge  unthankfully  ; distempered  nerves 
Infect  the  thoughts : the  languor  of  the  Frame 
Depresses  the  Soul’s  vigour.  Quit  your  Couch  — 
Cleave  not  so  fondly  to  your  moody  Cell ; 

Nor  let  the  hallowed  Powers,  that  shed  from  heaven 
Stillness  and  rest,  with  disapproving  eye 
Look  down  upon  your  taper,  through  a watch 
Of  midnight  hours,  unseasonably  twinkling 
In  this  deep  Hollow,  like  a sullen  star 
Dimly  reflected  in  a lonely  pool. 

Take  courage,  and  withdraw  yourself  from  ways 
That  run  not  parallel  to  Nature’s  course. 

Rise  with  the  Lark  ! your  Matins  shall  obtain 
Grace,  be  their  composition  what  it  may. 

If  but  with  hers  performed  ; climb  once  again. 

Climb  every  day,  those  ramparts;  meet  the  breeze 
Upon  their  tops,  — adventurous  as  a Bee 
That  from  your  garden  thither  soars,  to  feed 
On  new-blown  heath ; let  yon  commanding  rock 
Be  your  frequented  Watch-tower;  roll  the  stone 
In  thunder  down  the  mountains ; with  all  your  might 
Chase  the  wild  Goat ; and,  if  the  bold  red  Deer 
Fly  to  these  harbours,  driven  by  hound  and  horn 
Loud  echoing,  add  your  speed  to  the  pursuit: 

So,  wearied  to  your  Hut  shall  you  return. 

And  sink  at  evening  into  sound  repose.” 


The  Solitary  lifted  toward  the  hills 
A kindling  eye;  — poetic  feelings  rushed 
Into  my  bosom,  whence  these  words  broke  forth : 
“ Oh ! what  a joy  it  were,  in  vigorous  health, 

To  have  a Body  (this  our  vital  frame 
With  shrinking  sensibility  endued, 

And  all  the  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood) 

And  to  the  elements  surrender  it 
As  if  it  were  a Spirit  — How  divine. 

The  liberty,  for  frail,  for  mortal  man 
3Y 


I To  roam  at  large  among  unpeopled  glens 
I And  mountainous  retirements,  only  trod 
By  devious  footsteps ; regions  consecrate 
To  oldest  time  ! and,  reckless  of  the  storm 
I That  keeps  the  raven  quiet  in  her  nest, 

I Be  as  a Presence  or  a motion  — one 
[ Among  the  many  there;  and,  while  the  Mists 
Plying,  and  rainy  Vapours,  call  out  Shapes 
And  Phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth 
i As  fast  as  a Musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument;  and,  while  the  Streams -- 
(As  at  a first  creation  and  in  haste 
To  exercise  their  untried  faculties) 

Descending  from  the  region  of  the  Clouds, 

And  starting  from  the  hollows  of  the  earth 
More  multitudinous  every  moment,  rend 
! Their  way  before  them  — what  a joy  to  roam 
! An  equal  among  mightiest  Energies; 

And  haply  sometimes  with  articulate  voice, 

> Amid  the  deafening  tumult,  scarcely  heard 
By  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud, 

I ‘ Be  this  continued  so  from  day  to  day. 

Nor  let  the  fierce  commotion  have  an  end. 
Ruinous  though  it  be,  from  month  to  month  !’  ” 


I 

! 


“ Yes,”  said  the  Wanderer,  taking  from  my  lips 
The  strain  of  transport,  “ whosoe’er  in  youth 
Has,  through  ambition  of  his  soul,  given  way 
To  such  desires,  and  grasped  at  such  delight. 
Shall  feel  congenial  stirrings  late  and  long. 

In  spite  of  all  the  weakness  that  life  brings. 

Its  cares  and  sorrows;  he,  though  taught  to  owi 
The  tranquillizing  power  of  time,  shall  wake. 
Wake  sometimes  to  a noble  restlessness  — 
Loving  the  sports  which  once  he  gloried  in. 


“ Compatriot,  Friend,  remote  are  Garry’s  Hills, 
The  Streams  far  distant  of  your  native  Glen ; 

Yet  is  their  form  and  Image  here  expressed 
With  brotherly  resemblance.  Turn  your  steps 
Wherever  fancy  leads,  by  day,  by  night. 

Are  various  engines  working,  not  the  same 
As  those  by  which  your  soul  in  youth  was  moved. 
But  by  the  great  Artificer  endued 
With  no  inferior  power.  You  dwell  alone; 

You  walk,  you  live,  you  speculate  alone ; 

Yet  doth  Remembrance,  like  a sovereign  Prince, 
For  you  a stately  gallery  maintain 
Of  gay  or  tragic  pictures.  You  have  seen. 

Have  acted,  suffered,  travelled  far,  observed 
With  no  incurious  eye ; and  books  are  yours, 
Within  whose  silent  chambers  treasure  lies 
Preserved  from  age  to  age ; more  precious  far 
Than  that  accumulated  store  of  gold 
And  orient  gems,  which,  for  a day  of  need. 

The  Sultan  hides  within  ancestral  tombs. 

These  hoards  of  truth  you  can  unlock  at  will : 


586 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  music  waits  upon  your  skilful  touch, 

Sounds  which  the  wanderings  Shepherd  from  these 
Heights 

Hears,  and  forgets  his  purpose  ; — furnished  thus. 

How  can  j'ou  droop,  if  willing  to  be  raised  1 


“ A piteous  lot  it  were  to  flee  from  Man  — 

Yet  not  rejoice  in  Nature.  He  — whose  hours 
Are  by  domestic  Pleasures  uncaressed 
And  unenlivened  ; who  exists  whole  years 
Apart  from  benefits  received  or  done 
’Mid  the  transactions  of  the  bustling  crowd; 

Who  neither  hears,  nor  feels  a wish  to  hear. 

Of  the  world’s  interests  — such  a One  hath  need 
Of  a quick  fancy,  and  an  active  heart. 

That,  for  the  day’s  consumption,  books  may  yield 
A not  unwholesome  food,  and  earth  and  air 
Supply  his  morbid  humour  with  delight. 

— Truth  has  her  pleasure-grounds,  her  haunts  of  ease 
And  easy  contemplation,  — gay  parterres. 

And  labyrinthine  walks,  her  sunny  glades 
And  shady  groves  for  recreation  framed 
These  may  he  range,  if  wnlling  to  partake 
Their  soft  indulgences,  and  in  due  time 
May  issue  thence,  recruited  for  the  tasks 
And  course  of  service  Truth  requires  from  those 
Who  tend  her  Altars,  wait  upon  her  Throne, 

And  guard  her  Fortresses.  Who  thinks,  and  feels. 

And  recognises  ever  and  anon 

The  breeze  of  Nature  stirring  in  his  soul. 

Why  need  such  man  go  desperately  astray. 

And  nurse  ‘the  dreadful  appetite  of  death!’ 

If  tired  with  Systems  — each  in  its  degree 
Substantial  — and  all  crumbling  in  their  turn. 

Let  him  build  Systems  of  his  own,  and  smile 
At  the  fond  work  — demolished  with  a touch ; 

If  unreligious,  let  him  be  at  once. 

Among  ten  thousand  Innocents,  enrolled 
A Pupil  in  the  many-chambered  school, 

Where  Superstition  weaves  her  airy  dreams. 

“ Life’s  Autumn  past,  I stand  on  Winter’s  verge. 

And  daily  lose  what  I desire  to  keep : 

Yet  rather  would  I instantly  decline 
To  the  traditionary  sympathies 
Of  a most  rustic  ignorance,  and  take 
A fearful  apprehension  from  the  owl 
Or  death-watch,  — and  as  readily  rejoice. 

If  two  auspicious  magpies  crossed  my  way ; 

To  this  would  rather  bend  than  see  and  hear 
The  repetitions  wearisome  of  sense. 

Where  soul  is  dead,  and  feeling  hath  no  place; 
Where  knowledge,  ill  begun  in  cold  remark 
On  outward  things,  with  formal  inference  ends: 

Or,  if  the  Mind  turn  inward,  ’tis  perplexed. 

Lost  in  a gloom  of  uninspired  research ; 

Meanwhile,  the  Heart  within  the  Heart,  the  scat 


I Where  Peace  and  happy  Consciousness  should  dwell. 
On  its  own  axis  restlessly  revolves. 

Yet  nowhere  finds  the  cheering  light  of  truth. 


I 

i 


“ Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  Earth 

Man  walked ; and  when  and  wheresoe’er  he  moved. 

Alone  or  mated.  Solitude  was  not. 

He  heard,  upon  the  wind,  the  articulate  Voice 
Of  God  ; and  Angels  to  his  sight  appeared. 

Crowning  the  glorious  hills  of  Paradise  ; 

Or  through  the  groves  gliding  like  morning  mist 
Enkindled  by  the  sun.  He  sate  — and  talked 
With  winged  Messengers;  who  daily  brought 
To  his  small  Island  in  the  ethereal  deep 
Tidings  of  joy  and  love.  — From  these  pure  Heights 
(Whether  of  actual  vision,  sensible 
To  sight  and  feeling,  or  that  in  this  .sort 
Have  condescendingly  been  shadowed  forth 
Communications  spiritually  maintained. 

And  Intuitions  moral  and  divine) 

Fell  Human-kind  — to  banishment  condemned 
That  flowing  years  repealed  not : and  distress 
And  grief  spread  wide  ; but  Man  escaped  the  doom 
Of  destitution  ; — Solitude  was  not. 

— Jehovah  — shapeless  Power  above  all  Powers, 
Single  and  one,  the  omnipresent  God, 

By  vocal  utterance,  or  blaze  of  light. 

Or  cloud  of  darkness,  localized  in  heaven  ; 

On  earth,  enshrined  within  the  wandering  ark; 

Or,  out  of  Sion,  thundering  from  his  throne 
Between  the  Cherubim  — on  the  chosen  Race 
Show'ered  miracles,  and  ceased  not  to  dispense 
Judgments,  that  filled  the  Land  from  age  to  age 
With  hope,  and  love,  and  gratitude,  and  fear; 

And  with  amazement  smote ; — thereby  to  assert 
His  scorned,  or  unacknowledged  Sovereignty. 

And  when  the  One,  ineffable  of  name. 

Of  nature  indivisible,  withdrew 
From  mortal  adoration  or  regard. 

Not  then  was  Deity  engulfed,  nor  Man, 

The  rational  Creature,  left,  to  feel  the  weight 
Of  his  own  reason,  without  sense  or  thought 
Of  higher  reason  and  a purer  will. 

To  benefit  and  bless,  through  mightier  power: 

— Whether  the  Persian  — zealous  to  reject 
Altar  and  Image,  and  the  inclusive  walls 
And  roofs  of  Temples  built  by  human  hands  — 

To  loftiest  heights  ascending,  from  their  tops. 

With  myrtle-wreathed  Tiara  on  his  brow. 

Presented  sacrifice  to  Moon  and  Stars, 

And  to  the  winds  and  Mother  Elements, 

And  the  whole  Circle  of  the  Heavens,  for  him 
A sensitive  Existence,  and  a God, 

With  lifted  hands  invoked,  and  songs  of  praise : 

Or,  less  reluctantly  to  bonds  of  Sense 
Yielding  his  Soul,  the  Babylonian  framed 
For  influence  undefined  a personal  Shape; 

And,  from  the  Plain,  with  toil  immense,  upreared 


THE  EXCURSION. 


587 


Tower  eight  times  planted  on  the  top  of  Tower ; 
That  Belus,  nightly  to  his  splendid  Couch 
Descending,  there  might  rest;  upon  that  Height 
Pure  and  serene,  diffused  — to  overlook 
Winding  Euphrates,  and  the  City  vast 
Of  his  devoted  Worshippers,  far-stretched. 

With  grove,  and  field,  and  garden,  interspersed  ; 
Their  Town,  and  foodful  Region  for  support 
Against  the  pressure  of  beleaguring  war. 

“ Chaldean  Shepherds,  ranging  trackless  fields. 
Beneath  the  concave  of  unclouded  skies 
Spread  like  a sea,  in  boundless  solitude. 

Looked  on  the  Polar  Star,  as  on  a Guide 
And  Guardian  of  their  course,  that  never  closed 
His  steadfast  eye.  The  Planetary  Five 
With  a submissive  reverence  they  beheld ; 
Watched,  from  the  centre  of  their  sleeping  flocks 
Those  radiant  Mercuries,  that  seemed  to  move 
Carrying  through  Ether,  in  perpetual  round. 
Decrees  and  resolutions  of  the  Gods; 

And,  by  their  aspects,  signifying  works 
Of  dim  futurity,  to  man  revealed. 

— The  Imaginative  Faculty  was  Lord 

Of  observations  natural ; and,  thus 

Led  on,  those  Shepherds  made  report  of  Stars 

In  set  rotation  passing  to  and  fro. 

Between  the  orbs  of  our  apparent  sphere 
And  its  invisible  counterpart,  adorned 
With  answering  Constellations,  under  earth. 
Removed  from  all  approach  of  living  sight 
But  present  to  the  Dead  ; who,  so  they  deemed. 
Like  those  celestial  Messengers  beheld 
All  accidents,  and  Judges  were  of  all. 

“The  lively  Grecian,  in  a Land  of  hills. 

Rivers,  and  fertile  plains,  and  sounding  shores. 
Under  a cope  of  variegated  sky. 

Could  find  commodious  place  for  every  God, 
Promptly  received,  as  prodigally  brought. 

From  the  surrounding  Countries  — at  the  choice 
Of  all  adventurers.  With  unrivalled  skill. 

As  nicest  observation  furnished  hints 
For  studious  fancy,  did  his  hand  bestow 
On  fluent  Operations  a fixed  shape; 

Metal  or  Stone,  idolatrously  served. 

And  yet  — triumphant  o’er  this  pompous  show 
Of  Art,  this  palpable  array  of  Sense, 

On  every  side  encountered ; in  despite 
Of  the  gross  fictions  chanted  in  the  streets 
By  wandering  Rhapsodists;  and  in  contempt 
Of  doubt  and  bold  denial  hourly  urged 
Amid  the  wrangling  Schools  — a spirit  hung. 
Beautiful  Region ! o’er  thy  Towns  and  Farms, 
Statues  and  Temples,  and  memorial  Tombs; 
And  emanations  were  perceived ; and  acts 
Of  immortality,  in  Nature’s  course. 

Exemplified  by  mysteries,  that  were  felt 


As  bonds,  on  grave  Philosopher  imposed 
And  armed  Warrior;  and  in  every  grove 
A gay  or  pensive  tenderness  prevailed. 

When  piety  more  awful  had  relaxed. 

— ‘ Take,  running  River,  take  these  Locks  of  mine’ — 
Thus  would  the  Votary  say  — ‘ this  severed  hair, 

‘ My  vow  fulfilling,  do  I here  present, 

‘Thankful  for  my  beloved  Child’s  return. 

‘Thy  banks,  Cephisus,  he  again  liath  trod, 

‘Thy  murmurs  heard;  and  drunk  the  crystal  lymph 
‘ With  which  thou  dost  refresh  the  thirsty  lip, 

‘ And  moisten  all  day  long  these  flowery  fields !’ 

And  doubtless,  sometimes,  when  the  hair  was  shed 
Upon  the  flowing  stream,  a thought  arose 
Of  Life  continuous.  Being  unimpaired; 

That  hath  been,  is,  and  where  it  was  and  is 
There  shall  endure,  — existence  unexposed 
To  the  blind  walk  of  mortal  accident; 

From  diminution  safe  and  weakening  age; 

While  Man  grows  old,  and  dwindles,  and  decays; 

And  countless  generations  of  Mankind 
Depart ; and  leave  no  vestige  where  they  trod. 

“ We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love  ; 

And,  even  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fixed. 

In  dignity  of  Being  we  ascend. 

But  what  is  error  1”  — “ Answer  he  who  can  !’’ 

The  Sceptic  somewhat  haughtily  exclaimed  : 

“ Love,  Hope,  and  Admiration  — are  they  not 
Mad  Fancy’s  favourite  Vassals  1 Does  not  life 
Use  them,  full  oft,  as  Pioneers  to  ruin. 

Guides  to  destruction!  Is  it  well  to  trust 
Imagination’s  light  when  Reason’s  fails. 

The  unguarded  taper  where  the  guarded  faints'? 

— Stoop  from  those  heights,  and  soberly  declare 
What  error  is ; and,  of  our  errors,  which 
Doth  most  debase  the  mind  ; the  genuine  seats 
Of  power,  where  are  they  ? Who  shall  regulate, 
With  truth,  the  scale  of  intellectual  rank?” 

“ Methinks,”  persuasively  the  Sage  replied, 

“ That  for  this  arduous  office  You  possess 

Some  rare  advantages.  Your  early  days 

A grateful  recollection  must  supply 

Of  much  e.xalted  good  by  Heaven  vouchsafed 

To  dignify  the  humblest  state.  — Your  voice 

Hath,  in  my  hearing,  often  testified 

That  poor  Men’s  Children,  they,  and  they  alone. 

By  their  condition  taught,  can  understand 
The  wisdom  of  the  prayer  that  daily  asks 
For  daily  bread.  A consciousness  is  yours 
How  feelingly  religion  may  be  learned 
In  smoky  Cabins,  from  a Mother’s  tongue  — 

Heard  while  the  Dwelling  vibrates  to  the  din 
Of  the  contiguous  Torrent,  gathering  strength 
At  every  moment  — and,  with  strength,  increase 
Of  fury;  or,  while  Snow  is  at  the  door. 

Assaulting  and  defending,  and  the  Wind, 


588 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A sightless  Labourer,  whistles  at  his  work  — 

Fearful,  but  resignation  tempers  fear, 

And  piety  is  sweet  .o  infant  minds. 

— The  Shepherd  Lad,  who  in  the  sunshine  carves, 
On  the  green  turf,  a dial  — to  divide 

The  silent  hours ; and  who  to  that  report 
Can  portion  out  his  pleasures,  and  adapt 
Ilis  round  of  pastoral  duties,  is  not  left 
With  less  intelligence  for  moral  things 
Of  gravest  import.  Early  he  perceives, 

Within  himself,  a measure  and  a rule. 

Which  to  the  Sun  of  Truth  he  can  apply. 

That  shines  for  him,  ant^hines  for  all  Mankind. 
E.vperience  daily  fixing  his  regards 
On  Nature’s  wants,  he  knows  how  few  they  are. 

And  where  they  lie,  how  answered  and  appeased. 
This  knowledge  ample  recompense  affords 
For  manifold  privations;  he  refers 
Ilis  notions  to  this  standard  ; on  this  rock 
Rests  his  desires;  and  hence,  in  after  life. 
Soul-strengthening  patience,  and  sublime  content. 
Imagination  — not  permitted  here 
To  waste  her  powers,  as  in  the  worldling’s  mind. 

On  fickle  pleasures,  and  superfluous  cares. 

And  trivial  ostentation  — is  left  free 
And  puissant  to  range  the  solemn  walks 
Of  time  and  nature,  girded  by  a zone 
That,  while  it  binds,  invigorates  and  supports. 
Acknowledge,  then,  that  whether  by  the  side 
Of  his  poor  hut,  or  on  the  mountain  top. 

Or  in  the  cultured  field,  a Man  so  bred 
(Take  from  him  what  you  will  upon  the  score 
Of  ignorance  or  illusion)  lives  and  breathes 
For  noble  purposes  of  mind : his  heart 
Beats  to  the  heroic  song  of  ancient  days; 

Ilis  eye  distinguishes,  his  soul  creates. 

And  those  Illusions,  which  excite  the  scorn 
Or  move  the  pity  of  unthinking  minds. 

Are  they  not  mainly  outward  Ministers 
Of  inward  Conscience?  with  whose  service  charged 
They  came  and  go,  appeared  and  disappear. 
Diverting  evil  purposes,  remorse 
Awakening,  chastening  an  intemperate  grief. 

Or  pride  of  heart  abating:  and,  whene’er 
For  less  important  ends  those  Phantoms  move, 

Who  would  forbid  them,  if  tlieir  presence  serve, 
Among  wild  mountains  and  unpeopled  heaths. 

Filling  a space,  else  vacant,  to  exalt 

The  forms  of  Nature,  and  enlarge  her  powers? 

“ Once  more  to  distant  Ages  of  the  world 
Let  us  revert,  and  place  before  our  thoughts 
The  face  which  rural  Solitude  might  wear 
To  the  unenlightened  Swains  of  pagan  Greece. 

— In  that  fair  Clime,  the  lonely  Herdsman,  stretched 
On  the  soft  grass  through  half  a summer’s  day, 

With  music  lulled  his  indolent  repose: 

And,  in  some  fit  of  weariness  if  he. 


When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 
A distant  strain,  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 
Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  Fancy  fetched, 
Even  from  the  blazing  Chariot  of  the  Sun, 

A beardless  Youth,  who  touched  a golden  lute. 

And  filled  the  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 

Tlie  nightly  Hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 
Towards  the  crescent  Moon,  with  grateful  heart 
Called  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestowed 
That  timely  light,  to  share  his  joyous  sport: 

And  hence,  a beaming  Goddess  with  her  Nymphs, 
Across  the  lawn  and  through  the  darksome  grove 
(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes 
By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave) 

Swept  in  the  storm  of  chase,  as  Moon  and  Stars 
Glance  rapidly  along  the  clouded  heaven. 

When  winds  are  blowing  strong.  The  Traveller  slaked 
Ilis  thirst  from  Rill  or  gushing  Fount,  and  thanked 
The  Naiad.  — Sunbeams,  upon  distant  Hills 
Gliding  apace,  with  Shadows  in  their  train. 

Might,  with  small  help  from  fancy,  be  transformed 
Into  fleet  Oreads  sporting  visibly. 

The  Zephyrs,  fanning  as  they  passed,  their  wings. 
Lacked  not,  for  love,  fair  Objects,  whom  they  wooed 
With  gentle  whisper.  Withered  Boughs  grotesque. 
Stripped  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 

From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth 
In  the  low  vale,  or  on  steep  mountain  side; 

And,  sometimes,  intermixed  with  stirring  horns 
Of  the  live  Deer,  or  Goat’s  depending  beard, — 

These  were  the  lurking  Satyrs,  a wild  brood 
Of  gamesome  Deities;  or  Pan  himself. 

The  simple  Shepherd’s  awe-inspiring  God !” 

As  this  apt  strain  proceeded,  I could  mark 
Its  kindly  influence,  o’er  the  yielding  brow 
Of  our  Companion,  gradually  diffused ; 

While,  listening,  he  had  paced  the  noiseless  turf. 

Like  one  whose  untired  ear  a murmuring  stream 
Detains ; but  tempted  now  to  interpose, 

He  with  a smile  exclaimed  — 

’T  is  well  you  speak 

At  a safe  distance  from  our  native  Land, 

And  from  the  Mansions  where  our  youth  was  taught 
The  true  Descendants  of  those  godly  Men 
Who  swept  from  Scotland,  in  a flame  of  zeal. 

Shrine,  Altar,  Image,  and  the  massy  Piles 
That  harboured  them,  — the  Souls  retaining  yet 
The  churlish  features  of  that  after  Race 
Who  fled  to  caves,  and  woods,  and  naked  rocks. 

In  deadly  scorn  of  superstitious  rites. 

Or  what  their  scruples  construed  to  be  such  — 

IIow,  think  you,  would  they  tolerate  this  scheme 
Of  fine  propensities,  that  tends,  if  urged 
Far  as  it  might  be  urged,  to  sow  afresh 
The  weeds  of  Romish  Phantasy,  in  vain 
Uprooted  ; would  re-consecrate  our  Wells 
To  good  Saint  Fillan  and  to  fair  Saint  Anne ; 


THE  EXCURSION. 


589 


And  from  Ions’  banishment  recall  Saint  Giles, 

To  watch  again  with  tutelary  love 

O’er  stately  Edinborough  throned  on  crags'? 

A blessed  restoration,  to  behold 

The  Patron,  on  the  shoulders  of  his  Priests, 

Once  more  parading  through  her  crowded  streets; 
Now  simply  guarded  by  the  sober  Powers 
Of  Science,  and  Philosophy,  and  Sense !” 

This  answer  followed. — “ You  have  turned  my  thoughts 
Upon  our  brave  Progenitors,  who  rose 
Against  Idolatry  with  warlike  mind. 

And  shrunk  from  vain  observances,  to  lurk 
In  caves,  and  woods,  and  under  dismal  rocks. 

Deprived  of  shelter,  covering,  fire,  and  food ; 

Why  ? — for  this  very  reason  that  they  felt. 

And  did  acknowledge,  wheresoe’er  they  moved, 

A Spiritual  Presence,  oft-times  misconceived; 

But  still  a high  dependence,  a divine 
Bounty  and  government,  that  filled  their  hearts 
With  joy,  and  gratitude,  and  fear,  and  love  ; 

And  from  their  fervent  lips  drew  hymns  of  praise. 
That  through  the  desert  rang.  Though  favoured  less. 
Far  less,  than  these,  yet  such,  in  their  degree. 

Were  those  bewildered  Pagans  of  old  time. 

Beyond  their  own  poor  Natures  and  above 
They  looked  ; were  humbly  thankful  for  the  good 
Which  the  warm  Sun  solicited  — and  Earth 
Bestowed  ; were  gladsome,  — and  their  moral  sense 
They  fortified  with  reverence  for  the  Gods ; 

And  they  had  hopes  that  overstepped  the  Grave. 

“ Now,  shall  our  great  Discoverers,”  he  exclaimed. 
Raising  his  voice  triumphantly,  “ obtain 
From  Sense  and  Reason  less  than  These  obtained. 
Though  far  misled  ? Shall  Men  for  whom  our  Age 
Unbaffled  powers  of  vision  hath  prepared. 

To  explore  the  world  without  and  world  within. 

Be  joyless  as  the  blind  1 Ambitious  Souls  — 

Whom  Earth,  at  this  late  season,  hath  produced 
To  regulate  the  moving  spheres,  and  weigh 
The  planets  in  the  hollow  of  their  hand  ; 

And  They  who  rather  dive  than  soar,  whose  pains 
Have  solved  the  elements,  or  analysed 
The  thinking  principle  — shall  They  in  fact 
Prove  a degraded  Race?  and  what  avails 
Renown,  if  their  presumption  make  them  such? 

Oh ! there  is  laughter  at  their  work  in  Heaven ! 
Inquire  of  ancient  Wisdom  ; go,  demand 
Of  mighty  Nature,  if ’t  was  ever  meant 
That  we  should  pry  far  off  yet  be  unraised  ; 

That  we  should  pore,  and  dwindle  as  we  pore. 
Viewing  all  objects  unremittingly 
In  disconnexion  dead  and  spiritless; 

And  still  dividing,  and  dividing  still. 

Break  down  all  grandeur,  still  unsatisfied 
With  the  perverse  attempt,  while  littleness 
May  yet  become  more  little;  waging  thus 


An  impious  warfare  with  the  very  life 
Of  our  own  souls  ! — And  if  indeed  there  be 
An  all-pervading  Spirit,  upon  whom 
Our  dark  foundations  rest,  could  He  design 
That^  this  magnificent  effect  of  Power, 

The  Earth  we  tread,  the  Sky  that  we  behold 
By  day,  and  all  the  pomp  which  night  reveals. 

That  these  — and  that  superior  Mystery 
Our  vital  Frame,  so  fearfully  devised. 

And  the  dread  Soul  within  it  — should  exist 
Only  to  be  examined,  pondered,  searched. 

Probed,  vexed,  and  criticised  ? — Accuse  me  not 
Of  arrogance,  unknown  Wanderer  as  I am. 

If,  having  walked  with  Nature  threescore  years. 

And  offered,  far  as  frailty  would  allow. 

My  heart  a daily  sacrifice  to  Truth, 

I now  affirm  of  Nature  and  of  Truth, 

Whom  I have  served,  that  their  Divinity 
Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  Men 
Swayed  by  such  motives,  to  such  end  employed- 
Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  Soul 
Be  of  a thousand  faculties  composed, 

! And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 
This  Soul,  and  the  transcendent  Universe, 

No  more  than  as  a Mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  Self-love  her  own  intelligence; 

That  One,  poor,  infinite  Object,  in  the  Abyss 
Of  infinite  Being,  twinkling  restlessly ! 

“Nor  higher  place  can  be  assigned  to  Him 

And  his  Compeers  — the  laughing  Sage  of  France.  — 

Crowned  was  He,  if  my  Memory  do  not  err. 

With  laurel  planted  upon  hoary  hairs. 

In  sign  of  conquest  by  his  Wit  achieved. 

And  benefits  his  wisdom  had  conferred. 

His  tottering  Body  was  with  wreaths  of  flowers 
1 Opprest,  far  less  becoming  ornaments 
Than  Spring  oft  twines  about  a mouldering  Tree; 

Yet  so  it  pleased  a fond,  a vain  old  Man, 

And  a most  frivolous  People.  Him  I mean 
Who  penned,  to  ridicule  confiding  Faith, 

This  sorry  Legend  ; which  by  chance  we  found 
Piled  in  a nook,  through  malice,  as  might  seem. 
Among  more  innocent  rubbish.”  — Speaking  thus, 
With  a brief  notice  when,  and  how,  and  where. 

We  had  espied  the  Book,  he  drew  it  forth ; 

And  courteously,  as  if  the  act  removed. 

At  once,  all  traces  from  the  good  Man’s  heart 
Of  unbenign  aversion  or  contempt, 

Restored  it  to  its  owner.  “ Gentle  Friend,” 

Herewith  he  grasped  the  Solitary’s  hand, 

“ You  have  known  better  Lights  and  Guides  than 
these  — 

Ah  ! let  not  aught  amiss  within  dispose 
A noble  mind  to  practise  on  herself. 

And  tempt  Opinion  to  support  the  wrongs 
Of  Passion  : whatsoe’er  be  felt  or  feared. 

From  higher  judgment-seats  make  nc  appeal 


590 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


To  lower:  can  you  question  that  the  Soul 
Inherits  an  allegiance,  not  by  choice 
To  be  cast  off,  upon  an  oath  proposed 
By  each  new  upstart  Notion]  In  the  ports 
Of  levity  no  refuge  can  be  found. 

No  shelter,  for  a spirit  in  distress. 

He,  who  by  wilful  disesteem  of  life. 

And  proud  insensibility  to  hope. 

Affronts  the  eye  of  Solitude,  shall  learn 
That  her  mild  nature  can  be  terrible ; 

That  neither  she  nor  Silence  lack  the  power 
To  avenge  their  own  insulted  Majesty, 

— O blest  seclusion  ! when  the  Mind  admits 
Tlie  law  of  duty;  and  can  therefore  move 
Through  each  vicissitude  of  loss  and  gain. 

Linked  in  entire  complacence  with  her  choice  ; 
When  Youth’s  presumptuousness  is  mellowed  down. 
And  Manhood’s  vain  anxiety  dismissed ; 

When  Wisdom  shows  her  seasonable  fruit, 

Upon  the  boughs  of  sheltering  Leisure  hung 
In  sober  plenty;  when  the  spirit  stoops 
To  drink  with  gratitude  the  crystal  stream 
Of  unreproved  enjoyment ; and  is  pleased 
To  muse,  — and  be  saluted  by  the  air 
Of  meek  repentance,  wafting  wall-flower  scents 
From  out  the  crumbling  ruins  of  fallen  Pride 
And  chambers  of  Transgression,  now  forlorn. 

O,  calm  contented  days,  and  peaceful  nights! 

Who,  when  such  good  can  be  obtained,  would  strive 
To  reconcile  his  Manhood  to  a couch 
Soft,  as  may  seem,  but,  under  that  disguise. 

Stuffed  with  the  thorny  substance  of  the  past. 

For  fixed  annoyance  ; and  full  oft  beset 
With  floating  dreams,  disconsolate  and  black. 

The  vapoury  phantoms  of  futurity] 

“ Within  the  soul  a Faculty  abides. 

That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp ; and  serve  to  exalt 
Her  native  brightness.  As  the  ample  Moon, 

In  the  deep  stillness  of  a summer  Even 
Rising  behind  a tliick  and  lofty  grove. 

Burns  like  an  unconsuming  fire  of  light. 

In  the  green  trees ; and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Tlieir  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a substance  glorious  as  her  own. 

Yea  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power. 

Capacious  and  serene;  like  power  abides 
In  Man’s  celestial  Spirit;  Virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself ; thus  feeds 
A calm,  a beautiful,  and  silent  fire, 
b'rom  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life. 

From  error,  disappointment,  — nay,  from  guilt 
And  sometimes,  so  relenting  Justice  wills, 

From  palpable  oppressions  of  Despair.” 

The  Solitary  by  these  words  was  touched 
With  manifest  emotion,  and  exclaimed, 


“ But  how  begin  ] and  whence  ] — the  Mind  is  free ; 
Resolve  — the  haughty  Moralist  would  say. 

This  single  act  is  all  that  we  demand. 

Alas ! such  wisdom  bids  a Creature  fly 

Whose  very  sorrow  is,  that  time  hath  shorn 

His  natural  wings  I — To  Friendship  let  him  turn 

For  succour ; but  perhaps  he  sits  alone 

On  stormy  waters,  in  a little  Boat 

That  holds  but  him,  and  can  contain  no  more ! 

Religion  tells  of  amity  sublime 

Which  no  condition  can  preclude ; of  One 

Who  sees  all  suffering,  comprehends  all  wants. 

All  weakness  fathoms,  can  supply  all  needs ; 

But  is  that  bounty  absolute]  — His  gifts. 

Are  they  not  still,  in  some  degree,  rewards 
For  acts  of  service  ] Can  his  Love  extend 
To  hearts  that  own  not  Him]  Will  showers  ofgrac^ 
When  in  the  sky  no  promise  may  be  seen. 

Fall  to  refresh  a parched  and  withered  land  ] 

Or  shall  the  groaning  Spirit  cast  her  load 
At  the  Redeemer’s  feet]” 

In  rueful  tone. 

With  some  impatience  in  his  mien,  he  spake; 

Back  to  my  mind  rushed  all  that  had  been  urged 
To  calm  the  Sufferer  when  his  story  closed ; 

I I looked  for  counsel  as  unbending  now ; 
j But  a discriminating  sympathy 
Stooped  to  this  apt  reply, — 

“ As  Men  from  Men 
Do,  in  the  constitution  of  their  Souls, 

: Differ,  by  mystery  not  to  be  explained  ; 
j And  as  we  fall  by  various  ways,  and  sink 
One  deeper  than  another,  self-condemned. 

Through  manifold  degrees  of  guilt  and  shame, 

! So  manifold  and  various  are  the  ways 
: Of  restoration,  fashioned  to  the  steps 
I Of  all  infirmity,  and  tending  all 
I To  the  same  point,  — attainable  by  all ; 

Peace  in  ourselves,  and  union  with  our  God. 
j For  you,  assuredly,  a hopeful  road 
Lies  open : we  have  heard  from  You  a voice 
I At  every  moment  softened  in  its  course 
! By  tenderness  of  heart ; have  seen  your  Eye, 
j Even  like  an  Altar  lit  by  fire  from  Heaven, 

' Kindle  before  us.  — Your  discourse  this  day. 

That,  like  the  fabled  Lethe,  wished  to  flow 
' In  creeping  sadness,  through  oblivious  shades 
Of  death  and  night,  has  caught  at  every  turn 
The  colours  of  the  Sun.  Access  for  you 
Is  yet  preserved  to  principles  of  truth. 

Which  the  Imaginative  Will  upholds 
In  seats  of  wisdom,  not  to  be  approached 
By  the  inferior  faculty  that  moulds, 

With  her  minute  and  speculative  pains. 

Opinion,  ever  changing  ! — I have  seen 
A curious  Child,  who  dwelt  upon  a tract 


THE  EXCURSION. 


591 


Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 
The  convolutions  of  a sinootli-lipped  Shell ; 

To  which,  in  silence  hushed,  his  very  soul 
Listened  intensely;  and  his  countenance  soon 
Briglitened  with  joy  ; for  murmurings  from  within 
Were  heard,  — sonorous  cadences  ! whereby 
To  his  belief,  the  Monitor  expressed 
Mysterious  union  with  its  native  Sea.* 

Even  such  a Shell  the  Universe  itself 
Is  to  the  ear  of  Faith  ; and  there  are  times, 

I doubt  not,  when  to  You  it  doth  impart 
Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things; 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever-during  power; 

And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 
Of  endless  agitation.  Here  you  stand. 

Adore,  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not ; 

Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  thought; 

Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

— Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 
The  estate  of  Man  would  be  indeed  forlorn 
If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  Power 
Made  the  Eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 
Through  which  the  Ear  converses  with  the  heart. 
Has  not  the  Soul,  the  Being  of  your  Life, 

Received  a shock  of  awful  consciousness. 

In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  Rocks 
At  night’s  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  Sky, 
To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls ; 

A Temple  framing  of  dimensions  vast. 

And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 
Of  human  anthems,  — choral  song,  or  burst 
Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony. 

To  glorify  the  Eternal ! What  if  these 
Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 
Here,  if  the  solemn  Nightingale  be  mute. 

And  the  soft  Woodlark  here  did  never  chant 
Her  vespers,  Nature  fails  not  to  provide 
Impulse  and  utterance.  The  whispering  Air 
Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights. 

And  blind  recesses  of  the  caverned  rocks ; 

The  little  Rills,  and  Waters  numberless. 

Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 
With  the  loud  Streams : and  often,  at  the  hour 
When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  Stars,  is  heard. 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  Fabric  huge. 

One  Voice — the  solitary  Raven,  flying 
Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark-blue  dome. 

Unseen,  perchance  above  all  power  of  sight  — 

An  iron  knell ! with  echoes  from  afar 


* [ “ Of  pearly  hue 

Within,  and  they  that  lustre  have  imbibed 
In  the  Sun's  palace  porch ; where,  when  unyoked, 
His  chariot- wheel  stands  midway  in  the  wave. 
Shake  one,  and  it  awakens  ; then  apply 
Its  polished  lips  to  your  attentive  ear. 

And  it  remembers  its  august  abodes. 

And  murmurs  as  the  ocean  murmurs  there.” 

Landor. H.  R.] 


Faint — and  still  fainter — as  the  cry,  with  whicli 
The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 
Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear. 
Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seemed 
To  expire,  yet  from  the  Abyss  is  caught  again. 

And  yet  again  recovered  1 

“ But  descending 

From  these  Imaginative  Heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  Eternity 
Acknowledge  that  to  Nature’s  humbler  power 
Your  cherished  sullenness  is  forced  to  bend 
Even  here,  where  her  amenities  are  sown 
With  sparing  hand.  Then  trust  yourself  abroad 
To  range  her  blooming  bowers,  and  spacious  fields, 
Where  on  the  labours  of  the  happy  Throng 
She  smiles,  including  in  her  wide  embrace 
City,  and  Town,  and  Tower, — and  Sea  with  Ships 
Sprinkled;  — be  our  Companion  while  we  track 
Her  rivers  populous  with  gliding  life  ; 

While,  free  as  air,  o’er  printles*  sands  we  march, 
Or  pierce  the  gloom  of  her  majestic  woods ; 
Roaming,  or  resting  under  grateful  shade 
In  peace  and  meditative  cheerfulness; 

Where  living  Things,  and  Things  inanimate. 

Do  speak,  at  Heaven’s  command,  to  eye  and  ear. 
And  speak  to  social  Reason’s  inner  sense, 

With  inarticulate  language. 

“ For  the  Man, 

Who,  in  this  spirit,  communes  with  the  Forms 
Of  Nature,  who  with  understanding  heart 
Doth  know  and  love  such  Objects  as  excite 
No  morbid  passions,  no  disquietude. 

No  vengeance,  and  no  hatred,  needs  must  feel 
The  joy  of  that  pure  principle  of  Love 
So  deeply,  that,  unsatisfied  with  aught 
Less  pure  and  exquisite,  he  cannot  choose 
But  seek  for  objects  of  a kindred  love 
In  Fellow-natures  and  a kindred  joy. 

Accordingly  he  by  degrees  perceives 
His  feelings  of  aversion  softened  down ; 

A holy  tenderness  pervade  his  frame. 

His  sanity  of  reason  not  impaired. 

Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear. 

From  a clear  Fountain  flowing,  he  looks  round 
And  seeks  for  good  ; and  finds  the  good  he  seeks: 
Until  abhorrence  and  contempt  are  things 
He  only  knows  by  name  ; and,  if  he  hear. 

From  other  mouths,  the  language  which  they  speak. 
He  is  compassionate;  and  has  no  thought. 

No  feeling,  which  can  overcome  his  love. 

“And  further;  by  contemplating  these  Forms 
In  the  relations  which  they  bear  to  Man, 

He  shall  discern,  how,  through  the  various  means 
Which  silently  they  yield,  are  multiplied 
The  spiritual  Presences  of  absent  Things. 


592 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Trust  me,  that  for  the  Instructed,  time  will  come 
When  they  shall  meet  no  object  but  may  teach 
Some  acceptable  lesson  to  their  minds 
Of  human  suffering',  or  of  human  joy. 

So  shall  they  learn,  while  all  things  speak  of  Man, 
Their  duties  from  all  forms ; and  general  laws, 
And  local  accidents,  shall  tend  alike 
To  rouse,  to  urge;  and,  with  the  will,  confer 
The  ability  to  spread  the  blessings  wide 
Of  true  philanthropy.  The  light  of  love 
Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 
Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirmed 
The  glorious  habit  by  which  Sense  is  made 
Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 

Auxiliar  to  divine.  That  change  shall  clothe 
The  naked  Spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 
The  burthen  of  existence.  Science  theft 
Shall  be  a precious  Visitant;  and  then. 

And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name. 

For  then  her  Heart  shall  kindle ; her  dull  Eye, 

Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 
Chained  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery ; 

But  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 
The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 
Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 
Shall  it  forget  that  its  most  noble  use. 

Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 

In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a support 

Not  treacherous  to  the  Mind’s  excursive  Power. 

— So  build  we  up  the  Being  that  we  are ; 

Thus  deeply  drinking-in  the  Soul  of  Things, 

We  shall  be  wise  perforce  ; and  while  inspired 
By  choice,  and  conscious  that  the  Will  is  free. 
Unswerving  shall  we  move,  as  if  impelled 
By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 
Of  order  and  of  good.  Whate’er  we  see, 

Whate’er  we  feel,  by  agency  direct 
Or  indirect,  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse 
Our  faculties,  shall  fix  in  calmer  seats 
Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 
Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul.” 

Here  closed  the  Sage  that  eloquent  harangue. 
Poured  forth  with  fervour  in  continuous  stream ; 
Such  as,  remote,  ’mid  savage  wilderness. 

An  Indian  Chief  discharges  from  his  breast 


Into  the  hearing  of  assembled  Tribes, 

In  open  circle  seated  round,  and  hushed 
As  the  unbreathing  air,  when  not  a leaf 
Stirs  in  the  mighty  woods.  — So  did  he  speak  : 
The  words  he  uttered  shall  not  pass  away  ; 

For  they  sank  into  me  — the  bounteous  gift 
Of  One  whom  time  and  nature  had  made  wise. 
Gracing  his  language  with  authority 
Which  hostile  spirits  silently  allow ; 

Of  One  accustomed  to  desires  that  feed 
On  fruitage  gathered  from  the  Tree  of  Life; 

To  hopes  on  knowledge  and  experience  built ; 

Of  One  in  whom  persuasion  and  belief 
Had  ripened  into  faith,  and  faith  become 
A passionate  intuition ; v/hence  the  Soul, 

Though  bound  to  Earth  by  ties  of  pity  and  love. 
From  all  injurious  servitude  was  free. 

The  Sun,  before  his  place  of  rest  were  reached, 
Had  yet  to  travel  far,  but  unto  us. 

To  us  who  stood  low  in  that  hollow  Dell, 

He  had  become  invisible,  — a pomp 
Leaving  behind  of  yellow  radiance  spread 
Upon  the  mountain  sides,  in  contrast  bold 
With  ample  shadows,  seemingly,  no  less 
Than  those  resplendent  lights,  his  rich  bequest, 

A dispensation  of  his  evening  power. 

— Adown  the  path  that  from  the  Glen  had  led 
The  funeral  Train,  the  Shepherd  and  his  Mate 
Were  seen  descending ; — forth  to  greet  them  ran 
Our  little  Page ; the  rustic  Pair  approach ; 

And  in  the  Matron’s  aspect  may  be  read 
A plain  assurance  that  the  words  which  told 
How  that  neglected  Pensioner  was  sent 
Before  his  time  into  a quiet  grave. 

Had  done  to  her  humanity  no  wrong: 

But  we  are  kindly  welcomed  — promptly  served 
With  ostentatious  zeal.  — Along  the  floor 
Of  the  small  Cottage  in  the  lonely  Dell 
A grateful  Couch  was  spread  for  our  repose  ; 
Where,  in  the  guise  of  Mountaineers,  we  slept. 
Stretched  upon  fragrant  heath,  and  lulled  by  sound 
Of  far-olT  torrents  charming  the  still  night. 

And  to  tired  limbs  and  over-busy  thoughts 
Inviting  sleep  and  soft  forgetfulness. 


THE  EXCURSION 


BOOK  THE  FIFTH. 
THE  PASTOR. 


ARGUMENT. 

Ftrewell  lo  the  Valley — Reflections  — Sight  of  a large  and  populous  Vale — Solitary  consents  to  go  forward  — 
Vai*  described  — The  Pastor’s  Dwelling,  and  some  account  of  him  — The  Churchyard  — Church  and  Monuments 
— The  Solitary  musing,  and  where  — Roused  — In  the  Church-yard  the  Solitary  communicates  the  thoughts  which 
had  recently  passed  through  his  mind  — Lofty  tone  of  the  Wanderer's  discourse  of  yesterday  adverted  to  — Rite  of 
Baptism,  and  the  professions  accompanying  it,  contrasted  with  the  real  state  of  human  life  — Inconsistency  of  the 
best  men — Acknowledgment  that  practice  falls  far  below  the  injunctions  of  duty  as  existing  in  the  mind — General 
complaint  of  a ffclling-off  in  the  value  of  life  after  the  lime  of  youth — Outward  appearances  of  content  and  happiness 

in  degree  illusive — Pastor  approaches — Appeal  made  to  him  — Ilis  answer  — Whandercr  in  sympathy  with  him 

Suggestion  that  the  least  ambitious  Inquirers  may  be  mast  free  from  error  — The  Pastor  is  desired  to  give  some  Por- 
traits of  the  living  or  dead  from  his  ow  n observations  of  life  among  these  Mountains — and  for  vxhat  purpose Pastor 

consents  — Mountain  Cottage  — Excellent  qualities  of  its  Inhabitants  — Solitary  expresses  his  pleasure;  but  denies 
the  praise  of  virtue  to  worth  of  this  kind  — Feelings  of  the  Priest  before  he  enters  upon  his  account  of  Persons 
interred  in  the  Church-yard — Graves  of  unbaptized  Infants — What  sensations  tliey  excite  — Funeral  and  sepulchral 
Observances,  whence  — Ecclesiastical  Establishments,  whence  derived  — Profession  of  Belief  in  the  doctrine  of 
Immortality. 


Farewell,  deep  Valley,  with  thy  one  rude  House, 
And  its  small  lot  of  life-supporting  fields, 

And  guardian  rocks ! — Farewell,  attractive  Seat ! 
To  the  still  influx  of  the  morning  light 
Open,  and  day’s  pure  cheerfulness,  but  veiled 
From  human  observation,  as  if  yet 
Primeval  Forests  wrapped  thee  round  with  dark 
Impenetrable  shade ; once  more  farewell. 

Majestic  Circuit,  beautiful  Abyss, 

By  Nature  destined  from  the  birth  of  things 
For  quietness  profound ! 

Upon  the  side 

Of  that  brown  Slope,  the  outlet  of  the  Vale, 
Lingering  behind  my  Comrades,  thus  I breathed 
A parting  tribute  to  a spot  that  seemed 
Like  the  fixed  centre  of  a troubled  World. 

And  now,  pursuing  leisurely  my  way. 

How  vain,  thought  I,  it  is  by  change  of  place 
To  seek  that  comfort  which  the  mind  denies; 

Yet  trial  and  temptation  oft  are  shunned 
Wisely : and  by  such  tenure  do  we  hold 
Frail  Life’s  possessions,  that  even  they  whose  fate 
Yields  no  peculiar  reason  of  complaint 
3Z 


Might,  by  the  promise  that  is  here,  be  won 
To  steal  from  active  duties,  and  embrace 
Obscurity,  and  calm  forgetfulness. 

— Knowledge,  methinks,  in  these  disordered  times 
Should  be  allowed  a privilege  to  have 
Her  Anchorites,  like  Piety  of  old ; 

Men,  who,  from  faction  sacred,  and  unstained 
By  war,  might,  if  so  minded,  turn  aside 
Uncensured,  and  subsist,  a scattered  few 
Living  to  God  and  Nature,  and  content 
With  that  communion.  Consecrated  be 
The  Spots  where  such  abide!  But  happier  still 
The  Man,  whom,  furthermore,  a hope  attends 
That  meditation  and  research  may  guide 
His  privacy  to  principles  and  powers 
Discovered  or  invented  ; or  set  forth. 

Through  his  acquaintance  with  the  ways  of  truth, 
In  lucid  order ; so  that,  when  his  course 
Is  run,  some  faithful  Eulogist  may  say. 

He  sought  not  praise,  and  praise  did  overlook 
His  unobtrusive  merit;  but  his  life. 

Sweet  to  himself,  was  exercised  in  good 
That  shall  survive  his  name  and  memory. 


594 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Acknowledgments  of  gratitude  sincere 
Accompanied  these  musings;  — fervent  thanks 
For  my  own  peaceful  lot  and  happy  choice; 

A choice  that  from  the  passions  of  the  world 
Withdrew,  and  fixed  me  in  a still  retreat, 
Sheltered,  but  not  to  social  duties  lost. 

Secluded,  but  not  buried  ; and  with  song 
Cheering  my  days,  and  with  industrious  thought. 
With  ever-welcome  company  of  books. 

By  virtuous  friendship’s  soul-sustaining  aid. 

And  with  the  blessings  of  domestic  love. 

Thus  occupied  in  mind  I paced  along. 

Following  the  rugged  road,  by  sledge  or  wheel 
Worn  in  the  moorland,  till  I overtook 
]\ly  two  Associates,  in  the  morning  sunshine 
Halting  together  on  a rocky  knoll, 

From  which  the  road  descended  rapidly 
To  the  green  meadows  of  another  Vale. 

Here  did  our  pensive  Host  put  forth  his  hand 
In  sign  of  farewell.  “ Nay,”  the  Old  Man  said, 
“The  fragrant  Air  its  coolness  still  retains; 

The  Herds  and  Flocks  are  yet  abroad  to  crop 
The  dewy  grass ; you  cannot  leave  us  now. 

We  must  not  part  at  this  inviting  hour.” 

He  yielded,  though  reluctant;  for  his  Mind 
Instinctively  disposed  him  to  retire 
To  his  own  Covert;  as  a billow,  heaved 
Upon  the  beach,  rolls  back  into  the  Sea. 

— So  we  descend  ; and  winding  round  a rock 
Attain  a point  that  showed  the  Valley  — stretched 
In  length  before  us;  and,  not  distant  far. 

Upon  a rising  ground  a gray  Church-tower, 
Whose  battlements  were  screened  by  tufled  trees. 
And,  towards  a crystal  Mere,  that  lay  beyond 
Among  steep  hills  and  woods  embosomed,  flowed 
A copious  Stream  with  boldly-winding  course; 
Here  traceable,  there  hidden  — there  again 
To  sight  restored,  and  glittering  in  the  Sun. 

On  the  Stream’s  bank,  and  everywhere,  appeared 
Fair  Dwellings,  single,  or  in  social  knots; 

Some  scattered  o’er  the  level,  others  perched 
On  the  hill  sides,  a cheerful  quiet  scene. 

Now  in  its  morning  purity  arrayed. 

“As,  ’mid  some  happy  Valley  of  the  Alps,” 

Said  I,  “once  happy,  ere  tyrannic  Power, 
Wantonly  breaking  in  upon  the  Swiss, 

Destroyed  their  unoffending  Commonwealth, 

A popular  equality  reigns  here. 

Save  for  one  House  of  State  beneath  whose  roof 
A rural  Lord  might  dwell.”  — “No  feudal  pomp,” 
Replied  our  Friend,  a Chrop.Iprlor  who  stood 
Where’er  he  moved  upon  familiar  ground, 

“ Nor  feudal  power  is  there  ; but  there  abides. 

In  his  allotted  Home,  a genuine  Priest, 

The  Shepherd  of  his  Flock;  or,  as  a King 


I Is  styled,  when  most  affectionately  praised. 

The  Father  of  his  People.  Such  is  he ; 

And  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old,  rejoice 
Under  his  spiritual  sway.  He  hath  vouchsafed 
To  me  some  portion  of  a kind  regard ; 

And  something  also  of  his  inner  mind 
Hath  he  imparted  — but  I speak  of  him 
As  he  is  known  to  all.  The  calm  delights 
Of  unambitious  piety  he  chose. 

And  learning’s  solid  dignity  ; though  born 
Of  knightly  race,  nor  wanting  powerful  friends. 
Hither,  in  prime  of  manhood,  he  withdrew 
From  academic  bowers.  He  loved  the  spot. 

Who  does  not  love  his  native  soil  1 he  prized 
The  ancient  rural  character,  composed 
Of  simple  manners,  feelings  unsuppressed 
And  undisguised,  and  strong  and  serious  thought; 

A character  reflected  in  himself. 

With  such  embellishment  as  well  beseems 
His  rank  and  sacred  function.  This  deep  vale 
Winds  far  in  reaches  hidden  from  our  eyes. 

And  one,  a turreted  manorial  Hall 

Adorns,  in  which  the  good’s  Man’s  Ancestors 

Have  dwelt  through  ages  — Patrons  of  this  Cure. 

To  them,  and  to  his  own  Judicious  pains, 
j The  Vicar’s  Dwelling,  and  the  whole  Domain, 

Owes  that  presiding  aspect  whicli  might  well 
' Attract  your  notice;  statelier  than  could  else 
I Have  been  bestowed,  through  course  of  common  chance 
j On  an  unwealthy  mountain  Benefice.” 

This  said,  oft  halting  we  pursued  our  way ; 

Nor  reached  the  Village  Churchyard  till  the  sun. 
Travelling  at  steadier  pace  than  ours,  had  risen 
Above  the  summits  of  the  highest  hills, 

And  round  our  path  darted  oppressive  beams. 

As  chanced,  the  Portals  of  the  sacred  Pile 
Stood  open,  and  we  entered.  On  my  frame. 

At  such  transition  from  the  fervid  air, 

A grateful  coolness  fell,  that  seemed  to  strike 
The  heart,  in  concert  with  that  temperate  awe 
And  natural  reverence,  which  the  Place  inspired. 

Not  raised  in  nice  proportions  was  the  Pile, 

But  large  and  massy  ; for  duration  built ; 

With  pillars  crosvded,  and  the  roof  upheld 
By  naked  rafters  intricately  crossed. 

Like  leafless  underboughs,  ’mid  some  thick  grove, 

All  withered  by  the  depth  of  shade  above. 

Admonitory  Texts  inscribed  the  walls, 
j Each,  in  its  ornamental  scroll,  enclosed, 

I Each  also  crowned  with  winged  heads  — a pair 
I Of  rudely-painted  Cherubim.  The  floor 
Of  nave  and  aisle,  in  unpretending  guise, 

: Was  occupied  by  oaken  benches,  ranged 
j In  seemly  rows;  the  chancel  only  showed 
Some  inoffensive  marks  of  earthly  state 
i And  vain  distinction.  A capacious  pew 


THE  EXCURSION. 


535 


Of  sculptured  oak  stood  here,  with  drapery  lined; 
And  marble  Monuments  were  here  displayed 
Thronging  the  walls ; and  on  the  floor  beneath 
Sepulchral  stones  appeared,  with  emblems  graven 
And  foot-worn  epitaphs,  and  some  with  small 
And  shining  effigies  of  brass  inlaid. 

— The  tribute  by  these  various  records  claimed. 
Without  reluctance  did  we  pay  ; and  read 
The  ordinary  chronicle  of  birth. 

Office,  alliance,  and  promotion — all 
Ending  in  dust;  of  upright  Magistrates, 

Grave  Doctors  strenuous  for  the  Mother  Church, 

And  uncorrupted  Senators,  alike 

To  King  and  People  true.  A brazen  plate, 

Not  easily  deciphered,  told  of  One 
Whose  course  of  earthly  honour  was  begun 
In  quality  of  page  among  the  Train 
Of  the  eighth  Henry,  when  he  crossed  the  seas 
Ilis  royal  state  to  show,  and  prove  his  strength 
In  tournament,  upon  the  Fields  of  France. 

Another  Tablet  registered  the  death. 

And  praised  the  gallant  bearing,  of  a Knight 
Tried  in  the  sea-fights  of  the  second  Charles. 

Near  this  brave  Knight  his  Father  lay  entombed; 
And,  to  the  silent  language  giving  voice, 

I read,  — how  in  his  manhood’s  earlier  day 
He,  ’mid  the  afflictions  of  intestine  War 
And  rightful  Government  subverted,  found 
One  only  solace  — that  he.  had  espoused 
A virtuous  Lady  tenderly  beloved 
For  her  benign  perfections ; and  yet  more 
Endeared  to  him,  for  this,  that  in  her  state 
Of  wedlock  richly  crowned  with  Heaven’s  regard. 
She  with  a numerous  Issue  filled  his  Hou.se, 

Who  throve,  like  Plants,  uninjured  by  the  Storm 
That  laid  their  Country  waste.  No  need  to  speak 
Of  less  particular  notices  assigned 
To  youth  or  Maiden  gone  before  their  time. 

And  Matrons  and  un  wedded  Sisters  old  ; 

Whose  charity  and  goodness  were  rehearsed 
In  modest  panegyric.  “ These  dim  lines. 

What  would  they  telll”  said  I,  — but,  from  the  task 
Of  puzzling  out  that  faded  Narrative, 

With  whisper  soft  my  venerable  Friend 
Called  me ; and,  looking  down  the  darksome  aisle, 

I saw  the  Tenant  of  the  lonely  Vale 
Standing  apart;  with  curved  arm  reclined 
On  the  baptismal  Font;  his  pallid  face 
Upturned,  as  if  his  mind  were  wrapt,  or  lost 
In  some  abstraction  ; — gracefully  he  stood. 

The  semblance  bearing  of  a sculptured  Form 
That  leans  upon  a monumental  Urn 
In  peace,  from  morn  to  night,  from  year  to  year. 

Him  from  that  posture  did  the  Se.Kton  rouse; 

Who  entered,  humming  carelessly  a tune. 
Continuation  haply  of  the  notes 


That  had  beguiled  the  work  from  which  he  came. 
With  spade  and  mattock  o’er  his  shoulder  hung. 

To  be  deposited,  for  future  need. 

In  their  appointed  place.  The  pale  Recluse 
Withdrew ; and  straight  we  followed,  — to  a .spot 
Where  sun  and  shade  were  intermixed;  for  there 
A broad  Oak,  stretching  forth  its  leafy  arms 
From  an  adjoining  pasture,  overhung 
Small  space  of  that  green  churchyard  with  a light 
And  pleasant  awning.  On  the  moss-grown  wall 
My  ancient  Friend  and  I together  took 
Our  seats;  and  thus  the  Solitary  spake. 

Standing  before  us.  “ Did  you  note  the  mien 
Of  that  self  solaced,  easy-hearted  Churl, 

Death’s  Hireling,  who  scoops  out  his  Neighbour’s 
grave. 

Or  wraps  an  old  Acquaintance  up  in  clay. 

As  unconcerned  as  when  he  plants  a tree  1 
I was  abruptly  summoned  by  his  voice 
From  some  affecting  images  and  thoughts. 

And  from  the  company  of  serious  words. 

Much,  yesterday,  was  said  in  glowing  phrase 
Of  our  sublime  dependencies,  and  hopes 
For  future  states  of  Being  ; and  the  wings 
Of  speculation,  joyfully  outspread, 

Hovered  above  our  destiny  on  earth  : — 

But  stoop,  and  place  the  prospect  of  the  soul 
In  sober  contrast  w’ith  reality, 

And  Man’s  substantial  life.  If  this  mute  earth 
I Of  what  it  holds  could  speak,  and  every  grave 
j Were  as  a volume,  shut,  yet  capable 
Of  yielding  its  contents  to  eye  and  ear. 

We  should  recoil,  stricken  with  sorrow  and  shame 
To  see  disclosed,  by  such  dread  proof,  how  ill 
That  which  is  done  accords  with  W’hat  is  known 
To  reason,  and  by  conscience  is  enjoined  ; 

How  idly,  how  perversely.  Life’s  whole  course. 

To  this  conclusion,  deviates  from  the  line. 

Or  of  the  end  stops  short,  proposed  to  all 
At  her  aspiring  outset.  Mark  the  Babe 
Not  long  accustomed  to  this  breathing  world  ; 

One  that  hath  barely  learned  to  shape  a smile ; 

Though  yet  irrational  of  Soul  to  grasp 
With  tiny  fingers  — to  let  fall  a tear; 

And,  as  the  heavy  cloud  of  sleep  dissolves, 

To  stretch  his  limbs,  bemocking,  as  might  seem. 

The  -outward  functions  of  intelligent  Man  ; 

A grave  Proficient  in  amusive  feats 
Of  puppetry,  that  from  the  lap  declare 
His  expectations,  and  announce  his  claims 
To  that  inheritance  which  millions  rue 
That  they  were  ever  born  to  ! In  due  time 
A day  of  solemn  ceremonial  comes; 

When  they,  who  for  this  Minor  hold  in  trust 
Rights  that  transcend  the  humblest  heritage 
Of  mere  Humanity,  present  their  Charge, 

For  this  occasion  daintily  adorned. 


596 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


At  the  baptismal  Font.  And  when  the  pure 
And  consecrating  element  hath  cleansed 
The  original  slain,  the  Child  is  there  received 
Into  the  second  Ark,  Christ’s  Church,  with  trust 
That  he,  from  wrath  redeemed,  therein  shall  float 
Over  the  billows  of  this  troublesome  world 
To  the  fair  land  of  everlasting  Life. 

Corrupt  affections,  covetous  desires, 

Are  all  renounced  ; high  as  the  thought  of  man 
Can  carry  virtue,  virtue  is  professed ; 

A dedication  made,  a promise  given 
For  due  provision  to  control  and  guide, 

And  unremitting  progress  to  ensure 
la  holiness  a,nd  truth.” 

“ You  cannot  blame,” 
Here  interposing  fervently  I said, 

“Rites  which  attest  that  Man  by  nature  lies 
Bedded  for  good  and  evil  in  a gulf 
Fearfully  low;  nor  will  your  judgment  scorn 
I’hose  services,  whereby  attempt  is  made 
To  lift  the  Creature  toward  that  eminence 
On  which,  now  fallen,  erewhile  in  majesty 
lie  stood  ; or  if  not  so,  whose  top  serene 
At  least  he  feels ’t  is  given  him  to  descry  ; 

Not  without  aspirations,  evermore 
Returning,  and  injunctions  from  within 
Doubt  to  cast  off  and  weariness ; in  trust 
That  what  the  Soul  perceives,  if  glory  lo.st. 

May  be,  through  pains  and  persevering  hope, 
Recovered  ; or,  if  hitherto  unknown. 

Lies  within  reach,  and  one  day  shall  be  gained.” 

“I  blame  them  not,”  he  calmly  answered  — “no; 
The  outward  ritual  and  established  forms 
With  which  communities  of  Men  invest 
These  inward  feelings,  and  the  aspiring  vows 
To  which  the  lips  give  public  utterance, 

Are  Doth  a natural  process;  and  by  me 
Shall  pass  uncensured  ; though  the  issue  prove, 
Bringing  from  age  to  age  its  own  reproach, 
Incongruous,  impotent,  and  blank.  — But,  oh! 

If  to  be  weak  is  to  be  wretched  — miserable. 

As  the  lost  Angel  by  a human  voice 
Hath  mournfully  pronounced,  then,  in  my  mind. 
Far  better  not  to  move  at  all  than  move 
By  impulse  sent  from  such  illusive  Power, 

That  finds  and  cannot  fasten  down  ; that  grasps  ; 
And  is  rejoiced,  and  loses  while  it  grasps ; 

That  tempts,  emboldens  — doth  a while  sustain. 
And  then  betrays;  accuses  and  inflicts 
Remorseless  punishment;  and  so  retreads 
The  inevitable  circle:  better  far 
Tlian  this,  to  graze  the  herb  in  thoughtless  peace. 
By  foresight,  or  remembrance,  undisturbed ! 

“ Philosophy  ! and  thou  more  vaunted  name 
Religion  ! with  thy  statelier  retinue. 

Faith,  Hope,  and  Charity  — from  the  visible  world 


Choose  for  your  Emblems  whatsoe’er  ye  find 
Of  safest  guidance  and  of  firmest  trust,  — 

The  Torch,  the  Star,  the  Anchor ; nor  except 
The  Cross  itself,  at  whose  unconscious  feet 
The  Generations  of  Mankind  have  knelt 
Ruefully  seized,  and  shedding  bitter  tears. 

And  through  that  conflict  seeking  rest  — of  you. 
High-titled  Powers,  am  I constrained  to  ask. 

Here  standing,  with  the  unvoyageable  sky 
In  faint  reflection  of  infinitude 
Stretched  overhead,  and  at  my  pensive  feet 
A subterraneous  magazine  of  bones, 

I In  whose  dark  vaults  my  own  shall  soon  be  laid. 
Where  are  your  triumphs?  your  dominion  where? 

And  in  what  age  admitted  and  confirmed? 

— Not  for  a happy  Land  do  I enquire, 

I Island  or  Grove,  that  hides  a blessed  few 
I Who,  with  obedience  willing  and  sincere, 

[ To  your  serene  authorities  conform  ; 

But  whom,  I ask,  of  individual  Souls, 
j Have  ye  withdrawn  from  Passion’s  crooked  ways. 
Inspired,  and  thoroughly  fortified  ? — If  the  Heart 
Could  be  inspected  to  its  inmost  folds 
By  sight  undazzled  with  the  glare  of  praise. 

Who  shall  be  named  — in  the  resplendent  line 
Of  Sages,  Martyrs,  Confessors  — the  Man 
! Whom  the  best  might  of  Conscience,  Truth,  and  Hope, 
i For  one  day’s  little  compass,  has  preserved 
From  painful  and  discreditable  shocks 
Of  contradiction,  from  some  vague  desire 
Culpably  cherished,  or  corrupt  relapse 
To  some  unsanctioned  fear  ?” 

“ If  this  be  so. 

And  Man,”  said  I,  “be  in  his  noblest  shape 
Thus  pitiably  infirm ; then.  He  who  made. 

And  who  shall  judge,  the  Creature,  will  forgive. 

I — Yet,  in  its  general  tenor,  your  complaint 
Is  all  too  true;  and  surely  not  misplaced: 

For,  from  this  pregnant  spot  of  ground,  such  thoughts 
Rise  to  the  notice  of  a serious  Mind 
By  natural  exhalation.  With  the  Dead 
In  their  repose,  the  Living  in  their  mirth. 

Who  can  reflect,  unmoved,  upon  the  round 
Of  smooth  and  solemnized  complacencies. 

By  which,  on  Christian  Lands,  from  age  to  age 
Profession  mocks  Performance.  Earth  is  sick. 

And  Heaven  is  weary,  of  the  hollow  words 
Which  States  and  Kingdoms  utter  when  they  talk 
Of  truth  and  justice.  Turn  to  private  life 
And  social  neighbourhood;  look  we  to  ourselves  ; 

A light  of  duty  shines  on  every  day 
For  all ; and  yet  how  few  are  warmed  or  cheered  i 
How  few  who  mingle  with  their  fellow-men 
And  still  remain  self-governed,  and  apart. 

Like  this  our  honoured  Friend  ; and  thence  acquire 
Right  to  expect  his  vigorous  decline, 

That  promises  to  the  end  a blest  old  age  !” 


THE  EXCURSION. 


597 


“ Yet,”  with  a smile  of  triumph  thus  exclaimed 
The  Solitary,  “ in  the  life  of  Man, 

If  to  the  poetry  of  common  speech 
Faith  may  be  given,  we  see  as  in  a glass 
A true  reflection  of  the  circling  year. 

With  all  its  seasons.  Grant  that  Spring  is  there, 

In  spite  of  many  a rough  untoward  blast. 

Hopeful  and  promising  with  buds  and  flowers ; 

Yet  where  is  glowing  Summer’s  long  rich  day. 

That  ought  to  follow  faithfully  expressed  I 
And  mellow  Autumn,  charged  with  bounteous  fruit. 
Where  is  she  imaged  I in  what  favoured  clime 
Her  lavish  pomp,  and  ripe  magnificence! 

— Yet,  while  the  better  part  is  missed,  the  worse 
In  Man’s  autumnal  season  is  set  forth 
With  a resemblance  not  to  be  denied. 

And  that  contents  him;  bowers  that  hear  no  more 
’rhe  voice  of  gladness,  less  and  less  supply 
Of  outward  sunshine  and  internal  warmth; 

And,  with  this  change,  sharp  air  and  falling  leaves, 
Foretelling  total  Winter,  blank  and  cold. 

“ How  gay  the  Habitations  that  bedeck 
This  fertile  Valley!  Not  a House  but  seems 
To  give  assurance  of  content  within  ; 

Embosomed  happiness,  and  placid  love ; 

As  if  the  sunshine  of  the  day  were  met 
With  answering  brightness  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Who  walk  this  favoured  ground.  But  chance-regards, 
And  notice  forced  upon  incurious  ears; 

These,  if  these  onlj%  acting  in  despite 
Of  the  encomiums  by  my  Friend  pronounced 
On  humble  life,  forbid  the  judging  mind 
To  trust  the  smiling  aspect  of  this  fair 
And  noiseless  Commonwealth.  The  simple  race 
Of  Mountaineers  (by  Nature’s  self  removed 
From  foul  temptations,  and  by  constant  care 
Of  a good  Shepherd  tended  as  themselves 
Do  tend  their  flocks)  partake  Man’s  general  lot 
With  little  mitigation.  They  escape. 

Perchance,  guilt’s  heavier  woes  ; and  do  not  feel 
The  tedium  of  fantastic  idleness; 

Yet  life,  as  with  the  multitude,  with  them. 

Is  fashioned  like  an  ill-constructed  tale; 

That  on  the  outset  wastes  its  gay  desires, 

Its  fair  adventures,  its  enlivening  hopes. 

And  pleasant  interests  — for  the  sequel  leaving 
Old  things  repeated  with  diminished  grace  ; 

And  all  the  laboured  novelties  at  best 

Imperfect  substitutes,  whose  use  and  power 

Evince  the  want  and  weakness  whence  they  spring.” 

While  in  this  serious  mood  we  held  discourse. 

The  reverend  Pastor  toward  the  Church-yard  gate 
Approached ; and,  with  a mild  respectful  air 
Of  native  cordiality,  our  Friend 
Advanced  to  greet  him.  With  a gracious  mien 
Was  he  received,  and  mutual  joy  prevailed. 


Awhile  they  stood  in  conference,  and  I guess 
That  He,  who  now  upon  the  mossy  wall 
Sate  by  my  side,  liad  vanished,  if  a wish 
Could  have  transferred  him  to  his  lonely  House 
Within  the  circuit  of  those  guardian  rock.«. 

— For  me,  I looked  upon  the  pair,  well  pleased : 
Nature  had  framed  them  both,  and  both  were  marked 
By  circumstance,  with  intermixture  fine 

Of  contrast  and  resemblance.  To  an  Oak 
Hardy  and  grand,  a weather-beaten  Oak, 

Fresh  in  the  strength  and  majesty  of  age, 

One  might  be  likened  : flourishing  appeared. 

Though  somewhat  past  the  fulness  of  his  prime. 

The  Other — like  a stately  Sycamore, 

That  spreads,  in  gentler  pomp,  its  honeyed  shade. 

A general  greeting  was  e,xchanged ; and  soon 
The  Pastor  learned  that  his  approach  had  given- 
A welcome  interruption  to  discourse 
Grave,  and  in  truth  too  often  sad.  — “ Is  Man 
A Child  of  hope ! Do  generations  press 
On  generations,  without  progress  made ! 

Halts  the  Individual,  ere  his  hairs  be  gray. 

Perforce ! are  we  a Creature  in  whom  good 
Preponderates,  or  evil!  Doth  the  Will 
Acknowledge  Reason’s  law ! A living  Power 
Is  Virtue,  or  no  belter  than  a name. 

Fleeting  as  health  or  beauty,  and  unsound ! 

So  that  the  only  substance  which  remains, 

(For  thus  the  tenor  of  complaint  hath  run) 

Among  so  many  shadows,  are  the  pains 
And  penalties  of  miserable  life. 

Doomed  to  decay,  and  then  expire  in  dust ! 

— Our  cogitations  this  way  have  been  drawn. 

These  are  the  points,”  the  Wanderer  said,  “ on  which 
Our  inquest  turns.  — Accord,  good  Sir!  the  light 

Of  your  experience  to  dispel  this  gloom  : 

By  your  persuasive  wisdom  shall  the  Heart 
That  frets,  or  languishes,  be  stilled  and  cheered.” 

“ Our  Nature,”  said  the  Priest,  in  mild  reply, 

“Angels  may  weigh  and  fathom  : they  perceive. 

With  undistempered  and  unclouded  spirit. 

The  object  as  it  is;  but,  for  ourselves. 

That  speculative  height  we  may  not  reach. 

The  good  and  evil  are  our  own;  and  we 
Are  that  which  we  would  contemplate  from  far. 
Knowledge,  for  us,  is  difficult  to  gain  — 

Is  difficult  to  gain,  and  hard  to  keep  — 

As  Virtue’s  self;  like  Virtue,  is  beset 
With  snares;  tried,  tempted,  subject  to  decay. 

Love,  admiration,  fear,  desire,  and  hate. 

Blind  were  we  without  these:  through  these  alone 
Are  capable  to  notice  or  discern 
Or  to  record  ; we  judge,  but  cannot  be 
Indifferent  judges.  ’Spite  of  proudest  boast, 

Reason,  best  Reason,  is  to  imperfect  Man 
An  effort  only,  and  a noble  aim ; 


b98 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


A crown,  an  attribute  of  sovereign  power, 

Still  to  be  courted  — never  to  be  won  ! 

— Look  forth,  or  each  man  dive  into  himself ; 

What  sees  he  but  a Creature  too  perturbed. 

That  is  transported  to  excess ; that  yearns, 

Regrets,  or  trembles,  wrongly,  or  too  much ; 

Hopes  rashly,  in  disgust  as  rash  recoils; 

Battens  on  spleen,  or  moulders  in  despair  1 
Thus  truth  is  missed,  and  comprehension  fails; 

And  darkness  and  delusion  round  our  path 
Spread,  from  disease,  whose  subtle  injury  lurks 
Within  the  very  faculty  of  sight. 

“ Yet  for  the  general  purposes  of  faith 
In  Providence,  for  solace  and  support. 

We  may  not  doubt  that  who  can  best  subject 
The  will  to  Reason’s  law,  and  strictliest  live 
And  act  in  that  obedience,  he  shall  gair; 

The  clearest  apprehension  O’f  those  trutha. 

Which  unassisted  Reason’s  utmost  power 
Is  too  infirm  to  reach.  But — waiving  this. 

And  our  regards  confining  within  bounds 
Of  less  exalted  consciousness  — through  which 
The  very  multitude  are  free  to  range  — 

We  safely  may  affirm  that  human  life 
Is  either  fair  and  tempting,  a soft  scene 
Grateful  to  sight,  refreshing  to  the  soul. 

Or  a forbidding  tract  of  cheerless  view  ; 

Even  as  the  same  is  looked  at,  or  approached. 

Thus,  when  in  changeful  April  snow  has  fallen. 

And  fields  are  white,  if  from  the  sullen  north 
Your  walk  conduct  you  hither,  ere  the  Sun 
Hath  gained  his  noontide  height,  this  church-yard,  filled 
With  mounds  transversely  lying  side  by  side 
From  east  to  west,  before  you  will  appear 
An  unillumined,  blank,  and  dreary  plain. 

With  more  than  wintery  cheerlessness  and  gloom 
.Saddening  the  heart.  Go  forward,  and  look  back ; 
Ix)ok,  from  the  quarter  whence  the  lord  of  light. 

Of  life,  of  love,  and  gladness  doth  dispense 
His  beams;  which,  une.xcluded  in  their  fall. 

Upon  the  southern  side  of  every  grave 
Have  gently  exercised  a melting  power. 

Then  will  a vernal  prospect  greet  your  eye. 

All  fresh  and  beautiful,  and  green  and  bright. 

Hopeful  and  cheerful ; — vanished  is  the  snow. 
Vanished  or  hidden ; and  the  w'hole  Domain, 

To  some  too  lightly  minded  might  appear 
A meadow’  carpet  for  the  dancing  hours. 

— This  contrast,  not  unsuitable  to  Life, 

Is  to  that  other  state  more  apposite. 

Death  and  its  two-fold  aspect;  wintiy  — one. 

Cold  sullen,  blank,  from  hope  and  joy  shut  out; 

The  other,  which  the  ray  divine  hath  touched. 

Replete  with  vivid  promise,  bright  as  spring.” 

“ We  see,  then,  as  we  feel,”  the  Wanderer  thus 
With  9 complacent  animation  spake. 


“ And  in  your  judgment.  Sir  ! the  Mind’s  repose 
On  evidence  is  not  to  be  ensured 
By  act  of  naked  Reason.  Moral  truth 
Is  no  mechanic  structure,  built  by  rule; 

And  which,  once  built,  retains  a steadfast  shape 
And  undisturbed  proportions;  but  a thing 
Subject,  you  deem,  to  vital  accidents ; 

And,  like  the  water-lily,  lives  and  thrives. 
Whose  root  is  fixed  in  stable  earth,  whose  head 
Floats  on  the  tossing  waves.  With  joy  sincere 
I re-salute  these  sentiments  confirmed 
By  your  authority.  But  how  acquire 
The  inward  principle  that  gives  effect 
To  outward  argument ; the  passive  will 
Meek  to  admit ; the  active  energy. 

Strong  and  unbounded  to  embrace,  and  firm 
To  keep  and  cherish  ? How  shall  Man  unite 
With  self-forgetting  tenderness  of  heart 
An  earth-despising  dignity  of  soull 
Wise  in  that  union,  and  without  it  blind  1” 


“ The  way,”  said  I,  “ to  court,  if  not  obtain 
The  ingenuous  Mind,  apt  to  be  set  aright; 

I This,  in  the  lonely  Dell  discoursing,  you 
I Declared  at  large ; and  by  what  exercise 
j From  visible  nature  or  the  inner  self 
Power  may  be  trained,  and  renovation  brought 
j To  those  W’ho  need  the  gift.  But,  after  all, 
j Is  aught  so  certain  as  that  man  is  doomed 
I To  breathe  beneath  a vault  of  ignorance  7 
The  natural  roof  of  that  dark  house  in  which 
His  soul  is  pent!  How  little  can  be  known  — 
This  is  the  wise  man’s  sigh ; how  far  we  err  — 
This  is  the  good  man’s  not  unfrequent  pang! 
And  they  perhaps  err  least,  the  lowly  Class 
Whom  a benign  necessity  compels 
To  follow  Reason’s  least  ambitious  course  ; 

Such  do  I mean  who,  unperplexed  by  doubt. 

And  unincited  by  a wish  to  look 

Into  high  objects  farther  than  they  may. 

Pace  to  and  fro,  from  morn  till  even-tide, 

The  narrow  avenue  of  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread.” 


“Yes,”  buoyantly  exclaimed 
The  pale  Recluse  — “ praise  to  the  sturdy  plough. 
And  patient  spade,  and  shepherd’s  simple  crook. 
And  ponderous  loom — resounding  while  it  holds 
Body  and  mind  in  one  captivity  ; 

And  let  the  light  mechanic  tool  be  hailed 
With  honour;  which,  encasing  by  the  power 
Of  long  companionship,  the  Artist’s  hand. 

Cuts  oft’  that  hand,  with  all  its  world  of  nerves. 
From  a too  busy  commerce  with  the  heart ! 

— Inglorious  implements  of  craft  and  toil. 

Both  ye  that  shape  and  build,  and  ye  that  force. 

By  slow  solicitation,  Earth  to  yield 


THE  EXCURSION 


599 


Her  annual  bounty,  sparingly  dealt  forth 
With  wise  reluctance,  you  would  I extol. 

Not  for  gross  good  alone  wliich  ye  produce. 

Blit  for  the  impertinent  and  ceaseless  strife 
Of  proofs  and  reasons  ye  preclude  — in  those 
Who  to  your  dull  society  are  born. 

And  with  their  humble  birthright  rest  content. 

— Would  I had  ne’er  renounced  it !” 

A slight  flush 

Of  moral  anger  previously  had  tinged 

The  Old  Man’s  cheek;  but,  at  this  closing  turn 

Of  self-reproacli,  it  passed  away.  Said  he, 

“ That  which  we  feel  we  utter  ; as  we  think 
So  have  we  argued  ; reaping  for  our  pains 
No  visible  recompense.  For  our  relief 
You,”  to  tlie  Pastor  turning  thus  he  spake, 

“ Have  kindly  interposed.  May  I entreat 
Your  furtlier  help?  The  mine  of  real  life 
Dig  for  us ; and  present  us,  in  the  shape 
Of  virgin  ore,  that  gold  which  we,  by  pains 
Fruitless  as  those  of  aery  Alchemists, 

Seek  from  the  torturing  crucible.  There  lies 
Around  us  a domain  where  You  have  long 
Watched  both  the  outward  course  and  inner  lieart; 
Give  us,  for  our  abstractions,  solid  facts ; 

For  our  disputes,  plain  pictures.  Say  what  Man 
He  is  who  cultivates  yon  hanging  field  ; 

What  qualities  of  mind  She  bears,  who  comes. 

For  morn  and  evening  service,  with  her  pail. 

To  that  green  pasture ; place  before  our  sight 
The  Family  who  dwell  within  yon  House 
Fenced  round  with  glittering  laurel ; or  in  that 
Below,  from  which  the  curling  smoke  ascends. 

Or  rather,  as  we  stand  on  holy  earth,* 

And  have  the  Dead  around  us,  take  from  them 
Your  instances  ; for  they  are  both  best  known. 

And  by  frail  Man  most  equitably  judged. 

Epitomise  the  life;  pronounce.  You  can. 

Authentic  epitaphs  on  some  of  these 

Who,  from  their  lowly  mansions  hither  brought. 

Beneath  this  turf  lie  mouldering  at  our  feet. 

So,  by  your  records,  may  our  doubts  be  solved  ; 

And  so,  not  searching  higher,  we  may  learn 
To  prize  the  breath  we.  share  with  human  kind ; 
And  look  upon  the  dust  of  man  with  aice." 

The  Priest  replied.  — “ An  office  you  impose 
For  wliich  peculiar  requisites  are  mine; 

Yet  much,  I feel,  is  wanting  — else  the  task 

* Leonard.  You,  Sir,  would  help  me  to  the  History 
Of  half  these  Graves? 

Priest.  For  eight-score  winters  past 

With  what  I’ve  witnessed,  and  with  what  I’ve  heard, 

Perhaps  I might ; 

By  turning  o’er  these  hillocks  one  by  one, 

VV’e  two  could  travel.  Sir,  through  a strange  round ; 

Yet  all  in  the  broad  high-w  ay  of  the  world. 

See  p.  87,  ‘ The  Brothers.’ 


Would  be  most  grateful.  True  indeed  it  is 
That  They  whom  Death  has  hidden  from  our  siglit 
Are  worthiest  of  the  Mind’s  regard ; with  these 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past; 

Mortality’s  last  exorcise  and  proof 
Is  undergone  ; the  transit  made  that  shows 
The  very  soul,  revealed  as  she  departs. 

Yet,  on  yotir  first  suggestion,  will  I give. 

Ere  we  descend  into  these  silent  vaults. 

One  Picture  from  the  living.  — 

“ You  behold. 

High  on  the  breast  of  yon  dark  mountain  — dark 
With  stony  barrenness,  a shining  speck 
Bright  a.s  a sunbeam  sleeping  till  a shower 
Brush  it  away,  or  cloud  pass  over  it ; 

And  such  it  might  be  deemed  — a sleeping  sunbeam  ; 
But ’t  is  a plot  of  cultivated  ground. 

Cut  off,  an  island  in  the  dusky  waste; 

And  that  attractive  brightness  is  its  own. 

The  lofly  Site,  by  nature  framed  to  tempt 
Amid  a wilderness  of  rocks  and  stones 
I The  Tiller’s  hand,  a Hermit  might  have  chosen, 
j For  opportunity  presented,  thence 
Far  forth  to  send  his  wandering  eye  o’er  land 
And  ocean,  and  look  down  upon  the  works. 

The  habitations,  and  the  ways  of  men. 

Himself  unseen  ! But  no  tradition  tells 
That  ever  Hermit  (Jipped  his  maple  dish 
In  the  sweet  spring  that  lurks  ’mid  yon  green  fields; 
And  no  such  visionary  views  belong 
I To  those  who  occupy  and  till  the  ground. 

And  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountain  dwell 
I — A wedded  Pair  in  childless  solitude. 

— A House  of  stones  collected  on  the  spot, 

I By  rude  hands  built,  with  rocky  knolls  in  front. 
Backed  also  by  a ledge  of  rock,  whose  crest 
Of  birch-trees  waves  above  the  chimney  top  ; 

A rough  abode  — in  colour,  shape,  and  size. 

Such  as  in  unsafe  times  of  Border  war 
Might  have  been  wished  for  and  contrived,  to  elude 
The  eye  of  roving  Plunderer  — for  their  need 
Suffices  ; and  unshaken  bears  the  assault 
Of  their  most  dreaded  foe,  the  strong  South-west 
In  anger  blowing  from  the  distant  sea. 

— Alone  within  her  solitary  Hut; 

There,  or  within  the  compass  of  her  fields. 

At  any  moment  may  the  Dame  be  found. 

True  as  the  Stock-dove  to  her  shallow  nest 
And  to  the  grove  that  holds  it.  She  beguiles 
By  intermingled  work  of  house  and  field 
The  summer’s  day,  and  winter’s;  with  success 
Not  equal,  but  sufficient  to  maintain. 

Even  at  the  worst,  a smooth  stream  of  content. 

Until  the  expected  hour  at  which  her  Mate 
From  the  far-distant  Quarry’s  vault  returns; 

And  by  his  converse  crowns  a silent  day 
With  evening  cheerfulness.  In  powers  of  mind. 


600 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


In  scale  of  culture,  few  among  my  Flock 
Hold  lower  rank  than  this  sequestered  Pair ; 

But  humbleness  of  heart  descends  from  Heaven  ; 

And  that  best  gift  of  Heaven  hath  fallen  on  them  ; 
Abundant  recompense  for  every  want. 

— Stoop  from  your  height,  ye  proud,  and  copy  these ! 
Who,  in  their  noiseless  dwelling-place,  can  hear 
The  voice  of  wisdom  whispering  Scripture  texts 
For  tlie  mind’s  government,  or  temper’s  jreace ; 

And  recommending,  for  their  mutual  need. 
Forgiveness,  patience,  hope,  and  charity  !” 

“ Much  was  I pleased,”  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  said, 
“ When  to  those  shining  fiiJds  our  notice  first 
You  turned ; and  yet  more  pleased  have  from  your  lips 
Gathered  this  fair  report  of  them  who  dwell 
In  that  retirement ; whither,  by  such  course 
Of  evil  hap  and  good  as  oft  awaits 
A lone  wayfaring  Man,  I once  was  brought. 

Dark  on  my  road  the  autumnal  evening  fell 
While  I was  traversing  yon  mountain-pass. 

And  night  succeeded  with  unusual  gloom  ; 

So  that  my  feet  and  hands  at  length  became 
Guides  better  than  mine  eyes  — until  a light 
High  in  the  gloom  appeared,  too  high,  metliought 
For  human  habitation  ; but  I longed 
To  reach  it,  destitute  of  other  hope. 

I looked  with  steadine.ss  as  Sailors  look 

On  the  north  star,  or  watch-tower’s  distant  lamp. 

And  saw  the  light  — now  fixed  — and  shifting  now  — 
Not  like  a dancing  meteor,  but  in  line 
Of  never-varying  motion,  to  and  fro. 

It  is  no  night-fire  of  the  naked  hills. 

Thought  I,  some  friendly  covert  must  be  near. 

With  this  persuasion  thitherward  my  steps 
I turn,  and  reach  at  last  the  guiding  Light; 

•Toy  to  myself!  but  to  the  heart  of  Her 
Who  there  was  standing  on  the  open  hill, 

(The  same  kind  Matron  whom  your  tongue  hath  praised) 
Alarm  and  disapjwintment ! The  alarm 
Ceased,  when  she  learned  through  wdiat  mishap  I came. 
And  by  what  help  had  gained  those  distant  fields. 
Drawn  from  her  Cottage,  on  that  open  height, 

Bearing  a lantern  in  her  hand  she  stood. 

Or  paced  the  ground  — to  guide  her  Husband  home. 
By  that  unwearied  signal,  kenned  afar ; 

An  anxious  duty  ! which  the  lofty  Site, 

Traversed  but  by  a few  irregular  paths. 

Imposes,  whensoe’er  untoward  chance 

Detains  him  after  his  accustomed  hour 

Till  night  lies  black  upon  the  ground.  ‘ But  come. 

Come,’  said  the  Matron,  ‘ to  our  poor  Abode ; 

Those  dark  rocks  hide  it !’  Entering,  I beheld 
A blazing  fire  — beside  a cleanly  hearth 
Sate  down ; and  to  her  office,  with  leave  asked. 

The  Dame  returned.  — Or  ere  that  glowing  pile 
Of  mountain  turf  required  the  Builder’s  hand 


Its  wasted  splendour  to  repair,  the  door 
Opened,  and  she  re-entered  with  glad  looks. 

Her  Helpmate  following.  Hospitable  fare, 

Frank  conver.sation,  made  the  evening’s  treat: 

Need  a bewildered  Traveller  wish  for  more  ’ 

But  more  was  given;  I studied  as  we  sate 
By  the  bright  fire,  the  good  Man’s  face  — composed 
Of  features  elegant;  an  open  brow 
Of  undisturbed  humanity  ; a cheek 
Suffused  with  something  of  a feminine  hue; 

I Eyes  beaming  courtesy  and  mild  regard  ; 
j But,  in  the  quicker  turns  of  the  discourse, 

; Expression  slowly  varying,  that  evinced 
A tardy  apprehension.  From  a fount 
Lost,  thought  I,  in  the  obscurities  of  time. 

But  honoured  once,  these  features  and  that  mien 
May  have  descended,  though  I see  them  here. 

In  such  a Man,  so  gentle  and  subdued. 

Withal  so  graceful  in  his  gentleness, 

A race  illustrious  for  heroic  deeds, 

Humbled,  but  not  degraded,  may  expire. 

This  pleasing  fancy  (cherished  and  upheld 
By  sundry  recollections  of  such  fall 
From  high  to  low,  ascent  from  low  to  high. 

As  books  record,  and  even  the  careless  mind 
Cannot  but  notice  among  men  and  things) 

Went  with  me  to  the  place  of  my  repose. 

“ Roused  by  the  crowing  cock  at  dawn  of  day, 

I yet  had  risen  too  late  to  interchange 
A morning  salutation  with  my  Host, 

Gone  forth  already  to  the  fir-off  seat 

Of  his  day’s  work.  ‘Three  dark  mid-winter  months 

‘Pass,’  said  the  Matron,  ‘and  I never  see, 

‘ Save  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release, 

‘My  Helpmate’s  face  by  light  of  day.  He  quits 
‘His  door  in  darkness,  nor  till  dusk  returns. 

‘And,  through  Heaven’s  blessing,  thus  we  gain  the 
bread 

‘ For  which  we  pray ; and  for  the  wants  provide 
‘ Of  sickness,  accident,  and  helpless  age. 

‘ Companions  have  I many ; many  Friends, 

‘ Dependants,  Comforters  — my  Wheel,  my  Fire, 

‘All  day  the  House-clock  ticking  in  mine  ear, 
j ‘The  cackling  Hen,  the  tender  Chicken  brood, 

I ‘And  the  wild  Birds  that  gather  round  my  porch 
> ‘This  honest  Sheep-dog’s  countenance  I read; 

‘ With  him  can  talk ; nor  blush  to  waste  a word 
j ‘On  Creatures  less  intelligent  and  shrewd. 

‘And  if  the  blustering  Wind  that  drives  the  clouds 
I ‘ Care  not  for  me,  he  lingers  round  my  door, 

‘And  makes  me  pastime  when  our  tempers  suit; 

I ‘ — But,  above  all,  my  Thoughts  are  my  support, 
j The  Matron  ended  — nor  could  I forbear 
I To  exclaim  — ‘O  happy  ! yielding  to  the  law 
Of  these  privations,  richer  in  the  main  ! 

! While  thankless  thousands  are  opprest  and  clogged 
j By  ease  and  leisure  — by  the  very  wealth 


THE  EXCURSION. 


501 


And  pride  of  opportunity  made  poor; 

While  tenj  of  thousands  falter  in  tlieir  path, 

And  sink,  tlirough  utter  want  of  clieering  light; 

For  you  the  hours  of  labour  do  not  flag; 

For  you  each  Evening  hath  its  shining  Star, 

And  every  Sabbath-day  its  golden  Sun.’  ” 

“Yes!”  said  the  Solitary  with  a smile 
That  seemed  to  break  from  an  e.xpanding  heart, 
“The  untutored  Bird  may  found,  and  so  construct. 
And  with  such  soft  materials  lino  her  nest, 

I'ixed  in  the  centre  of  a prickly  brake. 

That  the  thorns  wound  her  not;  they  only  guard. 
Powers  not  unjustly  likened  to  those  gifts 
Of  happy  instinct  which  the  woodland  Bird 
Shares  with  her  species.  Nature’s  grace  sometimes 
Upon  the  Individual  doth  confer. 

Among  her  higher  creatures  born  and  trained 
To  use  of  reason.  And,  I own,  that  tired 
Of  the  ostentatious  world  — a swelling  stage 
With  empty  actions  and  vain  passions  stuffed, 

And  from  the  private  struggles  of  mankind 
Hoping  for  less  than  I could  wish  to  hope. 

Far  less  than  once  I trusted  and  believed  — 

I love  to  hear  of  Those,  who,  not  contending 
Nor  summoned  to  contend  for  Virtue’s  prize, 

IMiss  not  the  humbler  good  at  which  they  aim; 

Blest  with  a kindly  faculty  to  blunt 
The  edge  of  adverse  circumstance,  and  turn 
Into  their  contraries  the  petty  plagues 
And  hinderances  with  which  they  stand  beset. 

— In  early  youth,  among  my  native  hills, 

I knew  a Scottish  Peasant  who  possessed 
A few  small  Crofts  of  stone-encumbered  ground  ; 
Masses  of  every  shape  and  size,  that  lay 
Scattered  about  under  the  mouldering  walls 
Of  a rough  precipice;  and  some,  apart. 

In  quarters  unobnoxious  to  such  chance. 

As  if  the  Moon  had  showered  them  down  in  spite ; 
But  he  repined  not.  Though  the  plough  was  scared 
By  these  obstructions,  ‘ round  the  shady  stones 
A fertilising  moisture,’  said  the  Swain, 

‘ Gathers,  and  is  preserved  ; and  feeding  dews 
‘ And  damps,  through  all  the  droughty  Summer  day, 

‘ From  out  their  substance  issuing  maintain 
‘ Herbage  that  never  fails ; no  grass  springs  up 
‘ So  green,  so  fresh,  sc  plentiful,  as  mine  !’ 

But  thinly  sown  these  Natures ; rare,  at  least, 

Tl^  mutual  aptitude  of  seed  and  soil 
That  yields  such  kindly  product.  He  — whose  bed 
Perhaps  yon  loose  sods  cover,  the  poor  Pensioner 
Brought  yesterday  from  our  sequestered  dell 
Here  to  lie  down  in  lasting  quiet  — he. 

If  living  now,  could  otherwise  report 

Of  rustic  loneliness ; that  gray-haired  Orphan  — 

So  call  him,  for  humanity  to  him 
No  parent  was  — feelingly  could  have  told. 

In  life,  in  death,  what  Solitude  can  breed 
4A 


Of  selfishness,  and  cruelty,  and  vice  ; 

Or,  if  it  breed  not,  hath  not  power  to  cure. 

— But  your  compliance.  Sir  ! with  our  request 
My  words  too  long  have  hindered.” 

Undeterred, 

Perhaps  incited  rather,  by  these  shocks. 

In  no  ungracious  opposition,  given 
To  the  confiding  spirit  of  his  own 
Experienced  faith,  the  reverend  Pastor  said. 

Around  him  looking,  “ Where  shall  I begin  ? 

Who  shall  be  first  selected  from  my  Flock 
Gathered  together  in  their  peaceful  fold  1” 

He  paused  — and  having  lifted  up  his  eyes 
To  the  pure  Heaven,  he  cast  them  down  again 
Upon  the  earth  beneath  his  feet;  and  spake. 

I — “To  a mysteriously-consorted  Pair 
This  place  is  consecrate ; to  Death  and  Life 
And  to  the  best  Affections  that  proceed 
From  their  conjunction;  — consecrate  to  faith 
In  Him  who  bled  for  man  upon  the  Cross; 
j Hallowed  to  Revelation  ; and  no  less 
I To  Reason’s  mandates;  and  the  hopes  divine 
Of  pure  Imagination;  — above  all. 

To  Charity,  and  Love,  that  have  provided. 

Within  these  precincts,  a capacious  bed 
And  receptacle,  open  to  the  good 
And  evil,  to  the  just  and  the  unjust; 

In  which  they  find  an  equal  resting-place : 

Even  as  the  multitude  of  kindred  brooks 

And  streams,  whose  murmur  fills  this  hollow  vale. 

Whether  their  course  bo  turbulent  or  smooth. 

Their  waters  clear  or  sullied,  all  are  lost 
Within  the  bosom  of  yon  crystal  Lake, 

And  end  their  journey  in  the  same  repose ! 

“ And  blest  are  they  who  sleep  ; and  we  that  know 
While  in  a spot  like  this  we  breathe  and  walk. 

That  All  beneath  us  by  the  wings  are  covered 
Of  motherly  Humanity,  outspread- 
And  gathering  all  within  their  tender  shade. 
Though  loth  and  slow  to  come  I A battle-field. 

In  stillness  left  when  slaughter  is  no  more. 

With  this  compared,  is  a strange  spectacle 
A rueful  sight  the  wild  shore  strewn  with  wrecks. 
And  trod  by  people  in  afflicted  quest 
j Of  friends  and  kindred,  whom  the  angry  Sea 
Restores  not  to  their  prayer ! Ah  ! who  would  think 
That  all  the  scattered  subjects  which  compose 
Earth’s  melancholy  vision  through  the  space 
Of  all  her  climes;  these  wretched,  these  depraved- 
To  virtue  lost,  insensible  of  peace. 

From  the  delights  of  charity  cut  off. 

To  pity  dead,  the  Oppressor  and  the  Opprest ; 
Tyrants  who  utter  the  destroying  w'ord. 

And  slaves  who  will  consent  to  be  destroyed  — 
Were  of  one  species  with  the  sheltered  few. 

Who,  with  a dutiful  and  tender  hand, 

51 


602 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Did  lodge,  in  an  appropriated  spot, 

Tliis  file  of  Infants ; some  that  never  breathed 
The  vital  air ; and  others,  who,  allowed 
That  privilege,  did  yet  expire  too  soon. 

Or  with  too  brief  a warning,  to  admit 
Administration  of  the  holy  rite 
That  lovingly  consigns  the  Babe  to  the  arms 
Of  Jesus,  and  his  everlasting  care. 

These  that  in  trembling  hope  are  laid  apart ; 

And  the  besprinkled  Nursling,  unrequired 
Till  he  begins  to  smile  upon  the  breast 
That  feeds  him ; and  the  tottering  Little-one 
Taken  from  air  and  sunshine  when  the  rose 
Of  Infancy  first  blooms  upon  his  cheek  ; 

The  thinking,  thoughtless  School-boy;  the  bold  Youth 
Of  soul  impetuous,  and  the  bashful  Maid 
Smitten  while  all  the  promises  of  life 
Are  opening  round  her;  those  of  middle  age. 

Cast  down  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 
Like  pillars  fixed  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 

And  more  secure,  by  very  weight  of  all 
That,  for  support,  rests  on  them ; the  decayed 
And  burthensome ; and  lastly,  that  poor  few 
Whose  light  of  reason  is  with  age  extinct ; 

The  hopeful  and  the  hopeless,  first  and  last. 

The  earliest  summoned  and  the  longest  spared  — 

Are  here  deposited,  with  tribute  paid 
Various,  but  unto  each  some  tribute  paid ; 

As  if,  amid  these  peaceful  hills  and  groves. 

Society  were  touched  with  kind  concern ; 

And  gentle  ‘Nature  grieved,  that  One  should  die;’* 
Or,  if  the  change  demanded  no  regret. 

Observed  the  liberating  stroke  — and  blessed. 

— And  whence  that  tribute  1 wherefore  these  regards  ?f 
Not  from  the  naked  Heart  alone  of  Man 
(Though  claiming  high  distinction  upon  earth 

*“  And  suffering  Nature  grieved  ihat  one  should  die.” 

Southey’s  Retrospect. 

tThe  sentiments  and  opinions  here  uttered  are  in  unison  with 
those  expressed  in  an  Essay  upon  Epitaphs,  which  was  furnished 
by  the  author  for  Mr.  Coleridge’s  periodical  work,  ‘ The  Friend  ;’ 


As  the  sole  spring  and  fountain-head  of  tears, 

His  own  peculiar  utterance  for  distress 
Or  gladness.)  No,”  the  philosophic  Priest 
Continued,  “ ’t  is  not  in  the  vital  seat 
Of  feeling  to  produce  them,  without  aid 
From  the  pure  Soul,  the  Soul  sublime  and  pure  ; 

With  her  two  faculties  of  Eye  aud  Ear, 

The  one  by  which  a Creature,  whom  his  sins 
Have  rendered  prone,  can  upward  look  to  Heaven ; 
The  other  that  empowers  him  to  perceive 
The  voice  of  Deity,  on  height  and  plain, 

Whispering  those  truths  in  stillness,  which  the  Word, 
To  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds,  proclaims. 

Not  without  such  assistance  could  the  use 
Of  these  benign  observances  prevail. 

Thus  are  they  born,  thus  fostered,  and  maintained  ; 
And  by  the  care  prospective  of  our  wise 
Forefathers,  who,  to  guard  against  the  shocks. 

The  fluctuation  and  decay  of  things. 

Embodied  and  established  these  high  Truths 
In  solemn  Institutions:  — Men  convinced 
That  Life  is  Love  and  Immortality, 

The  Being  one,  and  one  the  Element. 

There  lies  the  channel,  and  original  bed. 

From  the  beginning,  hollowed  out  and  scooped 
For  Man’s  Affections  — else  betrayed  and  lost. 

And  swallowed  up  ’mid  deserts  infinite! 

— This  is  the  genuine  course,  the  aitn,  and  end 
Of  prescient  Reason  ; all  conclusions  else 
Are  abject,  vain,  presumptuous,  and  perverse. 

The  faith  partaking  of  those  holy  times. 

Life,  I repeat,  is  energy  of  Love 
Divine  or  human ; exercised  in  pain. 

In  strife,  and  tribulation  ; and  ordained. 

If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass. 

Through  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy.” 


and  as  they  are  dictated  by  a spirit  congenial  to  that  which  per- 
vades tliis  and  the  two  succeeding  books,  the  sympathising 
reader  will  not  be  displeased  to  see  the  Essay  here  annexed. 
[See  Appendix VI,. towhich  the  Essay  upon  Epitaphs  has  been 
transferred.  — II.  R.] 


THE  EXCURSION 


BOOK  THE  SIXTH. 

THE  CHURCII-YARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS 


ARGUMENT. 

Poet’s  Address  to  the  Stale  and  CImrch  of  England — The  Pastor  not  inferior  to  the  ancient  Worthies  of  the 
Church  — He  begins  his  Narratives  with  an  Instance  of  unrequited  Love  — Anguish  of  Mind  subdued  — and  how  — 
The  lonely  Miner,  an  Instance  of  Perseverance,  which  leads  by  contr.ast  to  an  Example  of  abused  talents,  irresolu- 
tion, and  weakness  — Solitary,  applying  this  covertly  to  his  own  case,  asks  for  an  Instance  of  some  Stranger,  whose 
disposition  may  have  led  him  to  end  his  days  here  — Pastor,  in  answer,  gives  an  account  of  the  harmonising  influence 
of  Solitude  upon  two  Men  of  opposite  principles,  who  had  encountered  agitations  in  public  life  — The  Rule  by 
which  Peace  may  be  obtained  expressed  — and  where  — Solitary  hints  at  an  overpowering  Fatality — Answer  of 
the  Pastor  — What  subjects  he  will  exclude  from  his  Narratives  — Conversation  upon  this — Instance  of  an  un- 
amiable  character,  a Female  — and  why  given  — Contrasted  with  this,  a meek  Sufferer  from  unguarded  and  betrayed 
love  — Instance  of  heavier  guilt,  and  its  consequences  to  the  Offender — Whih  this  Instance  of  a Marriage  Contract 
broken  is  contrasted  one  of  a Widower,  evidencing  his  faithful  affection  towards  his  deceased  vxife  by  his  care  of 
theii  female  Children. 


Hail  to  the  Crown  by  Freedom  shaped  — to  gird 
An  English  Sovereign’s  brow  ! and  to  the  Throne 
Whereon  he  sits!  Whose  deep  Foundations  lie 
In  veneration  and  the  People’s  love ; 

Whose  steps  are  equity,  whose  seat  is  law. 

— Hail  to  the  State  of  England  ! And  conjoin 
With  this  a salutation  as  devout, 

Made  to  the  spiritual  Fabric  of  her  Church  ; 
Founded  in  truth  ; by  blood  of  Martyrdom 
Cemented  ; by  the  hands  of  Wisdom  reared 
In  beauty  of  Holiness,  with  ordered  pomp. 
Decent,  and  unreproved.  The  voice,  that  greets 
The  majesty  of  both,  shall  pray  for  both  ; 

That,  mutually  protected  and  sustained. 

They  may  endure  long  as  the  sea  surrounds 
This  favoured  Land,  or  sunshine  warms  her  soil. 

— And  O,  ye  swelling  hills,  and  spacious  plains! 
Besprent  from  shore  to  shore  with  steeple-towers 
And  spires  whose  “silent  finger  points  to  Heaven 


“An  instinctive  taste  teaches  men  to  build  their  churches 
in  flat  countries  with  spire-steeples,  which,  as  they  cannot  be 
referred  to  any  other  object,  point  as  with  silent  finger  to  the 
sky  and  stars,  and  sometimes,  when  they  reflect  the  brazen  light 
of  a rich  though  rainy  sunset,  appear  like  a pyramid  of  flame 

burning  heaven-ward.” S.  T.  Colekidge  : ‘ Biographia  Lile- 

raria,’  ch.  xxiL  ‘ Satyrane’s  Letters,’ No.  L 


Nor  wanting,  at  w’ide  intervals,  the  bulk 
Of  ancient  Minster,  lifted  above  the  cloud 
Of  the  dense  air,  which  town  or  city  breeds 
To  intercept  the  sun’s  glad  beams  — may  ne’er 
That  true  succession  fail  of  English  Hearts, 
Who,  with  Ancestral  feeling,  can  perceive 
What  in  those  holy  Structures  ye  possess 
Of  ornamental  interest,  and  the  charm 
Of  pious  sentiment  diffused  afar. 

And  human  charity,  and  social  love. 

— Tims  never  shall  the  indignities  of  Time 
Approach  their  reverend  graces,  unopposed ; 
Nor  shall  the  Elements  be  free  to  hurt 
Their  fair  proportions ; nor  the  blinder  rage 
Of  bigot  zeal  madly  to  overturn  ; 

And,  if  the  desolating  hand  of  war 
Spare  them,  they  shall  continue  to  bestow'  — 
Upon  the  thronged  abodes  of  busy  Men 
(Depraved,  and  ever  prone  to  fill  their  minds 
Exclusively  with  transitory  things) 

An  air  and  mien  of  dignified  pursuit; 

Of  sweet  civility — on  rustic  wilds. 

— The  poet,  fostering  for  his  native  land 
Such  hope,  entreats  that  Servants  may  abound 
Of  those  pure  Altars  worthy  ; Ministers 
Detached  from  pleasure,  to  the  love  of  gam 


604 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  ORKS. 


Superior,  insusceptible  of  pride, 

And  by  ambitious  longings  undisturbed  ; 

Men,  whose  delight  is  where  their  duty  leads 
Or  fixes  them;  whose  least  distinguished  day 
Shines  with  some  portion  of  that  heavenly  lustre 
Which  makes  the  Sabbath  lovely  in  the  sight 
Of  blessed  angels,  pitying  human  cares. 

— And,  as  on  earth  it  is  the  doom  of  Truth 
To  be  perpetually  attacked  by  foes 
Open  or  covert,  be  that  Priesthood  still. 

For  her  defence,  replenished  with  a Band 
Of  strenuous  Champions,  in  scholastic  arts 
Thoroughly  disciplined;  nor  (if  in  course 
Of  the  revolving  World’s  disturbances 
Cause  should  recur,  which  righteous  Heaven  avert! 
To  meet  such  trial)  from  their  spiritual  Sires 
Degenerate ; who,  constrained  to  wield  the  sword 
Of  disputation,  shrunk  not,  though  assailed 
With  hostile  din,  and  combating  in  sight 
Of  angry  umpires,  partial  and  unjust; 

And  did,  thereafter,  bathe  their  hands  in  fire, 

So  to  declare  the  conscience  satisfied  : 

Nor  for  their  bodies  would  accept  release; 

But,  blessing  God  and  praising  him,  beqtieathed 
With  their  last  breath,  from  out  the  smouldering  flame. 
The  faith  which  they  by  diligence  had  earned. 

Or,  through  illuminating  grace,  received. 

For  their  dear  Countrymen,  and  all  mankind. 

O high  example,  constancy  divine  ! 

Even  such  a man  (inheriting  the  zeal 
And  from  the  sanctity  of  elder  times 
Not  deviating,  — a Priest,  the  like  of  whom. 

If  multiplied,  and  in  their  stations  set. 

Would  o’er  the  hosom  of  a joyful  Land 
Spread  true  Religion,  and  her  genuine  fruits) 

Before  me  stood  that  day ; on  holy  ground 
Fraught  with  the  relics  of  mortality. 

Exalting  tender  themes,  by  just  degrees 
To  lofty  raised  ; and  to  the  highest,  last; 

The  head  and  mighty  paramount  of  truths; 

Immortal  life,  in  never  fading  worlds. 

For  mortal  Creatures,  conquered  and  secured. 

That  basis  laid,  those  principles  of  faith 
Announced,  as  a preparatory  act 
Of  reverence  to  the  spirit  of  the  place  ; 

The  Pastor  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

Not,  as  before,  like  one  oppressed  with  awe. 

But  with  a mild  and  social  cheerfulness. 

Then  to  the  Solitary  turned,  and  spake. 

“ At  morn  or  eve,  in  your  retired  Domain, 

Perchance  you  not  unfrequently  have  marked 
A Visitor  — in  quest  of  herbs  and  flowers ; 

Too  delicate  employ,  as  would  appear, 

Fo'  One,  who,  though  of  drooping  mien,  had  yet 


From  Nature’s  kindliness  received  a frame 
Robust  as  ever  rural  labour  bred.” 

The  Solitary  answered  : “ Such  a Form 
, Full  well  I recollect.  We  often  crossed 
Each  other’s  path ; but,  as  the  Intruder  seemed 
Fondly  to  prize  the  silence  which  he  kept. 

And  I as  willingly  did  cherish  mine, 

We  met,  and  passed,  like  shadows.  I have  heard. 
From  my  good  Host,  that  he  was  crazed  in  brain 
By  unrequited  love ; and  scaled  the  rocks. 

Dived  into  caves,  and  pierced  the  matted  woods. 

In  hope  to  find  some  virtuous  herb  of  power 
To  cure  his  malady !” 

The  Vicar  smiled, 

“Alas!  before  to-morrow’s  sun  goes  down 
His  habitation  will  be  here:  for  him 
That  open  grave  is  destined.” 

“Died  he  then 

Of  pain  and  grief!”  the  Solitary  asked, 

! “Believe  it  not  — oh  ! never  could  that  be!” 

I 

I “He  loved,”  the  Vicar  answered,  “deeply  lovea, 

I Loved  fondly,  truly,  fervently ; and  dared 
At  length  to  tell  his  love,  but  sued  in  vain; 
j — Rejected  — yea  repelled  — and,  if  with  scorn 
Upon  the  haughty  maiden’s  brow,  ’tis  but 
A high-prized  plume  which  female  beauty  wears 
' In  w’antonness  of  conquest,  or  puts  on 
To  cheat  the  world,  or  from  herself  to  hide 
I Humiliation,  when  no  longer  free. 

That  he  could  brook,  and  glory  in; — but  when 
The  tidings  came  that  she  whom  he  had  wooed 
I Was  wedded  to  another,  and  his  heart 
Was  forced  to  rend  away  its  only  hope. 

Then,  Pity  could  have  scarcely  found  on  earth 
An  Object  worthier  of  regard  than  he, 

I In  the  transition  of  that  bitter  hour ! 

' Lost  was  she,  lost;  nor  could  the  Sufferer  say 
That  in  the  act  of  preference  he  had  been 
Unjustly  dealt  with ; but  the  Maid  was  gone  ! 
j Had  vanished  from  his  prospects  and  desires; 

Not  by  translation  to  the  heavenly  Choir 
Who  have  put  off  their  mortal  spoils  — ah  no ! 

She  lives  another’s  wishes  to  complete, — 
j ‘ Joy  be  their  lot,  and  happiness,’  he  cried, 

‘ His  lot  and  hers,  as  misery  is  mine  !’ 

“Such  was  that  strong  concussion;  but  the  Man 
Who  trembled,  trunk  and  limbs,  like  some  huge  Oak 
By  a fierce  tempest  shaken,  soon  resumed 
j The  steadfast  quiet  natural  to  a Mind 
I Of  composition  gentle  and  sedate, 

I And  in  its  movements  circumspect  and  slow, 
i To  books,  and  to  the  long-forsaken  desk, 

J O’er  which  enchained  by  science  he  had  loved 
1 To  bend,  he  stoutly  re-addressed  himself, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


60.^ 


Resolved  to  quell  his  pain,  and  search  for  truth 
With  keener  appetite  (if  that  might  be) 

And  closer  industry.  Of  what  ensued 
Within  the  heart  no  outward  sign  appeared 
Till  a betraying  sickliness  was  seen 
To  tinge  liis  cheek ; and  through  his  frame  it  crept 
With  slow  mutation  unconcealable ; 

Such  universal  change  as  autumn  makes 

In  the  fair  body  of  a leafy  grove 

Discoloured,  then  divested.  ’T  is  affirmed 

By  Poets  skilled  in  Nature’s  secret  ways 

Tiiat  Love  will  not  submit  to  bo  controlled 

By  mastery  : — and  the  good  Man  lacked  not  Friends 

Who  strove  to  instil  this  truth  into  his  mind, 

A mind  in  all  heart-mysteries  unversed. 

‘ Go  to  the  hills,’  said  one,  ‘ remit  a while 
* This  baneful  diligence : — at  early  morn 
‘ Court  the  fresh  air,  e.\plore  the  heaths  and  woods ; 
‘And,  leaving  it  to  others  to  foretell, 

‘ By  calculations  sage,  the  ebb  and  flow 
‘ Of  tides,  and  when  the  moon  will  be  eclipsed, 

‘ Do  you,  for  your  own  benefit,  construct 
‘ A calendar  of  flowers,  plucked  as  they  blow 
‘ Where  health  abides,  and  cheerfulness,  and  peace.’ 
The  attempt  was  made;  — ’tis  needless  to  report 
How  hopelessly:  — but  Innocence  is  strong, 

And  an  entire  simplicity  of  mind 
A thing  most  sacred  in  the  eye  of  Heaven, 

That  opens,  for  such  Sufferers,  relief 
Within  their  souls,  a fount  of  grace  divine  ; 

And  doth  commend  their  weakne.ss  and  disease 
To  Nature’s  care,  assisted  in  her  office 
By  all  the  Elements  that  round  her  wait 
To  generate,  to  preserve,  and  to  restore  ; 

And  by  her  beautiful  array  of  Forms 
Shedding  sweet  influence  from  above,  or  pure 
Delight  exhaling  from  the  ground  they  tread.” 

“ Impute  it  not  to  impatience,  if,”  exclaimed 
The  ^Vanderer,  “I  infer  that  he  was  healed 
By  perseverance  in  the  course  prescribed.” 

“ You  do  not  err  : the  powers,  that  had  been  lost 
By  slow  degrees,  were  gradually  regained  ; 

The  fluttering  nerves  composed  ; the  beating  heart 
In  rest  established  ; and  the  jarring  thoughts 
To  harmony  restored.  — But  yon  dark  mould 
Will  cover  him,  in  the  fulness  of  his  strength  — 
Hastily  smitten,  by  a fever’s  force; 

Yet  not  with  stroke  so  sudden  as  refused 
Time  to  look  back  with  tenderness  on  her 
Wliom  he  had  loved  in  passion,  — and  to  send 
Some  farewell  words — with  one,  but  one,  request. 
That,  from  his  dying  hand,  she  would  accept 
Of  his  possessions  that  which  most  he  prized  ; 

A Boo't,  upon  whose  leaves  some  chosen  plants 
By  his  own  hand  disposed  with  nicest  care. 


In  undecaying  beauty  were  preserved  ; 

Mute  register,  to  him,  of  time  and  place. 

And  various  fluctuations  in  the  breast ; 

To  her,  a monument  of  faitliful  Love 
Conquered,  and  in  tranquillity  retained ! 

“ Close  to  his  destined  habitation,  lies 
One  who  achieved  a humbler  victory. 

Though  marvellous  in  its  kind.  A Place  there  is 
High  in  these  mountains,  tliat  allured  a Band 
Of  keen  Adventurers  to  unite  their  pains 
In  search  of  precious  ore:  who  tried,  were  foiled  — 
And  all  desisted,  all,  save  him  alone. 

He,  taking  counsel  of  his  own  clear  thoughts. 

And  trusting  only  to  his  own  weak  hands. 

Urged  unremittingly  the  stubborn  work. 

Unseconded,  uncountenanced  ; then,  as  time 
Passed  on,  while  still  his  lonely  efforts  found 
No  recompense,  derided;  and  at  length. 

By  many  pitied,  as  insane  of  mind; 

By  others  dreaded  as  the  luckless  Thrall 
Of  subterranean  Spirits  feeding  hope 
By  various  mockery  of  sight  and  sound ; 

Hope  after  hope,  encouraged  and  destroyed. 

— But  when  the  Lord  of  seasons  had  matured 
The  fruits  of  earth  through  space  of  twice  ten  year^ 
The  mountain’s  entrails  offered  to  his  view 
And  trembling  grasp  the  long-deferred  reward. 

Not  with  more  transport  did  Columbus  greet 
A world,  his  rich  discovery  ! But  our  Swain, 

A very  Hero  till  his  point  was  gained. 

Proved  all  unable  to  support  the  weight 
Of  prosperous  fortune.  On  the  fields  he  looked 
With  an  unsettled  liberty  of  thought. 

Of  schemes  and  wishes;  in  the  daylight  walked 
Giddy  and  restless;  ever  and  anon 
Quaffed  in  his  gratitude  immoderate  cups; 

And  truly  might  be  said  to  die  of  joy  ! 

He  vanished  ; but  conspicuous  to  this  day 
The  Path  remains  that  linked  his  Cottage-door 
To  the  Mine’s  mouth ; a long,  and  slanting  track. 
Upon  the  rugged  mountain’s  stony  side. 

Worn  by  his  daily  visits  to  and  from 
The  darksome  centre  of  a constant  hope. 

This  Vestige,  neither  force  of  beating  rain. 

Nor  the  vicissitudes  of  frost  and  thaw. 

Shall  cause  to  fade,  till  ages  pass  away ; 

And  it  is  named,  in  memory  of  the  event, 

The  Path  of  Perseverance.” 

“Thou  from  whom 

Man  has  his  strength,”  exclaimed  the  Wanderer,  “ ob  I 
Do  thou  direct  it ! — to  the  Virtuous  grant 
The  penetrative  eye  which  can  perceive 
In  this  blind  world  the  guiding  vein  of  hope. 

That,  like  this  Labourer,  such  may  dig  their  way, 

51* 


606 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


‘Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrified 
Grant  to  the  Wise  his  firmness  of  resolve  !” 


“ That  Draper  were  not  superfluous,”  said  the  Priest, 
“ Amid  the  noblest  relics,  proudest  dust. 

That  Westminster,  for  Britain’s  glory,  holds 
Within  the  bosom  of  her  awful  Pile, 

Ambitiously  collected.  Yet  the  sigh. 

Which  wafts  that  prayer  to  Heaven,  is  due  to  all. 
Wherever  laid,  who  living  fell  below 
Their  virtue’s  humbler  mark  ; a sigh  of  pain 
If  to  the  opposite  extreme  they  sank. 

IIow  would  you  pity  Her  who  yonder  rests ; 

Him,  farther  off;  the  Pair,  who  here  are  laid; 

But,  above  all,  that  mixture  of  Earth’s  Mould 
Whom  sight  of  this  green  Hillock  to  my  mind 
Recalls!  — He  lived  not  till  his  locks  were  nipped 
By  seasonable  frost  of  age ; nor  died 
Before  his  temples,  prematurely  forced 
To  mix  the  manly  brown  with  silver  gray. 

Gave  obvious  instance  of  the  sad  effect 
Produced,  when  thoughtless  Folly  hath  usurped 
The  natural  crown  that  sage  experience  wears. 

— Gay,  volatile,  ingenious,  quick  to  learn. 

And  prompt  to  exhibit  all  that  he  possessed 
Or  could  perform  ; a zealous  actor  — hired 
Into  the  troop  of  mirth,  a soldier  — sworn 
Into  the  lists  of  giddy  enterprise  — 

Such  was  he  ; yet,  as  if  within  his  frame 
Two  several  Souls  alternately  had  lodged. 

Two  sets  of  manners  could  the  Youth  put  on; 

And,  fraught  with  antics  as  the  Indian  bird 
That  writhes  and  chatters  in  her  wiry  cage  ; 

Was  graceful,  when  it  pleased  him,  smooth  and  still 
As  the  mute  Swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream, 

Or,  on  the  waters  of  the  unruffled  lake. 

Anchors  her  placid  beauty.  Not  a Leaf 
That  flutters  on  the  bough,  more  light  than  He; 

And  not  a flower,  that  droops  in  the  green  shade. 
More  winningly  reserved  ! If  ye  enquire 
How  such  consummate  elegance  was  bred 
Amid  these  wilds,  this  answer  may  suffice, 

’T  was  Nature’s  will ; who  sometimes  undertakes. 
For  the  reproof  of  human  vanity. 

Art  to  outstrip  in  her  peculiar  walk. 

Hence,  for  this  Favourite,  lavishly  endowed 
With  personal  gifts,  and  bright  instinctive  wit. 
While  both,  embellishing  each  other,  stood 
Yet  farther  recommended  by  the  charm 
Of  fine  demeanour,  and  by  dance  and  song. 

And  skill  in  letters,  every  fancy  shaped 
Fair  expectations ; nor,  when  to  the  World’s 
Capacious  field  forth  went  the  Adventurer,  there 
Were  he  and  his  attainments  overlooked. 

Or  scantily  rewarded  ; but  all  hopes. 

Cherished  for  him,  he  suffered  to  depart. 

Like  blighted  buds;  or  clouds  that  mimicked  Land 


Before  the  Sailor’s  eye ; or  diamond  drops 

That  sparkling  decked  the  morning  grass ; or  aught 

That  was  attractive  — and  hath  ceased  to  be  ! 

— Yet,  when  this  Prodigal  returned,  the  rites 
Of  joyful  greeting  were  on  him  bestowed. 

Who,  by  humiliation  undeterred. 

Sought  for  his  weariness  a place  of  rest 
Within  his  Father’s  gates.  — Whence  came  He  ? • 
clothed 

In  tattered  garb,  from  hovels  where  abides 

Necessity,  the  stationary  Host 

Of  vagrant  Poverty ; from  rifted  barns 

Where  no  one  dwells  but  the  wide-staring  Owl 

And  the  Owl’s  Prey  ; from  these  bare  Haunts,  to  which 

He  had  descended  from  the  proud  Saloon, 

He  came,  the  Ghost  of  beauty  and  of  health. 

The  Wreck  of  gaiety  ! But  soon  revived 
In  strength,  in  power  refitted,  he  renewed 
His  suit  to  Fortune;  and  she  smiled  again 
Upon  a fickle  Ingrate.  Thrice  he  rose. 

Thrice  sank  as  willingly.  For  He,  whose  nerves 
Were  used  to  thrill  with  pleasure,  while  his  voice 
Softly  accompanied  the  tuneful  harp. 

By  the  nice  finger  of  fair  Ladies,  touched 
In  glittering  Halls,  was  able  to  derive 
No  less  enjoyment  from  an  abject  choice. 

Who  happier  for  the  moment  — who  more  bliths 
Than  this  fallen  Spirit  1 in  those  dreary  Holds 
His  Talents  lending  to  exalt  the  freaks 
Of  merry-making  Beggars,  — now,  provoked 
To  laughter  multiplied  in  louder  peals 
By  his  malicious  wit;  then,  all  enchained 
With  mute  astonishment,  themselves  to  see 
In  their  own  arts  outdone,  their  fame  eclipsed 
As  by  the  very  presence  of  the  Fiend 
Who  dictates  and  inspires  illusive  feats. 

For  knavish  purposes ! The  City,  too, 

(With  shame  I speak  it)  to  her  guilty  bowers 
Allured  him,  sunk  so  low  in  self-respect 
As  there  to  linger,  there  to  eat  his  bread. 

Hired  Minstrel  of  voluptuous  blandishment; 

Charming  the  air  with  skill  of  hand  or  voice. 

Listen  who  would,  be  wrought  upon  who  might, 
Sincerely  wretched  Hearts,  or  falsely  gay. 

— Such  the  too  frequent  tenor  of  his  boast 
In  ears  that  relished  the  report;  — but  all 
Was  from  his  Parents  happily  concealed ; 

I Who  saw  enough  for  blame  and  pitying  love. 

They  also  were  permitted  to  receive 

His  last,  repentant  breath;  and  closed  his  eyes. 

No  more  to  open  on  that  irksome  world 
Where  he  had  long  existed  in  the  state 
Of  a young  Fowl  beneath  one  Mother  hatched. 
Though  from  another  sprung  — of  different  kind  ; 
Where  he  had  lived,  and  could  not  cease  to  live, 
Distracted  in  propensity  ; content 
With  neither  element  of  good  or  ill ; 

And  yet  in  both  rejoicing;  man  unblest; 


THE  EXCURSION. 


607 


Of  contradictions  infinite  the  slave, 

Till  his  deliverance,  when  Mercy  made  him 
One  with  Himself,  and  one  with  them  who  sleep.” 

“’Tis  strange,”  observed  the  Solitary,  “strange 
It  seems,  and  scarcely  less  than  pitiful. 

That  in  a Land  where  Charity  provides 
For  all  that  can  no  longer  feed  themselves, 

A Man  like  this  should  choose  to  bring  his  shame 
To  the  parental  door;  and  with  his  sighs 
Infect  the  air  which  he  had  freely  breathed 
In  happy  infancy.  He  could  not  pine. 

Through  lack  of  converse,  no,  he  must  have  found 
Abundant  exercise  for  thought  and  speech. 

In  his  dividual  Being,  self-reviewed, 

Self-catechised,  self-punished.  — Some  there  are 
Who,  drawing  near  their  final  Home,  and  much 
And  daily  longing  that  the  same  were  reached. 
Would  rather  shun  than  seek  the  fellowship 
Of  kindred  mould.  — Such  haply  here  are  laid  !” 

“Yes,”  said  the  Priest,  “the  Genius  of  our  Hills, 
Wlio  seems,  by  these  stupendous  barriers  cast 
Round  his  Domain,  desirous  not  alone 
To  keep  his  own,  but  also  to  exclude 
All  other  progeny,  doth  sometimes  lure, 

Even  by  this  studied  depth  of  privacy. 

The  unhappy  Alien  hoping  to  obtain 
Concealment,  or  seduced  by  wish  to  find. 

In  place  from  outward  molestation  free. 

Helps  to  internal  ease.  Of  many  such 
Could  I discourse ; but  as  their  stay  was  brief. 

So  their  departure  only  left  behind 

Fancies,  and  loose  conjectures.  Other  trace 

Survives,  for  worthy  mention,  of  a Pair 

Who,  from  the  pressure  of  their  several  fates. 

Meeting  as  Strangers,  in  a petty  Town 

Whose  blue  roofs  ornament  a distant  reach 

Of  this  far-winding  Vale,  remained  as  Friends 

True  to  their  choice ; and  gave  their  bones  in  trust 

To  this  loved  Cemetery,  here  to  lodge 

With  unescutcheoned  privacy  interred 

Far  from  the  Family-vault.  — A Chieftain  One 

By  right  of  birth ; within  whose  spotless  breast 

The  file  of  ancient  Caledonia  burned. 

He,  with  the  foremost  whose  impatience  hailed 
The  Stuart,  landing  to  resume,  by  force 
Of  arms,  the  crown  which  Bigotry  had  lost. 
Aroused  his  clan  ; and,  fighting  at  their  head. 

With  his  brave  sword  endeavoured  to  prevent 
Culloden’s  fatal  overthrow.  — Escaped 
From  that  disastrous  rout,  to  foreign  shores 
He  fled ; and  when  the  lenient  hand  of  time 
Those  troubles  had  appeased,  he  sought  and  gained. 
For  his  obscured  condition,  an  obscure 
Retreat,  within  this  nook  of  English  ground. 

— The  Other,  born  in  Britain’s  southern  tract. 

Had  fixed  his  milder  loyalty,  and  placed 


His  gentler  sentiments  of  love  and  hate. 

There,  where  they  placed  them  who  in  consc 
prized 

The  new  succession,  as  a line  of  Kings 
Whose  oath  had  virtue  to  protect  the  Land 
Against  the  dire  assaults  of  Papacy 
And  arbitrary  Rule.  But  launch  thy  Bark 
On  the  distempered  flood  of  public  life. 

And  cause  for  most  rare  triumph  will  be  thine 
If,  spite  of  keenest  eye  and  steadiest  hand, 

TJie  Stream,  that  bears  thee  forward,  prove  not,  soon 
Or  late,  a perilous  Master.  He,  who  oft. 

Under  the  battlements  and  stately  trees 
That  round  his  Mansion  cast  a sober  gloom. 

Had  moralized  on  this,  and  other  truths 
Of  kindred  import,  pleased  and  satisfied. 

Was  forced  to  vent  his  wisdom  with  a sigh 
Heaved  from  the  heart  in  fortune’s  bitterness. 

When  he  had  crushed  a plentiful  estate 
By  ruinous  Contest,  to  obtain  a Seat 
In  Britain’s  Senate.  Fruitless  was  the  attempt : 

And  while  the  uproar  of  that  desperate  strife 
Continued  yet  to  vibrate  on  his  ear. 

The  vanquished  Whig,  beneath  a borrowed  name, 

(For  the  mere  sound  and  echo  of  his  own 
Haunted  him  with  sensations  of  disgust 
That  he  was  glad  to  lose)  slunk  from  the  World 
To  the  deep  shade  of  these  untravelled  Wilds  ; 

In  which  the  Scottish  Laird  had  long  possessed 
An  undisturbed  Abode.  — Here,  then,  they  met, 

Two  doughty  Champions;  flaming  Jacobite 
And  sullen  Hanoverian  ! You  miglit  think 
That  losses  and  vexations,  less  severe 
Than  those  which  they  had  severally  sustained, 

Would  have  inclined  each  to  abate  his  zeal 
For  his  ungrateful  cause;  no,  — I have  heard 
My  reverend  Father  tell  that,  ’mid  the  calm 
Of  that  small  Town  encountering  thus,  they  filled,. 
Daily,  its  Bowling-green  with  harmless  strife ; 
Plagued  with  uncharitable  thoughts  the  Church ; 

And  vexed  the  Market-place.  But  in  the  breasts 
Of  these  Opponents  gradually  was  wrought. 

With  little  change  of  general  sentiment. 

Such  change  towards  each  other,  that  their  days 
By  choice  were  spent  in  constant  fellowship ; 

And  if,  at  times,  they  fretted  witli  the  yoke. 

Those  very  bickerings  made  them  love  it  more. 

“ A favourite  boundary  to  their  lengthened  v/alk» 

This  Church-yard  was.  And,  whether  they  had  coma 
Treading  their  path  in  sympathy  and  linked 
In  social  converse,  or  by  some  short  space 
Discreetly  parted  to  preserve  the  peace. 

One  Spirit  seldom  failed  to  extend  its  sway 
Over  both  minds,  when  they  awhile  had  marked 
The  visible  quiet  of  this  holy  ground. 

And  breathed  its  soothing  air  ; — the  Spirit  of  hope 
And  saintly  magnanimity;  that,  spurning 


G08 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


The  field  of  selfish  difference  and  dispute, 

And  every  care  which  transitory  things, 

Earth,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  create. 

Doth,  by  a rapture  of  forgetfulness. 

Preclude  forgiveness,  from  the  praise  debarred. 

Which  else  the  Christian  Virtue  might  have  claimed. 
— There  live  who  yet  remember  here  to  have  seen 
Their  courtly  Figures,  — seated  on  the  stump 
Of  an  old  Yew,  their  favourite  resting-place. 

But,  as  the  Remnant  of  the  long-lived  Tree 
Was  disappearing  by  a swift  decay. 

They,  with  joint  care,  determined  to  erect. 

Upon  its  site,  a Dial,  that  might  stand 
For  public  use  preserved,  and  thus  survive 
As  their  own  private  monument;  for  this 
Was  the  particular  spot,  in  which  they  wished 
(And  heaven  was  pleased  to  accomplish  the  desire) 
That,  undivided,  their  remains  should  lie. 

So,  where  the  mouldered  Tree  had  stood,  was  raised 
Yon  Structure,  framing,  with  the  ascent  of  steps 
That  to  the  decorated  Pillar  lead, 

A work  of  art  more  sumptuous  than  might  seem 
To  suit  this  Place ; yet  built  in  no  proud  scorn 
Of  rustic  homeliness ; they  only  aimed 
To  ensure  for  it  respectful  guardianship. 

Around  the  margin  of  the  Plate,  whereon 
The  Shadow  falls  to  note  the  stealthy  hours, 

Winds  an  inscriptive  Legend.” — At  these  words 
Thither  we  turned ; and,  gathered,  as  we  read, 

The  appropriate  sense,  in  Latin  numbers  couched. 
Time  flies ; it  is  his  melancholy  task 
To  bring,  and  bear  away,  delusive  hopes. 

And  re-prodvee  the  troubles  he  destroys. 

But,  while  his  blindness  thus  is  occupied. 

Discerning  Mortal ! do  thou  serve  the  will 
Of  Time's  eternal  Master,  and  that  peace 
Which  the  World  wants,  shall  be  for  Thee  conflrmed." 

‘‘  Smooth  verse,  inspired  by  no  unlettered  Muse,” 
E.xclaimed  the  Sceptic,  “ and  the  strain  of  thought 
Accords  with  Nature’s  language ; — the  soft  voice 
Of  yon  white  torrent  falling  down  the  rocks 
Speaks,  less  distinctly,  to  the  same  effect. 

If,  then,  their  blended  influence  be  not  lost 
Upon  our  hearts,  not  wholly  lost,  I grant, 

Even  upon  mine,  the  more  are  we  required 
To  feel  for  those,  among  our  fellow-men. 

Who,  offering  no  obeisance  to  the  world, 

Arc  yet  made  desperate  by  ‘too  quick  a sense 

Of  constant  infelicity,’ — cut  off 

From  peace  like  E.xiles  on  some  barren  rock, 

Their  life’s  appointed  prison;  not  more  free 
Than  Sentinels,  between  two  armies,  set. 

With  nothing  better,  in  the  chill  night  air. 

Than  their  own  thoughts  to  comfort  them.  — Say  why 
1'hat  ancient  story  of  Prometheus  chained? 

The  Vulture  — the  inexhaustible  repast 

Drawm  from  his  vitals  ? Say  what  meant  the  woes 


By  Tantalus  entailed  upon  his  race. 

And  the  dark  sorrows  of  the  line  of  Thebes'* 

Fictions  in  form,  but  in  their  substance  truths, 
Tremendous  truths!  familiar  to  the  men 
Of  long-past  titnes,  nor  obsolete  in  ours. 

— Exchange  the  Shepherd’s  frock  of  native  gray 
For  robes  with  regal  purple  tinged ; convert 
The  crook  into  a sceptre;  — give  the  pomp 

Of  circumstance,  and  here  the  tragic  Muse 
Shall  find  apt  subjects  for  her  highest  art. 

— Amid  the  groves,  beneath  the  shadowy  hills, 

The  generations  are  prepared ; the  pangs. 

The  internal  pangs  are  ready ; the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity’s  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny.” 

“ Though,”  said  the  Priest  in  answer,  “ these  be  terras 
Which  a divine  philosophy  rejects. 

We,  whose  established  and  unfailing  trust 
Is  in  controlling  Providence,  admit 
That,  through  all  stations,  human  life  abounds 
With  mysteries ; — for,  if  Faith  were  left  untried 
How  could  the  might,  that  lurks  within  her,  then 
Be  shown?  her  glorious  excellence  — that  ranks 
Among  the  first  of  Powers  and  virtues  — proved? 

Our  system  is  not  fashioned  to  preclude 
That  sympathy  which  you  for  others  ask; 

And  I could  tell,  not  travelling  for  my  theme 
Beyond  these  humble  graves,  of  grievous  crimes 
And  strange  disasters;  but  I pass  them  by, 

Loth  to  disturb  what  Heaven  hath  hushed  in  peace 

— Still  less,  far  less,  am  I inclined  to  treat 
Of  Man  degraded  in  his  Maker’s  sight 
By  the  deformities  of  brutish  vice : 

For,  in  such  Portraits,  though  a vulgar  face 
And  a coarse  outside  of  repulsive  life 
And  unaflecting  manners  might  at  once 
Be  recognised  by  all — ” “ Ah  ! do  not  think,” 

The  Wanderer  somewhat  eagerly  exclaimed, 

“ Wish  could  be  ours  that  you,  for  such  poor  gain 
(Gain  shall  I call  it?  — gain  of  what?  — for  whom?) 
Should  breathe  a word  tending  to  violate 
Your  own  pure  spirit.  Not  a step  we  look  for 
In  slight  of  that  forbearance  and  reserve 
Which  common  human-heartedness  inspires, 

And  mortal  ignorance  and  frailty  claim. 

Upon  this  sacred  ground,  if  nowhere  else.” 


“ True,”  said  the  Solitary,  “ be  it  far 
From  us  to  infringe  the  laws  of  charity. 

Let  judgment  here  in  mercy  be  pronounced ; 
This,  self-respecting  Nature  prompts,  and  this 
Wisdom  enjoins;  but,  if  the  thing  we  seek 
Be  genuine  knowledge,  bear  we  then  in  mind 
How,  from  his  lofty  throne,  the  Sun  can  fling 
Colours  as  bright  on  exhalations  bred 
By  weedy  pool  or  pestilential  swamp 


THE  EXCURSION. 


609 


As  by  the  rivulet  sparkling  where  it  runs, 

Or  the  pellucid  Lake.” 

“ Small  risk,”  said  I, 

“Of  such  illusion  do  we  here  incur  ; 

Temptation  here  is  none  to  exceed  the  truth; 

No  evidence  appears  that  they  who  rest 
Within  this  ground,  were  covetous  of  praise. 

Or  of  remembrance  even,  deserved  or  not. 

Green  is  the  Church-yard,  beautiful  and  green. 

Ridge  rising  gently  by  the  side  of  ridge, 

A heaving  surface  — almost  wholly  free 
From  interruption  of  sepulchral  stones. 

And  mantled  o’er  with  aboriginal  turf 
And  everlasting  flowers.  These  Dalesmen  trust 
The  lingering  gleam  of  their  departed  Lives 
To  oral  records  and  the  silent  heart; 

Depository  faithful,  and  more  kind 
Than  fondest  Epitaphs:  for,  if  that  fail, 

What  boots  the  sculptured  Tombl  and  who  can  blame. 
Who  rather  would  not  envy,  men  that  feel 
This  mutual  confidence  ; if,  from  such  source. 

The  practice  flow,  — if  thence,  or  from  a deep 
And  general  humility  in  death  1 
Nor  should  I much  condemn  it,  if  it  spring 
From  disregard  of  Time’s  destructive  power. 

As  only  capable  to  prey  on  things 
Of  earth,  and  human  nature’s  mortal  part. 

Yet  — in  less  simple  districts,  where  we  see 
Stone  lift  its  forehead  emulous  of  stone 
In  courting  notice,  and  the  ground  all  paved 
With  commendations  of  departed  worth ; 

Reading,  where’er  we  turn,  of  innocent  lives. 

Of  each  domestic  charity  fulfilled. 

And  sufferings  meekly  borne  — I,  for  my  part. 

Though  with  the  silence  pleased  that  here  prevails. 
Among  those  fair  recitals  also  range. 

Soothed  by  the  natural  spirit  which  they  breathe. 

And,  in  the  centre  of  a world  whose  soil 
Is  rank  with  all  unkindness,  compassed  round 
With  such  Memorials,  I have  sometimes  felt. 

It  was  no  momentary  happiness 

To  have  one  Enclosure  where  the  voice  that  speaks 

In  envy  or  detraction  is  not  heard ; 

Which  malice  may  not  enter  ; where  the  traces 
Of  evil  inclinations  are  unknown ; 

Where  love  and  pity  tenderly  unite 
With  resignation ; and  no  jarring  tone 
Intrudes,  the  peaceful  concert  to  disturb 
Of  amity  and  gratitude.” 

“ Thus  sanctioned,” 

The  Pastor  said,  “I  willingly  confine 
My  narratives  to  subjects  that  excite 
Feelings  with  these  accordant;  love,  esteem. 

And  admiration;  lifting  up  a veil, 

A sunbeam  introducing  among  hearts 
Retired  and  covert;  so  that  ye  shall  have 


Clear  images  before  your  gladdened  eyes 
Of  Nature’s  unambitious  underwood. 

And  flowers  that  prosper  in  the  shade.  And  when 
I speak  of  such  among  my  fleck  as  swerved 
Or  fell,  those  only  will  [ single  out 
Upon  whose  lapse,  or  error,  sometliing  more 
Than  brotherly  forgiveness  may  attend ; 

To  such  will  we  restrict  our  notice  — else 
Better  my  tongue  were  mute.  And  yet  there  are, 
j I feel,  good  reasons  why  we  should  not  leave 
I Wholly  untraced  a more  forbidding  W'ay. 

1 For  strength  to  persevere  and  to  support. 

And  energy  to  conquer  and  repel ; — 

These  elements  of  virtue,  that  declare 
The  native  grandeur  of  the  human  Soul, 

Are  oft-times  not  unprofitably  shown 
In  the  perverseness  of  a selfish  course : 

‘ Truth  every  day  exemplified,  no  less 
In  the  gray  cottage  by  the  murmuring  stream 
Than  in  fantastic  Conqueror’s  roving  camp. 

Or  ’mid  the  factious  Senate,  unappalled 
While  merciless  proscription  ebbs  and  flows. 

— There,”  said  the  Vicar,  pointing  as  he  spake, 
j “A  Woman  rests  in  peace;  surpassed  by  few 

I In  pow'er  of  mind,  and  eloquent  discourse. 

Tall  was  her  stature ; her  complexion  dark 
And  saturnine ; her  head  not  raised  to  hold 
Converse  with  Heaven,  nor  yet  deprest  tow’rds  earth, 
But  in  projection  carried,  as  she  walked 
For  ever  musing.  Sunken  were  her  eyes ; 

Wrinkled  and  furrow'ed  with  habitual  thought 
Was  her  broad  forehead;  like  the  brow  of  One 
Whose  visual  nerve  shrinks  from  a painful  glare 
Of  overpowering  light.  — While  yet  a Child, 

She,  ’mid  the  humble  Flowerets  of  the  vale. 

Towered  like  the  imperial  Thistle,  not  unfurnished 
With  its  appropriate  grace,  yet  rather  seeking 
To  be  admired,  than  coveted  and  loved. 

Even  at  that  age  she  ruled,  a sovereign  Queen 
Over  her  Comrades ; else  their  simple  sports. 
Wanting  all  relish  for  her  strenuous  mind. 

Had  crossed  her,  only  to  be  shunned  with  scorn. 

— Oh  ! pang  of  sorrowful  regret  for  those 
Whom,  in  their  youth,  sweet  study  has  enthralled. 
That  they  have  lived  for  harsher  servitude. 

Whether  in  sotj^,  in  body,  or  estate ! 

Such  doom  w^  hers ; yet  nothing  could  subdue 
Her  keen  desire  of  knowledge,  nor  eiface 
Those  brighter  images  — by  books  imprest 
Upon  her  memory,  faithfully  as  stars 
That  occupy  their  places,  — and,  though  oft 
Hidden  by  clouds,  and  oft  bedimmed  by  haze. 

Are  not  to  be  extinguished,  nor  impaired. 

“ Two  passions,  both  degenerate,  for  they  both 
Began  in  honour,  gradually  obtained 
Rule  over  her,  and  vexed  her  daily  life; 

An  unrelenting,  avaricious  thrift; 


610 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  a strange  thraldom  of  maternal  love, 

That  held  her  spirit,  in  its  own  despite. 

Round  — by  vexation,  and  regret,  and  scorn. 
Constrained  forgiveness,  and  relenting  vows. 

And  tears,  in  pride  suppressed,  in  shame  concealed  — 
To  a poor  dissolute  Son,  her  only  Child. 

— Her  wedded  days  had  opened  with  mishap. 

Whence  dire  dependence. — What  could  she  perform 
To  shake  the  burthen  ofl’l  Ah  ! there  was  felt. 
Indignantly,  the  weakness  of  her  sex. 

She  mused  — resolved,  adhered  to  her  resolve; 

The  hand  grew  slack  in  alms-giving,  the  heart 
Closed  by  degrees  to  charity ; heaven’s  blessing 
N*ot  seeking  from  that  source,  she  placed  her  trust 
In  ceaseless  pains  and  parsimonious  care, 

Wliich  got,  and  sternly  hoarded,  each  day’s  gain. 

“Thus  all  was  re-established,  and  a pile 
Constructed,  that  sufficed  for  every  end 
Save  the  contentment  of  the  Builder’s  mind; 

A Mind  by  nature  indisposed  to  aught 
So  placid,  so  inactive,  as  content; 

A Mind  intolerant  of  lasting  peace. 

And  cherishing  the  pang  wliich  it  deplored. 

Dread  life  of  conflict ! which  I oft  compared 
To  the  agitation  of  a brook  that  runs 
Down  rocky  mountains — buried  now  and  lost 
In  silent  pools,  now  in  strong  eddies  chained, — 

But  never  to  be  charmed  to  gentleness ; 

Its  best  attainment  fits  of  such  repose 
As  timid  eyes  might  shrink  from  fathoming. 

“A  sudden  illness  seized  her  in  the  strength 
Of  life’s  autumnal  season.  — Shall  I tell 
How  on  her  bed  of  death  the  Matron  lay. 

To  Providence  submissive,  so  she  thought ; 

But  fretted,  vexed,  and  wrought  upon  — almost 

To  anger,  by  the  malady  that  griped 

Her  prostrate  frame  with  unrelaxing  power. 

As  the  fierce  Eagle  fastens  on  the  Lamb? 

She  prayed,  she  moaned — her  husband’s  Sister  watched 
Her  dreary  pillow,  waited  on  her  needs ; 

And  yet  the  very  sound  of  that  kind  foot 
Was  anguish  to  her  ears ! — ‘ And  must  she  rule,’ 

This  was  the  dying  Woman  heard  to  s^y 
In  bitterness,  ‘and  must  she  rule  and  re^n, 

‘Solo  Mistress  of  this  house,  when  I am  gonel 
‘ Sit  by  my  fire  — possess  what  I possessed  — 

‘Tend  what  I tended  — calling  it  her  own  !’ 

Enough ; — I fear,  too  much.  — One  vernal  evening. 
While  she  was  yet  in  prime  of  liealth  and  strength, 

I well  remember,  while  I passed  her  door. 

Musing  with  loitering  step,  and  upward  eye 
Turned  tow’rds  tlie  Planet  Jupiter  that  hung 
Above  the  centre  of  the  Vale,  a voice 
Roused  mo,  lier  voice ; it  said,  ‘ That  glorious  Star 
‘ In  its  untroubled  elenent  will  shine 


‘ As  now  it  shines,  when  we  are  laid  in  earth 
‘And  safe  from  all  our  sorrows.’  — She  is  safe. 

And  her  uncharitable  acts,  I trust. 

And  harsh  unkindnesses,  are  all  forgiven ; 

Though,  in  this  Vale,  remembered  with  deep  awe!” 


The  Vicar  paused  ; and  tow’rd  a seat  advanced, 

A long  stone-seat,  fixed  in  the  Church-yard  wall ; 
Part  shaded  by  cool  sycamore,  and  part 
Offering  a sunny  resting-place  to  them 
Wlio  seek  the  House  of  worship,  while  the  Bells 
Yet  ring  with  all  their  voices,  or  before 
The  last  hath  ceased  its  solitary  knoll. 

Under  the  shade  w’e  all  sate  down ; and  there 
His  office,  uninvited,  he  resumed. 

“ .s  on  a sunny  bank,  a tender  Lamb 
Lurks  in  safe  shelter  from  the  winds  of  March, 
Screened  by  its  Parent,  so  that  little  mound 
Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbour  ; the  small  heap 
Speaks  for  itself ; — an  Infant  there  doth  rest, 

'I'he  sheltering  Hillock  is  the  Mother’s  grave. 

If  mild  discourse,  and  manners  that  conferred 
A natural  dignity  on  humblest  rank; 

If  gladsome  spirits,  and  benignant  looks, 
i That  for  a face  not  beautiful  did  more 
i Than  beauty  for  the  fairest  face  can  do: 

! And  if  religious  tenderness  of  heart, 
j Grieving  for  sin,  and  penitential  tears 
Shed  when  the  clouds  had  gathered  and  distained 
I Th  ; spotless  ether  of  a maiden  life; 

If  these  may  make  a hallowed  spot  of  earth 
M jre  holy  in  the  sight  of  God  or  Man  ; 

I Then,  o’er  that  mould,  a sanctity  shall  brood 
I Till  the  stars  sicken  at  the  day  of  doom. 

1 “ Ah ! what  a warning  for  a thoughtless  Man, 
Could  field  or  grove,  could  any  spot  of  earth, 

Show  to  his  eye  an  image  of  the  pangs 
Which  it  hath  witnessed  ; render  back  an  echo 
Of  the  sad  steps  by  which  it  hath  been  trod  ! 
There,  by  her  innocent  Baby’s  precious  grave. 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  turf  that  roofs  her  own, 

The  Mother  oft  was  seen  to  stand,  or  kneel 
In  the  broad  day,  a weeping  Magdalene. 

Now  she  is  not;  the  swelling  turf  reports 
Of  the  fresh  shower,  but  of  poor  Ellen’s  tears 
Is  silent;  nor  is  any  vestige  lefl 
Of  the  path  worn  by  mournful  tread  of  Her 
Who,  at  her  heart’s  light  bidding,  once  had  movea 
In  virgin  fearlessness,  with  step  that  seemed 
Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 
Upon  the  mountains  gemmed  with  morning  dew. 

In  the  prime  hour  of  sweetest  scents  and  airs. 

1 — Serious  and  thoughtful  was  her  mind;  and  yet, 

1 By  reconcilement  exquisite  and  rare. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


GH 


Tlie  form,  port,  motions  of  this  Cottago-girl 
Were  such  as  might  have  quickened  and  inspired 
A Titian’s  hand,  addrest  to  picture  forth 
Oread  or  Dryad  glancing  through  the  shade 
What  time  the  Hunter’s  earliest  liorn  is  heard 
Startling  the  golden  hills.  A wide-spread  Elm 
Stands  in  our  Valley,  named  The  Joyful  Tree; 
From  dateless  usage  which  our  Peasants  hold 
Of  giving  welcome  to  the  first  of  May 
By  dances  round  its  trunk.  — And  if  the  sky. 

Permit,  like  honours,  dance  and  song,  are  paid 
To  the  Twelfth  Night,  beneath  the  frosty  Stars 
Or  the  clear  Moon.  The  Queen  of  these  gay  sports. 
If  not  in  beauty  yet  in  sprightly  air. 

Was  hapless  Ellen.  — No  one  touched  the  ground 
So  deftly,  and  the  nicest  Maiden’s  locks 
Less  gracefully  were  braided; — but  this  praise, 
Methinks,  would  better  suit  another  place. 

“ She  loved,  and  fondly  deemed  herself  beloved. 

— The  road  is  dim,  the  current  unperceived. 

The  weakness  painful  and  most  pitiful. 

By  which  a virtuous  Woman,  in  pure  youth. 

May  be  delivered  to  distress  and  shame. 

Such  fate  was  hers.  — The  last  time  Ellen  danced. 
Among  her  Equals,  round  The  Joyful  Tree, 

She  bore  a secret  burthen ; and  full  soon 
Was  left  to  tremble  for  a breaking  vow,  — 

Then,  to  bewail  a sternly-broken  vow. 

Alone,  within  her  widowed  Mother’s  heuse. 

It  was  the  season  sweet,  of  budding  leaves. 

Of  days  advancing  tow’rd  their  utmost  length. 

And  small  birds  singing  to  their  happy  mates. 

Wild  is  the  music  of  the  autumnal  wind 
Among  the  faded  woods;  but  these  blithe  notes 
Strike  the  deserted  to  the  heart;  — I speak 
Of  what  I know,  and  what  we  feel  within. 

— Beside  the  cottage  in  which  Ellen  dwelt 
Stands  a tall  ash-tree ; to  whose  topmost  twig 
A Thrush  resorts,  and  annually  chants. 

At  morn  and  evening  from  that  naked  perch. 

While  all  the  undergrove  is  thick  with  leaves, 

A time-beguiling  ditty,  for  delight 
Of  his  fond  partner,  silent  in  the  nest. 

— ‘Ah  why,’  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 

‘ Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge  ; 
‘And  nature  that  is  kind  in  Woman’s  breast, 

‘ And  reason  that  in  Man  is  wise  and  good, 

‘And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a righteous  Judge, 

‘Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life, 

‘ To  keep  two  Hearts  together,  that  began 
‘Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  need 
‘ Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 
‘ To  grant,  or  be  received  ; while  that  poor  Bird, 

‘ — O come  and  hear  him  ! Thou  who  hast  to  me 
‘Been  faithless,  hear  him,  though  a lowly  Creature, 

‘ One  of  God’s  simple  children  that  yet  know  not 
‘ The  universal  Parent,  how  he  sings 


I ‘ As  if  he  wished  the  firmament  of  Heaven 
‘ Should  listen,  and  give  back  to  him  the  voice 
‘Of  his  triumphant  constancy  and  love; 

‘ The  proclamation  that  he  makes,  how  far 
‘ His  darkness  doth  transcend  our  fickle  light !’ 

“ Such  was  the  tender  passage,  not  by  me 
j Repeated  without  loss  of  simple  phrase. 

Which  I perused,  even  as  the  words  had  been 
Committed  by  forsaken  Ellen’s  hand 
To  the  blank  margin  of  a Valentine, 

Bedropped  with  tears.  ’T  will  please  you  to  be  told 
That,  studiously  withdrawing  from  the  eye 
Of  all  companionship,  the  Sufferer  yet 
In  lonely  reading  found  a meek  resource; 

How  thankful  for  the  warmth  of  summer  days. 
When  she  could  slip  into  the  Cottage-barn, 

And  find  a secret  oratory  there ; 

Or,  in  the  garden,  under  friendly  veil 
Of  their  long  twilight,  pore  upon  her  book 
By  the  last  lingering  help  of  open  sky. 

Till  the  dark  night  dismissed  her  to  her  bed  ! 

Thus  did  a waking  Fancy  sometimes  lose 
The  unconquerable  pang  of  despised  love. 


j 


“ A kindlier  passion  opened  on  her  soul 
When  that  poor  Child  was  born.  Upon  its  face 
She  looked  as  on  a pure  and  spotless  gift 
Of  unexpected  promise,  where  a grief 
Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of  — joy 
Far  livelier  than  bewildered  Traveller  feels 
Amid  a perilous  waste,  that  all  night  long 
Hath  harassed  him  — toiling  through  fearful  storm. 
When  he  beholds  the  first  pale  speck  serene 
Of  day-spring,  in  the  gloomy  east  revealed. 

And  greets  it  with  thanksgiving.  ‘Till  this  hour,’ 
Thu.s,  in  her  Mother’s  hearing  Ellen  spake, 

‘ There  was  a stony  region  in  my  heart ; 

‘But  He,  at  whose  command  the  parched  rock 
‘ Was  smitten,  and  poured  forth  a quenching  stream, 

‘ Hath  softened  that  obduracy,  and  made 
‘Unlooked-for  gladness  in  the  desert  place, 

‘To  save  the  perishing;  and,  henceforth,  I look 
‘Upon  the  light  with  cheerfulness,  for  thee, 

‘ My  Infant ! and  for  that  good  Mother  dear, 

‘ Who  bore  me, — and  hath  prayed  for  me  in  vain  ;— 

‘ Yet  not  in  vain,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.’ 

She  spake,  nor  was  the  assurance  unfulfilled. 

And  if  heart-rending  thoughts  would  oft  return. 

They  stayed  not  long.  — The  blameless  Infant  grew ; 
The  Child  whom  Ellen  and  her  Mother  loved 
They  soon  were  proud  of ; tended  it  and  nursed, 

A soothing  comforter,  although  forlorn ; 

Like  a poor  singing-bird  from  distant  lands; 

Or  a choice  shrub,  which  he,  who  passes  by 
With  vacant  mind,  not  seldom  may  observe 
Fair-flowering  in  a thinly-peopled  house. 

Whose  window,  somewhat  sadly,  it  adorns. 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


— Through  four  months’  space  the  Infant  drew  its  food 
From  the  maternal  breast;  tlien  scruples  rose; 
Thoughts,  which  the  rich  are  free  from,  came  and 
crossed 

The  sweet  affection.  She  no  more  could  bear 
By  her  offence  to  lay  a twofold  weight 
On  a kind  parent  willing  to  forget 
Their  slender  means ; so,  to  that  parent’s  care 
Trusting  her  child,  she  left  their  common  home, 

And  with  contented  spirit  undertook 
A Foster-Mother’s  office. 

’Tis,  perchance. 

Unknown  to  you  that  in  these  simple  Vales 
The  natural  feeling  of  equality 
Is  by  domestic  service  unimpaired ; 

Yet,  though  such  service  be,  with  us,  removed 
From  sense  of  degradation,  not  the  less 
The  ungentle  mind  can  easily  find  means 
To  impose  severe  restraints  and  laws  unjust, 

Which  hapless  Ellen  now  was  doomed  to  feel. 

— For  (blinded  by  an  over-anxious  dread 
Of  such  excitement  and  divided  thought 
As  with  her  office  would  but  ill  accord) 

The  Pair,  whose  Infant  she  was  bound  to  nurse. 

Forbad  her  all  communion  with  her  own ; 

Week  after  week,  the  mandate  they  enforced. 

— So  near ! — yet  not  allowed,  upon  that  sight 
To  fix  her  eyes  — alas ! ’t  was  hard  to  bear  ! 

But  worse  affliction  must  be  borne  — far  worse  : 

For  ’tis  Heaven’s  will — that,  after  a disease 
Begun  and  ended  within  three  days’  space. 

Her  Child  should  die;  as  Ellen  now  exclaimed. 

Her  own  — deserted  Child  ! — Once,  only  once, 

She  saw  it  in  that  mortal  malady ; 

And,  on  the  burial  day,  could  scarcely  gain 
Permission  to  attend  its  obsequies. 

She  reached  the  house  — last  of  the  funeral  train  ; 

And  some  One,  as  she  entered,  having  chanced 
To  urge  unthinkingly  their  prompt  departure, 

‘Nay,’  said  she,  with  commanding  look,  a spirit 
Of  anger  never  seen  in  her  before, 

‘ Nay,  ye  must  wait  my  time !’  and  down  she  sate. 

And  by  the  unclosed  coffin  kept  her  seat 
Weeping  and  looking,  looking  on  and  weeping. 

Upon  the  last  sweet  slumber  of  her  Child, 

Until  at  length  her  soul  was  satisfied. 

“You  see  the  Infant’s  Grave;  — and  to  this  Spot, 

The  Mother,  oft  as  she  was  sent  abroad. 

And  whatsoe’er  the  errand,  urged  her  steps: 

Hither  she  came;  here  stood,  and  sometimes  knelt 
In  the  broad  day  — a rueful  Magdalene  ! 

So  call  her;  for  not  only  she  bewailed 
A Mother’s  loss,  but  mourned  in  bitterness 
Her  own  transgression.  Penitent  sincere 
As  ever  raised  to  Heaven  a streaming  eye. 

— At  length  the  Parents  of  the  Fo.ster-child 


Noting  that  in  despite  of  their  commands 
She  still  renewed  and  could  not  but  renew 
Those  visitations,  ceased  to  send  her  forth  ; 

Or,  to  the  garden’s  narrow  bounds,  confined. 

I failed  not  to  remind  them  that  they  erred  ; 

For  holy  nature  might  not  thus  be  crossed. 

Thus  wronged  in  woman’s  breast : in  vain  I pleaded — 
But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen’s  life  was  snapped. 

And  the  flower  drooped  ; as  every  eye  could  see. 

It  hung  its  head  in  mortal  languishment. 

— Aided  by  this  appearance,  I at  length 
Prevailed ; and,  from  those  bonds  released,  she  went 
Home  to  her  mother’s  house.  The  Youth  was  fled  ; 
The  rash  Betrayer  could  not  face  the  shame 

Or  sorrow  which  his  senseless  guilt  had  caused  ; 

And  little  would  his  presence,  or  proof  given 
Of  a relenting  soul,  have  now  availed ; 

For,  like  a shadow,  he  was  passed  away 
From  Ellen’s  thoughts ; had  perished  to  her  mind 
For  all  concerns  of  fear,  or  hope,  or  love. 

Save  only  those  which  to  their  common  shame. 

And  to  his  moral  being,  appertained : 

Hope  from  that  quarter  would,  I know,  have  brought 
A heavenly  comfort;  there  she  recognised 
An  unrelaxing  bond,  a mutual  need  ; 

There,  and,  as  seemed,  there  only.  — She  had  built 
Her  fond  maternal  Heart  had  built,  a Nest 
j In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river’s  edge ; 

That  Work  a summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 
[ Had  swept  away  ; and  now  her  Spirit  longed 
For  its  last  flight  to  Heaven’s  security. 

— The  bodily  frame  was  wasted  day  by  day ; 
Meanwhile,  relinquishing  all  other  cares. 

Her  mind  she  strictly  tutored  to  find  peace 
And  pleasure  in  endurance.  Much  she  thought, 

And  much  she  read  ; and  brooded  feelingly 
Upon  her  own  unworthiness.  — To  me. 

As  to  a spiritual  comforter  and  friend. 

Her  heart  she  opened  ; and  no  pains  were  spared 
To  mitigate,  as  gently  as  I could. 

The  sting  of  self-reproach,  with  healing  words. 

— Meek  Saint ! through  patience  glorified  on  earth  ! 

In  whom,  as  by  her  lonely  hearth  she  sate, 

The  ghastly  face  of  cold  decay  put  on 
A sun-like  beauty,  and  appeared  divine  ! 

IMay  I not  mention  — that,  within  those  walls, 

I In  due  observance  of  her  pious  wish. 

The  Congregation  joined  with  me  in  prayer 
For  her  Soul’s  good  ? Nor  was  that  office  vain. 

— Much  did  she  sufler  : but,  if  any  Friend, 

Beholding  her  condition,  at  the  sight 
Gave  way  to  words  of  pity  or  complaint. 

She  stilled  them  with  a prompt  reproof,  and  said, 

‘He  who  afflicts  me  knows  what  I can  bear; 

‘And,  when  I fail,  and  can  endure  no  more, 

‘ Will  mercifully  take  me  to  himself.’ 

So,  through  the  cloud  of  death,  her  Spirit  passed 


THE  EXCURSION 


Cl  3 


Into  that  pure  and  unknown  world  of  love 
Where  injury  cannot  come  : — and  here  is  laid 
The  mortal  Body  by  her  Infant’s  side.” 

The  Vicar  ceased;  and  downcast  looks  made  known 
That  Each  had  listened  with  his  inmost  heart. 

For  me,  the  emotion  scarcely  was  less  strong 
Or  less  benign  than  that  which  I had  felt 
When,  seated  near  my  venerable  Friend, 

Beneath  those  shady  elms,  from  him  I heard 
The  story  that  retraced  the  slow  decline 
Of  Margaret  sinking  on  the  lonely  Heath, 

With  the  neglected  Hon.ae  to  which  she  clung. 

— I noted  that  tlie  Solitary’s  clieek 

Confessed  the  Power  of  nature.  — Pleased  though  sad, 

More  pleased  than  sad,  the  gray-haired  Wanderer  sate; 

Thanks  to  his  pure  imaginative  soul 

Capacious  and  serene,  his  blameless  life, 

His  knowledge,  wisdom,  love  of  truth,  and  love 

Of  human  kind  ! He  was  it  who  first  broke 

The  pensive  silence,  saying,  “Blest  are  they 

Whose  sorrow  rather  is  to  suffer  wrong 

Than  to  do  wrong,  altliough  thetnselves  have  erred. 

This  Tale  gives  proof  that  Heaven  most  gently  deals 

With  such,  in  their  affliction.  — Ellen’s  fate. 

Her  tender  spirit,  and  her  contrite  heart. 

Call  to  my  mind  dark  hints  which  I have  heard 
Of  One  who  died  within  this  Vale,  by  doom 
Heavier,  as  his  offence  was  heavier  far. 

Where,  Sir,  I pray  you,  where  are  laid  the  bones 
Of  Wilfred  Arniathwaile !”  — The  Vicar  answered, 

“ In  that  green  nook,  close  by  the  Church-yard  wall. 
Beneath  yon  hawthorn,  planted  by  myself 
In  memory  and  for  warning,  and  in  sign 
Of  sweetness  where  dire  anguish  had  been  known. 

Of  reconcilement  after  deep  offence, 

There  doth  he  rest.  — No  theme  his  fate  supplies 
For  the  smooth  glozings  of  the  indulgent  w'orld ; 

Nor  need  the  windings  of  his  devious  course 
Be  here  retraced; — enough  that,  by  mishap 
And  venial  error,  robbed  of  competence. 

And  her  obsequious  shadow,  peace  of  mind, 

He  craved  a substitute  in  troubled  joy; 

Against  his  conscience  rose  in  arms,  and,  braving 
Divine  displeasure,  broke  the  marriage-vow. 

Tiiat  which  he  had  been  weak  enough  to  do 
Was  misery  in  remembrance;  he  was  stung. 

Stung  by  his  inward  thoughts,  and  by  the  smiles 
Of  Wife  and  Children  stung  to  agony. 

Wretched  at  home,  he  gained  no  peace  abroad ; 
Ranged  through  tlie  mountains,  slept  upon  the  earth, 
Asked  comfort  of  the  open  air,  and  found 
No  quiet  in  the  darkness  of  the  night, 

No  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  the  day. 

His  flock  he  slighted;  his  paternal  fields 
Became  a clog  to  him,  whose  spirit  wished 
To  fly,  but  whither!  and  this  gracious  Church, 

That  wears  a look  so  full  of  peace  and  hope 


And  love,  benignant  Mother  of  the  Vale, 

How  fair  amid  her  brood  of  Cottages! 

She  was  to  him  a sickness  and  reproach. 

Much  to  the  last  remained  unknown  : but  this 
Is  sure,  that  througli  remorse  and  grief  he  died  ; 
Though  pitied  among  Men,  absolved  by  God, 

He  could  not  find  forgiveness  in  himself; 

Nor  could  endure  the  weight  of  his  own  sliame. 

“ Here  rests  a Mother.  But  from  her  I turn 
And  from  her  Grave.  — Behold  — upon  that  Ridge, 
That,  stretching  boldly  from  the  mountain  side, 
Carries  into  the  centre  of  the  Vale 
Its  rocks  and  woods  — the  Cottage  where  she  dwelt 
I And  yet  where  dwells  her  faithful  Partner,  left. 

Full  eight  years  past)  the  solitary  prop, 
j Of  many  helpless  Children.  I begin 
I With  words  that  might  be  prelude  to  a Tale 
Of  sorrow  and  dejection;  but  I feel 
No  sadness,  when  I think  of  what  mine  eyes 
j See  daily  in  that  happy  Family, 
j — Bright  Garland  form  they  for  the  pensive  brow 
Of  their  undrooping  Father’s  widowhood, 

Those  six  fair  Daugliters,  budding  yet  — not  one, 
Notone  of  ail  the  band,  a full-blown  Flower! 
Deprest,  and  desolate  of  soul,  as  once 
That  Father  was,  and  filled  with  anxious  fear. 

Now,  by  experience  taught,  he  stands  assured, 

That  God,  who  takes  away,  yet  takes  not  half 
Of  what  he  seems  to  take ; or  gives  it  back. 

Not  to  our  prayer,  but  far  beyond  our  prayer ; 

He  gives  it — the  boon  produce  of  a soil 
I Which  our  endeavours  have  refused  to  till, 

! And  Hope  hath  never  w-atered.  The  Abode, 

Whose  grateful  Owner  can  attest  these  trutlis. 

Even  were  the  object  nearer  to  our  sight. 

Would  seem  in  no  distinction  to  surpass 

The  rudest  habitations.  Ye  might  think 

That  it  had  sprung  self-raised  from  earth,  or  grown 

Out  of  the  living  rock,  to  be  adorned 

By  nature  only ; but,  if  thither  led. 

Ye  would  discover,  then,  a studious  work 
Of  many  fancies,  prompting  many  hands. 

— Brought  from  tlie  W'oods,  the  honeysuckle  twines 
Around  the  porch,  and  seems,  in  tliat  trim  place, 

A Plant  no  longer  wild;  the  cultured  rose 
There  blossoms,  strong  in  healtli,  and  will  be  soon 
Roof-high ; the  wild  pink  crowns  the  garden  wall. 
And  with  the  flow’ers  are  intermingled  stones 
Sparry  and  bright,  rough  scatterings  of  the  hills. 
These  ornaments,  that  fade  not  w’ith  the  year, 

A hardy  Girl  continues  to  provide; 

Who,  mounting  fearlessly  the  rocky  heights 

Her  Father's  prompt  Attendant,  does  for  him 

All  that  a Boy  could  do,  but  with  delight 

More  keen  and  prouder  daring;  yet  hath  she, 

Within  the  garden,  like  the  rest,  a bed 

For  her  own  flowers  and  favourite  herbs  — a space, 


GU 


WCKDbWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Ey  sacred  charter,  holden  for  her  use. 

— These,  and  whatever  else  the  garden  bears 
Of  fruit  or  flower,  permission  asked  or  not, 

I freely  gather ; and  my  leisure  draws 
A not  unfrequent  pastime  from  the  sigh 
Of  the  Bees  murmuring  round  their  sheltered  hives 
Tn  that  Enclosure;  while  the  mountain  rill. 

That  sparkling  thrids  the  rocks,  attunes  his  voice 
To  the  pure  course  of  human  life,  which  there 
Flows  on  in  solitude.  But,  when  the  gloom 
Of  night  is  falling  round  my  steps,  then  most 
This  Dwelling  charms  me;  often  I stop  short, 

(Who  could  refrain!)  and  feed  by  stealth  my  sight 
With  prospect  of  the  Company  within. 


Laid  open  through  the  blazing  window : — there 
I see  the  eldest  daughter  at  her  wheel 
Spinning  amain,  as  if  to  overtake 
The  never-halting  Time ; or,  in  her  turn. 

Teaching  some  Novice  of  the  Sisterhood 
That  skill  in  this  or  other  household  work. 

Which,  from  her  Father’s  honoured  hand,  herself. 
While  she  was  yet  a little-one,  had  learned, 

— Mild  Man  ! he  is  not  gay,  but  they  are  gay ; 

And  the  whole  house  seems  filled  with  gaiety. 

— Thrice  happy,  then,  the  Mother  may  be  deemed. 
The  Wife,  from  whose  consolatory  grave 

I turned,  that  ye  in  mind  might  witness  where 
And  how,  her  Spirit  yet  survives  on  Earth.” 


THE  EXCURSION. 


BOOK  THE  SEVENTH. 

THE  CHURCH-YARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS 

CONTINUED. 


ARGUMENT. 

Impression  of  these  Narratives  upon  the  Author’s  mind  — Pastor  invited  to  give  account  of  certain  Graves  that  He 
apart — Clergyman  and  his  p'amily  — Fortunate  influence  of  change  of  situation  — Activity  in  extreme  old  age  — 
Another  Clergyman,  a character  of  resolute  V'irtue  — Lamentations  over  mis-dirccted  applause  — Instance  of  less 
exalted  excellence  in  a deaf  man  — F.levated  character  of  a blind  man  — Reflection  upon  Blindness  — Interrupted 
by  a Peasant  who  passes — his  animal  cheerfuhiess  and  careless  vivacity  — lie  occasions  a digression  on  the  fall  of 
beautiful  and  interesting  Trees — A female  Infant’s  Grave — ^Joy  at  her  Birth — Sorrow  at  her  Departure — A youthful 
Peasant  — his  patriotic  enthusiasm  — distinguished  qualities  — and  untimely  death  — Exultation  of  the  Wanderer, 
as  a patriot,  m this  Picture — Solitary  how  affected — Monument  of  a Knight — ^Traditions  concerning  him — Peroration 
of  the  Wanderer  on  the  transitoriness  of  things  and  the  revolutions  of  society  — Hints  at  his  own  past  Calling — 
Thanks  the  Pastor. 


While  thus  from  theme  to  theme  the  Historian  passed, ' 
Tlie  words  he  uttered,  and  the  scene  that  lay  i 

Before  our  eyes,  awakened  in  my  mind 
Vivid  remembrance  of  those  long-past  hours ; 

When,  in  the  hollow  of  some  shadowy  Vale, 

(What  time  the  splendour  of  the  setting  sun 
Lay  beautiful  on  Snowdon’s  sovereign  brow, 

On  Cader  Idris,  or  huge  Penmanmaur) 

A wandering  Youth,  I listened  with  delight 
To  pastoral  melody  or  warlike  air, 

Drawn  from  the  chords  of  the  ancient  British  harp 


' By  some  accomplished  Master,  while  he  sate 
I Amid  the  quiet  of  the  green  recess, 

And  there  did  inexhaustibly  dispense 
An  interchange  of  soft  or  solemn  tunes. 

Tender  or  blithe;  now,  as  the  varying  mood 

Of  his  owm  spirit  urged,  — nowq  as  a voice 

From  Youth  or  Maiden,  or  some  honoured  Chief 

Of  his  compatriot  villagers  (that  hung 

Around  him,  drinking  in  the  impassioned  notes 

Of  the  time-hallowed  minstrelsy)  required 

For  their  heart’s  ease  or  pleasure.  Strains  of  power 


THE  EXCURSION. 


6N> 


Were  tliey,  to  seize  and  occupy  the  sense  ; 

But  to  a higher  mark  than  song  can  reach 
Rose  this  pure  eloquence.  And,  when  the  stream 
Which  overflowed  the  soul  was  passed  away, 

A consciousness  remained  tliat  it  had  left. 

Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 
Of  memory,  images  and  precious  thoughts. 

That  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroyed. 

“These  grassy  heaps  lie  amicably  close,” 

Said  I,  “like  surges  heaving  in  the  wind 
Upon  the  surface  of  a mountain  pool; 

— Whence  comes^it  then,  that  yonder  we  behold 
Five  graves,  and  only  five,  that  rise  together 
Unsociably  sequestered,  and  encroaching 

On  the  smooth  play-ground  of  the  Village-school  1” 

The  Vicar  answered,  “No  disdainful  pride 
In  them  who  rest  beneath,  nor  any  course 
Of  strange  or  tragic  accident,  hath  helped 
To  place  those  Hillocks  in  that  lonely  guise. 

— Once  more  look  forth,  and  follow  with  your  sight 
The  length  of  road  that  from  yon  mountain’s  base 
Through  bare  enclosures  stretches,  till  its  line 

Is  lost  within  a little  tuft  of  trees,  — 

Then  reappearing  in  a moment,  quits 

The  cultured  fields,  — and  up  the  heathy  waste. 

Mounts,  as  you  see,  in  mazes  serpentine. 

Towards  an  easy  outlet  of  the  Vale. 

— That  little  shady  spot,  that  sylvan  tuft. 

By  which  the  road  is  hidden,  also  hides 

A Cottage  from  our  view,  — though  I discern 
(Ye  scarcely  can)  amid  its  sheltering  trees 
The  smokeless  chimney-top.  — All  unembowered 
And  naked  stood  that  lowly  Parsonage 
(For  such  in  truth  it  Is,  and  appertains 
To  a small  Chapel  in  the  Vale  beyond) 

When  hither  came  its  last  Inhabitant. 

“ Rough  and  forbidding  were  the  choicest  roads 
By  which  our  Northern  wilds  could  then  be  crossed; 
And  into  most  of  these  secluded  Vales 
Was  no  access  for  wain,  heavy  or  light. 

So,  at  his  Dwelling-place  the  Priest  arrived 
With  store  of  household  goods,  in  panniers  slung 
On  sturdy  horses  graced  with  jingling  bells. 

And  on  the  back  of  more  ignoble  beast ; 

That,  with  like  burthen  of  effects  most  prized 
Or  easiest  carried,  closed  the  motley  train. 

Young  was  I then,  a school  boy  of  eight  years; 

But  still,  methinks,  I see  them  as  they  passed 
In  order,  drawing  tow’rd  their  wished-for  home. 

— Rocked  by  the  motion  of  a trusty  Ass 

Two  ruddy  Children  hung,  a well-poised  freight. 
Each  in  his  basket  nodding  drowsily; 

Their  bonnets,  I remember,  wreathed  with  flowers. 
Which  told  it  was  the  pleasant  month  of  June; 

And,  close  behind,  the  comely  Matron  rode, 


A Woman  of  soft  speech  and  gracious  smile. 

And  with  a Lady’s  mien.  — From  far  they  came, 

Even  from  Northumbrian  hills;  yet  theirs  had  been 
A merry  journey  — rich  in  pastime  — cheered 
By  music,  prank,  and  laughter-stirring  jest ; 

And  freak  put  on,  and  arch  word  dropped — to  swell 
The  cloud  of  fancy  and  uncouth  surmise 
That  gathered  round  the  slowly-moving  train. 

— ‘ Whence  do  they  come  1 and  with  what  erran,, 
charged  1 

‘ Belong  they  to  the  fortune-telling  Tribe 
‘ Who  pitch  their  tents  beneath  the  green- wood  Tree'’ 
‘Or  are  they  Strollers,  furnished  to  enact 
‘ Fair  Rosamond,  and  the  Children  of  the  Wood, 

‘ And,  by  that  w'hiskered  Tabby’s  aid,  set  forth 
‘ The  lucky  venture  of  sage  Whittington, 

‘ When  the  next  Village  hoars  the  Show  announced 
‘ By  blast  of  trumpet  1’  Plenteous  was  the  growth 
Of  such  conjectures,  overheard  — or  seen 
On  many  a staring  countenance  portrayed 
Of  Boor  or  Burgher,  as  they  marched  along. 

And  more  than  once  their  steadiness  of  face 
Was  put  to  proof,  and  exercise  supplied 
To  their  inventive  humour,  by  stern  looks. 

And  questions  in  authoritative  tone. 

From  some  staid  Guardian  of  the  public  peace. 
Checking  the  sober  steed  on  which  he  rode. 

In  his  suspicious  wisdom  ; oftener  still, 

By  notice  indirect,  or  blunt  demand 
From  Traveller  halting  in  his  own  despite, 

A simple  curiosity  to  ease: 

Of  which  adventures,  that  beguiled  and  cheered 
Their  grave  migration,  the  good  Pair  would  tell. 

With  undiminished  glee,  in  hoary  age. 

“ A Priest  he  was  by  function  ; but  his  course 
From  his  youth  up,  and  high  as  manhood’s  noon, 

I (The  hour  of  life  to  which  he  then  was  brought) 

Had  been  irregular,  I might  say,  wild  ; 

1 By  books  unsteadied,  by  his  pastoral  care 
Too  little  checked.  An  active,  ardent  mind  ; 

A fancy  pregnant  with  resource  and  scheme 
To  cheat  the  sadness  of  a rainy  day ; 

Hands  apt  for  all  ingenious  arts  and  games ; 

A generous  spirit,  and  a body  strong 
To  cope  with  stoutest  Champions  of  the  bowl ; 

Had  earned  for  him  sure  welcome,  and  the  rights 
j Of  a prized  Visitant,  in  the  jolly  hall 
Of  country  squire;  or  at  the  statelier  board 
Of  Duke  or  Earl,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pomp 
Withdrawn,  — to  while  away  the  summer  hours 
In  condescension  among  rural  guests. 

“With  these  high  comrades  he  had  revelled  long. 
Frolicked  industriously,  a simple  Clerk 
By  hopes  of  coming  patronage  beguiled 
Till  the  heart  sickened.  So  each  loftier  aim 
Abandoning  and  all  his  showy  Friends 


616 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


For  a life’s  stay,  thoug'h  slender  yet  assured, 

He  turned  to  this  sec-luded  Chapelry; 

That  had  been  otfered  to  his  doubtful  choice 
By  an  unthought-of  Patron.  Bleak  and  bare 
They  found  the  Cottage,  their  allotted  home  ; 

Naked  without,  and  rude  within  ; a spot 
With  which  the  scantily  provided  Cure 
Not  long  had  been  endowed : and  far  remote 
The  Chapel  stood,  divided  from  that  House 
By  an  unpeopled  tract  of  mountain  waste. 

— Yet  cause  was  none,  whate’er  regret  might  hang 
On  his  own  mind,  to  quarrel  with  the  choice 
Or  the  necessity  that  fixed  him  here ; 

Apart  from  old  temptations,  and  constrained 
To  punctual  labour  in  his  sacred  charge. 

See  him  a constant  Preacher  to  the  Poor  ! 

And  visiting,  though  not  with  saintly  zeal. 

Yet,  when  need  was,  with  no  reluctant  will. 

The  sick  in  body,  or  distrest  in  mind  ; 

And,  by  as  salutary  change,  compelled 
To  rise  from  timely  sleep,  and  meet  the  day 
With  no  engagement,  in  his  thoughts,  more  proud 
Or  splendid  than  his  garden  could  afford. 

His  fields,  — or  mountains  by  the  heath-cock  ranged. 

Or  the  wild  brooks ; from  which  he  now  returned 

Contented  te  partake  the  quiet  meal 

Of  his  own  board,  where  sate  his  gentle  Mate 

And  three  fair  Children,  plentifully  fed 

Though  simply,  from  their  little  household  farm ; 

With  acceptable  treat  of  fish  or  fowl 

By  nature  yielded  to  his  practised  hand — ■ 

To  help  the  small  but  certain  comings-in 
Of  that  spare  Benefice.  Yet  not  the  less 
Theirs  was  a hospitable  board,  and  theirs 
A charitable  door.  — So  days  and  years 
Passed  on  ; — the  inside  of  that  rugged  House 
Was  trimmed  and  brightened  by  the  Matron’s  care. 
And  gradually  enriched  with  things  of  price. 

Which  might  be  lacked  for  use  or  ornament. 

What,  though  no  soft  and  costly  sofa  there 
Insidiously  stretched  out  its  lazy  length. 

And  no  vain  mirror  glittered  on  the  walls. 

Yet  were  the  windows  of  the  low  Abode 
By  shutters  weather-fended,  which  at  once 
Repelled  the  storm  and  deadened  its  loud  roar. 

There  snow-white  curtains  hung  in  decent  folds; 
Tough  moss,  and  long-enduring  mountain  plants. 
That  creep  along  the  ground  with  sinuous  trail. 

Were  nicely  braided,  and  composed  a work 
Like  Indian  mats,  that  with  appropriate  grace 
Lay  at  the  threshold  and  the  inner  doors ; 

And  a fair  carpet,  woven  of  liomespun  wool. 

But  tinctured  daintily  with  florid  hues. 

For  seemliness  and  warmth,  on  festal  days. 

Covered  the  smooth  bine  slabs  of  mountain  stone 
With  which  the  parlonr-floor,  in  simplest  guise 
Of  pastoral  homesteads,  had  been  long  inlaid. 


— These  pleasing  works  the  Housewife’s  skill  pro- 
duced : 

Meanwhile  the  unsedentary  Master’s  hand 
Was  busier  with  his  task  — to  rid,  to  plant, 

To  rear  for  food,  for  shelter,  and  delight; 

A thriving  covert ! And  when  wishes,  formed 
In  youth,  and  sanctioned  by  the  riper  mind,  ' 

Restored  me  to  my  native  Valley,  here 
To  end  my  days;  well  pleased  was  I to  see 
The  once-bare  Cottage,  on  the  mountain-side, 

Screened  from  assault  of  every  bitter  blast ; 

While  the  dark  shadows  of  the  summer  leaves 
Danced  in  the  breeze,  upon  its  mossy  roof. 

Time,  which  had  thus  afforded  willing  help 
To  beautify  with  Nature’s  fairest  growth 
This  rustic  Tenement,  had  gently  shed, 

I Upon  its  Master’s  frame,  a wintry  grace ; 

The  comeliness  of  unenfeebled  age. 

I But  how  could  I say,  gently?  for  he  still 
Retained  a flashing  eye,  a burning  palm, 

! A stirring  foot,  a bead  which  beat  at  nights 
Upon  its  pillow  with  a thousand  schemes. 

Few  likings  bad  he  dropped,  few  pleasures  lost ; 
Generous  and  charitable,  prompt  to  serve; 

And  still  his  harsher  passions  kept  their  hold. 

Anger  and  indigrsation  ; still  be  loved 
The  sound  of  titled  names,  and  talked  in  glee 
Of  long-past  banquetings  with  high-born  Friends : 
Then,  from  those  lulling  fits  of  vain  delight 
Uproused  by  recollected  injury,  railed 
At  their  false  ways  disdainfully,  — and  oft 
In  bitterness,  and  with  a threatening  eye 
Of  fire,  incensed  beneath  its  hoary  brow. 

— These  transports,  with  staid  looks  of  pore  good-will 
And  with  soft  smile,  his  Consort  w’ouid  reprove. 

She,  far  behind  him  in  the  race  of  years. 

Yet  keeping  her  first  mildness,  was  advanced 
Far  nearer,  in  the  habit  of  her  soul. 

To  that  still  region  whither  all  are  bound. 

I — Him  might  we  liken  to  the  setting  Sun 
1 As  seen  not  seldom  on  some  gusty  day, 

I Struggling  and  bold,  and  shining  from  the  west 
With  an  inconstant  and  unmellowed  light; 
j She  was  a soft  attendant  Cloud,  that  hung 
As  if  with  wish  to  veil  the  restless  orb ; 

* From  which  it  did  itself  imbibe  a ray 
Of  pleasing  lustre.  — But  no  more  of  this ; 

I better  love  to  sprinkle  on  the  sod 
That  now  divides  the  Pair,  or  rather  say 
That  still  unites  them,  praises,  like  heaven’s  dew 
Without  reserve  descending  upon  both. 

“ Our  very  first  in  eminence  of  years 

Tliis  old  Man  stood,  the  Patriarch  of  the  Yale ! 

And,  to  his  unmolested  mansion.  Death 
I Had  never  come,  through  space  of  forty  years; 

1 Sparing  both  old  and  young  in  that  Abode. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


C17 


Suddenly  then  they  disappeared  : not  twice 

Had  summer  scorched  tlie  fields  ; not  twice  had  fallen 

On  those  high  Peaks,  the  first  autumnal  snow, 

Before  the  greedy  visiting  was  closed, 

And  the  long-privileged  House  left  empty  — swept 
As  hy  a plague:  yet  no  rapacious  plague 
Had  been  among  them  ; all  was  gentle  death. 

One  after  one,  with  intervals  of  peace. 

— A happy  consummation  ! an  accord 
Sweet,  perfect  — to  be  wished  for!  save  that  here 
Was  something  which  to  mortal  sense  might  sound 
Like  harshness,  — that  the  old  gray-headed  Sire, 

The  oldest,  he  was  taken  last,  — survived 
When  the  meek  Partner  of  his  age,  his  Son, 

His  Daughter,  and  that  late  and  high-prized  gift. 

His  little  smiling  Grandchild,  were  no  more. 

“ ‘ All  gone,  all  vanished  ! he  deprived  and  bare, 

‘How  will  he  face  the  remnant  of  his  life! 

* What  will  become  of  him  V we  said,  and  mused 
In  sad  conjectures — ‘Shall  we  meet  him  now 
‘Haunting  with  rod  and  line  the  craggy  hrooksi 
‘Or  shall  w’e  overhear  him,  as  we  pass, 

‘Striving  to  entertain  the  lonely  hours 
‘ With  music  P (for  he  had  not  ceased  to  touch 
The  harp  or  viol  which  himself  had  framed, 

I’or  their  sw'eet  purposes,  with  perfect  skill.) 

‘ What  titles  will  he  keep!  will  he  remain 
‘ Musician,  Gardener,  Builder,  Mechanist, 

‘ A Planter,  and  a rearer  from  the  Seed  1 
‘ A Man  of  hope  and  forward-looking  mind 
‘ Even  to  the  last !’  — Such  was  he,  unsubdued. 

But  Heaven  w’as  gracious;  yet  a little  while. 

And  this  Survivor,  with  his  cheerful  throng 
Of  open  schemes,  and  all  his  inward  hoard 
Of  unsunned  griefs,  too  many  and  too  keen. 

Was  overcome  by  unexpected  sleep. 

In  one  blest  moment.  Like  a shadow  thrown 
Softly  and  lightly  from  a passing  cloud. 

Death  fell  upon  him,  while  reclined  he  lay 
For  noontide  solace  on  the  summer  grass. 

The  warm  lap  of  his  Mother  Earth : and  so. 

Their  lenient  term  of  separation  past. 

That  family  (whose  graves  you  there  behold) 

By  yet  a higher  privilege  once  more 
Were  gathered  to  each  other.” 

Calm  of  mind 

And  silence  waited  on  these  closing  words ; 

Until  the  Wanderer  (whether  moved  by  fear 

Lest  in  those  passages  of  life  were  some 

That  might  have  touched  the  sick  heart  of  his  Friend 

Too  nearly,  or  intent  to  reinforce 

His  own  firm  spirit  in  degree  deprest 

By  tender  sorrow  for  our  mortal  state) 

Thus  silence  broke:  — “Behold  a thoughtless  Man 
From  vice  and  premature  decay  preserved 
Bv  useful  habits,  to  a fitter  soil 


' Transplanted  ere  too  late. — The  Hermit,  lodged 
In  the  untrodden  desert,  tells  his  beads, 
j With  each  repeating  its  allotted  prayer, 

I And  thus  divides  and  thus  relieves  the  time; 

I Smooth  task,  with  his  compareef  whose  mind  could 
i string, 

I Not  scantily,  bright  minutes  on  the  thread 
' Of  keen  domestic  anguish,  — and  beguile 
j A solitude,  unchosen,  unprofessed; 

Till  gentlest  death  released  him.  — Far  from  us 
[ Bo  the  desire — too  curiously  to  ask 
I How  much  of  this  is  but  the  blind  result 
I Of  cordial  spirits  and  vital  temperament, 
i And  what  to  higher  powers  is  justly  due. 

I But  you.  Sir,  know  that  in  a neighbouring  Vale 
A Priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts* 

' Fall  to  the  ground ; whose  gifts  of  Nature  lie 
Retired  from  notice,  lost  in  attributes 
Of  Reason  — honourably  effaced  by  debts 
Which  her  poor  treasure-house  is  content  to  owe. 

And  conquests  over  her  dominion  gained. 

To  which  her  frowardness  must  needs  submit. 

In  this  one  Man  is  shown  a temperance  — proof 
Against  all  trials;  industry  severe 
And  constant  as  the  motion  of  the  day ; 

Stern  self-denial  round  him  spread,  with  shade 
That  might  be  deemed  forbidding,  did  not  there 
All  generous  feelings  flourish  and  rejoice; 
Forbearance,  charity  in  deed  and  thought. 

And  resolution  competent  to  take 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  simplicity 

All  that  her  holy  customs  recommend. 

And  the  best  ages  of  the  world  prescribe. 

— Preaching,  administering,  in  every  work 
Of  his  sublime  vocation,  in  the  walks 
I Of  worldly  intercourse  ’twixt  man  and  man, 

1 And  in  his  humble  dwelling,  he  appears 
I A Labourer,  with  moral  virtue  girt. 

With  spiritual  graces,  like  a glory,  crowned.” 

1 “ Doubt  can  be  none,”  the  Pastor  said,  “ for  whom 
This  Portraiture  is  sketched.  — The  Great,  the  Good, 
The  Well-beloved,  the  Fortunate,  the  Wise, 

These  Titles  Emperors  and  Chiefs  have  borne. 

Honour  assumed  or  given  : and  Him,  the  Wonderful, 
Our  simple  Shepherds,  speaking  from  the  heart. 
Deservedly  have  styled.  — From  his  Abode 
In  a dependent  Chapelry,  that  lies 
Behind  yon  hill,  a poor  and  rugged  wild. 

Which  in  his  soul  he  lovingly  embraced, — 

And,  having  once  espoused,  would  never  quit ; 

Hither,  ere  long,  that  lowly,  great,  good  Man 
Will  be  conveyed.  An  unelaborate  Stone 
May  cover  him ; and  by  its  help,  perchance, 

A century  shall  hear  his  name  pronounced, 

With  images  attendant  on  the  sound  ; 

* See  conclusion  of  Note  9,  to  Poems  of  Imagination,  p.  330 
and  Appendix  IV. 


52 


G18 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Then,  shall  the  slowly  gathering  twilight  close 

In  utter  night;  and  of  his  course  remain 

No  cognizable  vestiges,  no  more 

Than  of  this  breath,  which  shapes  itself  in  words 

To  speak  of  him,  aiffi  instantly  dissolves. 

— Noise  is  there  not  enough  in  doleful  war, 

But  that  tlie  heaven-born  poet  must  stand  forth, 

And  lend  the  echoes  of  his  sacred  shell. 

To  multiply  and  aggravate  the  din  I 

Pangs  are  there  not  enough  in  hopeless  love  — 

And,  in  requited  passion,  all  too  much 
Of  turbulence,  anxiety,  and  fear  — 

But  that  the  Minstrel  of  the  rural  shade 
Must  tune  his  pipe  insidiously  to  nurse 
The  perturbation  in  the  suffering  breast. 

And  propagate  its  kind,  far  as  he  may  1 

— Ah  who  (and  with  such  rapture  as  befits 
The  hallowed  theme)  will  rise  and  celebrate 
The  good  Man’s  deeds  and  purposes;  retrace 
His  struggles,  his  discomfiture  deplore, 

Ilis  triumphs  hail,  and  glorify  his  end  1 

That  Virtue,  like  the  fumes  and  vapoury  clouds 

Through  Fancy’s  heat  redounding  in  the  brain, 

And  like  the  soft  infections  of  the  heart. 

By  charm  of  measured  words  may  spread  o’er  field, 
Hamlet,  and  town  ; and  Piety  survive 
Upon  the  lips  of  Men  in  hall  or  bower; 

Not  for  reproof,  but  high  and  warm  delight. 

And  grave  encouragement,  by  song  inspired. 

— Vain  thought!  but  wherefore  murmur  or  repine  ? 
The  memory  of  the  just  survives  in  Heaven ; 

And,  without  sorrow,  will  this  ground  receive 
That  venerable  clay.  Meanwhile  the  best 

Of  what  it  holds  confines  us  to  degrees 
In  excellence  less  difficult  to  reach, 

And  milder  worth : nor  need  we  travel  far 
From  those  to  whom  our  last  regards  were  paid. 

For  such  example. 

“ Almost  at  the  root 

Of  that  tall  Pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I sit  at  eve, 

Ofl  stretches  tow’rds  me,  like  a long  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward ; there,  beneath 
A plain  blue  Stone,  a gentle  Dalesman  lies. 

From  whom,  in  early  childhood,  was  withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.  He  grew  up 
From  year  to  year  in  loneliness  of  soul ; 

And  this  deep  mountain  Valley  was  to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.  The  bird  of  dawn 
Did  never  rouse  this  Cottager  from  sleep 
With  startling  summons;  not  for  his  delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted  ; not  for  him 
Murmured  the  labouring  bee.  When  stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of  tlie  lake 
Into  a thousand  thousand  sparkling  waves. 
Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud  on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty  crags. 


i 


The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 
Was  silent  as  a picture : evermore 
Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe’er  he  moved. 

Y^et,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 
Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 
Of  rural  labours;  the  steep  mountain-side 
Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog ; 

The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  swa3'ed; 
And  the  ripe  corn  before  his  sickle  fell 
Among  tlie  jocund  reapers.  For  himself 
All  watchful  and  industrious  as  he  was. 

He  wrought  not ; neither  field  nor  flock  he  owned : 
No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within  liis  mind; 

Nor  husband’s  love,  nor  father’s  hope  or  care. 
Though  born  a younger  Brother,  need  was  none 
That  from  the  floor  of  his  paternal  home 
He  should  depart,  to  plant  himself  anew. 

And  when,  mature  in  manhood,  he  beheld 
His  Parents  laid  in  earth,  no  loss  ensued 
Of  rights  to  him  ; but  he  remained  well  pleased. 
By  the  pure  bond  of  independent  love 
An  inmate  of  a second  family. 

The  fellow-labourer  and  friend  of  him 
To  whom  the  small  inheritance  had  fallen. 

— Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was  a weight 
That  pressed  upon  his  Brother’s  house,  for  books 
Were  ready  comrades  whom  he  could  not  tire, — 
Of  whose  society  the  blameless  Man 

Was  never  satiate.  Their  familiar  voice. 

Even  to  old  age,  with  unabated  charm 

Beguiled  his  leisure  hours;  refreshed  his  thoughts 

Beyond  its  natural  elevation  raised 

His  introverted  spirit ; and  bestowed 

Upon  his  life  an  outward  dignity 

Which  all  acknowledged.  The  dark  winter  night, 

The  stormy  day,  had  each  its  own  resource; 

Song  of  tlie  muses,  sage  historic  tale. 

Science  severe,  or  word  of  Holy  Writ 
Announcing  immortality  and  joy 
To  the  assembled  spirits  of  the  just. 

From  imperfection  and  decay  secure. 

— Thus  soothed  at  home,  thus  busy  in  the  field. 

To  no  perverse  suspicion  he  gave  way. 

No  languor,  peevishness,  nor  vain  complaint: 

And  they,  who  were  about  him,  did  not  fail 
In  reverence,  or  in  courtesy ; they  prized 
His  gentle  manners:  — and  his  peaceful  smiles. 
The  gleams  of  his  slow-varying  countenance. 

Were  met  with  answering  sympathy  and  love. 


“At  length,  when  sixty  years  and  five  were  told, 
A slow  disease  insensibly  consumed 
The  powers  of  nature:  and  a few  short  steps 
Of  friends  and  kindred  bore  him  from  his  home 
(Yon  Cottage  shaded  by  the  woody  crags) 

To  the  profounder  stillness  of  the  grave. 

— Nor  was  his  funeral  denied  the  grace 
Of  many  tears,  virtuous  and  thoughtful  grief ; 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G19 


Heart-sorrow  rendered  sweet  by  gratitude. 

And  now  that  monumental  Stone  preserves 
His  name,  and  unambitiously  relates 
How  long,  and  by  what  kindly  outward  aids. 

And  in  what  pure  contentedness  of  mind. 

The  sad  privation  was  by  him  endured. 

— And  yon  tall  Pine-tree,  whose  composing  sound 
Was  wasted  on  the  good  Man’s  living  ear. 

Hath  now  its  own  peculiar  sanctity  ; 

And,  at  the  touch  of  every  wandering  breeze. 
Murmurs,  not  idly,  o’er  his  peaceful  grave. 

“ Soul-clieering  Light,  most  bountiful  of  Things! 
Guide  of  our  way,  mysterious  Comforter! 

Whose  sacred  influence,  spread  through  earth  and 
heaven. 

We  all  too  thanklessly  participate. 

Thy  gills  were  utterly  withheld  from  Him 
Whose  place  of  rest  is  near  yon  ivied  Porch. 

Yet,  of  the  wild  brooks  ask  if  he  complained; 

Ask  of  the  channelled  rivers  if  they  held 
A safer,  easier,  more  determined  course. 

What  terror  doth  it  strike  into  the  mind 
To  think  of  One,  who  cannot  see,  advancing 
Toward  some  precipice’s  airy  brink  ! 

But,  timely  warned.  He  would  have  stayed  his  steps ; 
Protected,  say  enlightened,  by  his  ear. 

And  on  the  very  edge  of  vacancy 
Not  more  endangered  than  a Man  whose  eye 
Beholds  the  gulf  beneath.  — No  floweret  blooms 
Throughout  the  lofty  range  of  these  rough  hills. 

Or  in  the  woods,  that  could  from  him  conceal 
Its  birth-place;  none  whose  figure  did  not  live 
Upon  his  touch.  The  bowels  of  the  earth 
Enriched  with  knowledge  his  industrious  mind  ; 

The  ocean  paid  him  tribute  from  the  stores 
Lodged  in  her  bosom  ; and,  by  science  led, 

His  genius  mounted  to  the  plains  of  Heaven. 

— Methinks  I see  him  — how  his  eye-balls  rolled 
Beneath  his  ample  brow,  in  darkness  paired, — 

But  each  instinct  with  spirit;  and  the  frame 

Of  the  whole  countenance  alive  with  thought. 

Fancy,  and  understanding;  while  the  voice 
Discoursed  of  natural  or  moral  truth 
With  eloquence,  and  such  authentic  power, 

That,  in  his  presence,  humbler  knowledge  stood 
Abashed,  and  tender  pity  overawed.” 

“A  noble  — and.  to  unreflecting  minds, 

A marvellous  spectacle,”  the  Wanderer  said, 

“Beings  like  these  present!  But  proof  abounds 
Upon  the  earth  that  faculties,  which  seem 
Extinguished,  do  not,  therefore,  cease  to  be. 

And  to  the  mind  among  her  powers  of  sense 
This  transfer  is  permitted,  — not  alone 
That  the  bereft  their  recompense  may  win; 

But  for  remoter  purposes  of  love 


And  charity ; nor  last  nor  least  for  this, 

That  to  the  imagination  may  be  given 
A type  and  shadow  of  an  awful  truth: 

How,  likewise,  under  sufferance  divine, 

Darkness  is  banished  from  the  realms  of  Death, 

By  man’s  imperishable  spirit,  quelled. 

Unto  the  men  who  see  not  as  we  see 
Futurity  was  thought,  in  ancient  times. 

To  be  laid  open,  and  they  prophesied. 

And  know  we  not  that  from  the  blind  have  flowed 
The  highest,  holiest,  raptures  of  the  lyre ; 

And  wisdom  married  to  immortal  verse  1” 

Among  the  humbler  Worthies,  at  our  feet 
Lying  insensible  to  human  praise. 

Love,  or  regret,  — whose  lineaments  would  next 
Have  been  portrayed,  I guess  not!  but  it  chanced 
That,  near  the  quiet  church-yard  where  we  sate, 

A Team  of  horses,  with  a ponderous  freight 
Pressing  behind,  adown  a rugged  slope. 

Whose  sharp  descent  confounded  their  array, 

Came  at  that  moment,  ringing  noisily. 

“Here,”  said  the  Pastor,  “ do  we  muse,  and  mourn 
The  waste  of  death;  atid  lo!  the  giant  Oak 
Stretched  on  his  bier — that  massy  timber  wain; 
Nor  fail  to  note  the  Man  who  guides  the  team.” 

He  was  a Peasant  of  the  lowest  class : 

Gray  locks  profusely  round  his  temples  hung 
In  clustering  curls,  like  ivy,  which  the  bite 
Of  Winter  cannot  thin;  the  fresh  air  lodged 
Within  his  cheek,  as  light  within  a cloud ; 

And  he  returned  our  greeting  with  a smile. 

When  he  had  passed,  the  Solitary  spake  ; 

— “ A Man  he  seems  of  cheerful  yesterdays 
And  confident  to-morrows,  — with  a face 
Not  worldly-minded,  for  it  bears  too  much 
Of  Nature’s  impress,  gaiety  and  health, 

1 Freedom  and  hope;  but  keen,  withal,  and  shrewd. 

! His  gestures  note,  — and  hark  ! his  tones  of  voice 
Are  all  vivacious  as  his  mien  and  looks.” 

The  Pastor  answered.  “ You  have  read  him  well 
Year  after  year  is  added  to  his  store 
With  silent  increase  : summers,  winters  — past. 
Past  or  to  come;  yea,  boldly  might  1 say. 

Ten  summers  and  ten  winters  of  a space 
That  lies  beyond  life’s  ordinary  bounds. 

Upon  his  sprightly  vigour  cannot  fix 
The  obligation  of  an  anxious  mind, 

A pride  in  having,  or  a fear  to  lose; 

Possessed  like  outskirts  of  some  large  Domain, 

By  any  one  more  thought  of  than  by  him 
Who  holds  the  land  in  fee,  its  careless  Lord  ! 

— Yet  is  the  creature  rational  — endowed 
With  foresight;  hears,  too,  every  Sabbath  day, 

The  Christian  promise  with  attentive  ear; 


620 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Nor  will,  I trust,  the  Majesty  of  Heaven 
Reject  the  incense  offered  up  by  him. 

Though  of  the  kind  which  beasts  and  birds  present 
In  grove  or  pasture;  cheerfulness  of  soul, 

From  trepidation  and  repining  free. 

IIow  many  scrupulous  worshippers  fall  down 
Upon  their  knees,  and  daily  homage  pay 
Less  worthy,  less  religious  even,  than  his  ! 

“ This  qualified  respect,  the  Old  Man’s  due, 

Is  paid  without  reluctance;  but  in  truth, 

(Said  tlie  good  Vicar  with  a fond  half-smile) 

“ I feel  at  times  a motion  of  despite 

Tow’rds  One,  whose  bold  contrivances  and  skill. 

As  you  have  seen,  bear  such  conspicuous  part 
In  works  of  havoc ; taking  from  these  vales. 

One  after  one,  their  proudest  ornaments. 

Full  oft  his  doings  leave  me  to  deplore 

Tall  ash-tree  sown  hv  winds,  by  vapours  nursed. 

In  the  dry  crannies  of  the  pendent  rocks; 

Light  birch  aloft  upon  the  horizon’s  edge, 

A.  veil  of  glory  for  the  ascending  moon; 

And  oak  whose  roots  by  noontide  dew  were  damped. 
And  on  whose  forehead  inaccessible 
The  raven  lodged  in  safety.  — Many  a Ship 
Launched  into  Morecamb  Bay,  to  him  hath  owed 
Her  strong  knee-timbers,  and  the  mast  that  bears 
The  loftiest  of  her  pendants;  He,  from  Park 
Or  Forest,  fetched  the  enormous  axle-tree 
Tliat  whirls  (how  slow  itself!)  ten  thousand  spindles  : — 
And  the  vast  engine  labouring  in  the  mine. 

Content  with  meaner  prowess,  must  have  lacked 
The  trunk  and  body  of  its  marvellous  strength. 

If  his  undaunted  enterprise  had  failed 
Among  the  mountain  coves. 

“ Yon  household  Fir, 

A guardian  planted  to  fence  off  the  blast 
But  towering  high  the  roof  above,  as  if 
Its  humble  destination  were  forgot; 

That  Sycamore,  which  annually  holds 
Within  its  shade,  as  in  a stately  tent* 

On  all  sides  open  to  the  fanning  breeze, 

A grave  assemblage,  seated  while  they  shear 
The  fleece-encumbered  flock;  — the  Joyful  Elm, 
Around  whose  trunk  the  Maidens  dance  in  May ; — 
And  the  Lord’s  Oak  ; — would  plead  their  several 
rights 

In  vain,  if  He  were  master  of  their  fate; 

His  sentence  to  the  axe  would  doom  them  all. 

— But,  green  in  age  and  lusty  as  he  is. 

And  promising  to  keep  his  hold  on  earth 
Less,  as  might  seem,  in  rivalship  with  men 
Than  with  the  forest’s  more  enduring  growth. 


* This  Sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved ! 

S T Coleridge  ; •Inscription  for  a fountain  on  a Heath.’ 


Ilis  own  appointed  hour  will  come  at  last; 

And,  like  the  haughty  Spoilers  of  the  world, 

This  keen  Destroyer  in  his  turn,  must  fall. 

“ Now  from  the  living  pass  we  once  again  : 

From  Age,”  the  Priest  continued,  “ turn  your  thoughts 
From  Age,  that  often  unlamented  drops. 

And  mark  that  daisied  hillock,  three  spans  long! 

— Seven  lusty  Sons  sate  daily  round  the  board 
Of  Gold-rill  side;  and,  when  the  hope  had  ceased 
Of  other  progeny,  a Daughter  then 

VV’as  given,  the  crowning  bounty  of  the  whole; 

And  so  acknowledged  with  a tremulous  joy 
Felt  to  the  centre  of  that  heavenly  calm 
With  which  by  nature  every  Mother’s  Soul 
Is  stricken,  in  the  moment  when  her  throes 
Are  ended,  and  lier  ears  have  lieard  the  cry 
Which  tells  her  that  a living  Child  is  born, — 

And  she  lies  conscious  in  a blissful  rest. 

That  the  dread  storm  is  weathered  by  them  both. 

“The  Father  — Him  at  this  unlooked-for  gift 
A bolder  transport  seizes.  From  the  side 
Of  his  bright  hearth,  and  from  his  open  door. 

Day  after  day  the  gladness  is  diffused 
To  all  that  come,  and  almost  all  that  pass; 

Invited,  summoned,  to  partake  the  cheer 
Spread  on  the  never-empty  board,  and  drink 
Health  and  good  wishes  to  his  new-born  Girl, 

From  cups  replenished  by  his  joyous  hand. 

— Those  seven  fair  Brothers  variously  were  moved 
Each  by  the  thoughts  best  suited  to  his  years: 

But  most  of  all  and  with  most  thankful  mind 
The  hoary  Grandsire  felt  himself  enriched  ; 

A happiness  that  ebbed  not,  but  remained 
To  fill  the  total  measure  of  the  soul ! 

— From  the  low  tenement,  his  own  abode. 

Whither,  as  to  a little  private  cell. 

He  had  withdrawn  from  bustle,  care,  and  noise. 

To  spend  the  Sabbath  of  old  age  in  peace. 

Once  every  day  he  duteously  repaired 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  the  slumbering  Babe: 

For  in  that  female  Infant’s  name  he  heard 
The  silent  Name  of  liis  departed  Wife ; 
Heart-stirring  music  ! hourly  heard  that  name; 

Full  blest  he  w'as,  ‘ Another  Margaret  Green,’ 

Oft  did  he  say,  ‘ w’as  come  to  Gold-rill  side.’ 

— Oh  ! pang  unthought  of,  as  the  precious  boon 
Itself  had  been  unlooked  for  ; — oh  ! dire  stroke 
Of  desolating  anguish  for  them  all ! 

— Just  as  the  Cliild  could  totter  on  the  floor. 

And,  by  some  friendly  finger’s  help  upstaycd, 

Range  round  the  garden  walk,  while  Slie  perchance 
Was  catching  at  some  novelty  of  Spring, 
Ground-flower,  or  glossy  insect  from  its  cell 
Drawn  by  the  sunshine — at  that  hopeful  season 
The  winds  of  March,  smiting  insidiously. 

Raised  in  the  tender  passage  of  the  throac 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G21 


Viewless  obstruction  ; whence  — all  unfbrewarned, 
The  Household  lost  their  pride  and  soul’s  delight. 

— But  Time  hath  power  to  soften  all  regrets, 

And  prayer  and  thought  can  bring  to  worst  distress 
Due  resignation.  Therefore,  though  some  tears 
Fail  not  to  spring  from  either  Parent’s  eye 
Oft  as  they  hear  of  sorrow  like  their  own, 

Yet  this  departed  Little-one,  too  long 
Tlie  innocent  troubler  of  their  quiet,  sleeps 
In  what  may  now  be  called  a peaceful  grave. 

“ On  a bright  day,  the  brightest  of  the  year. 

These  mountains  echoed  with  an  unknown  sound, 

A volley,  thrice  repeated  o’er  the  Corse 
Let  down  into  the  hollow  of  that  Grave, 

Whose  shelving  sides  are  red  with  naked  mould. 

Ye  Rains  of  April,  duly  wet  this  earth  ! 

Spare,  burning  Sun  of  Midsummer,  these  sods. 

That  they  may  knit  together,  and  therewith 
Our  thoughts  unite  in  kindred  quietness! 

Nor  so  the  Valley  shall  forget  her  loss. 

Dear  Youth,  by  young  and  old  alike  beloved, 

To  me  as  precious  as  my  own  ! — Green  herbs 
May  creep  (I  wish  that  they  would  softly  creep) 
Over  thy  last  abode,  and  we  may  pass 
Reminded  less  imperiously  of  thee ; — 

Tlie  ridge  itself  may  sink  into  the  breast 
Of  earth,  the  great  abyss,  and  be  no  more ; 

Yet  shall  not  thy  remembrance  leave  our  hearts, 

Thy  image  disappear ! 

“ The  mountain  Ash 

No  eye  can  overlook,  when  ’mid  a grove 
Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head 
Decked  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshine 
Spring’s  richest  blossoms;  and  ye  may  have  marked, 
By  a brook  side  or  solitary  tarn, 

How  she  her  station  doth  adorn  ; — the  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brightened  round  her.  In  his  native  Vale 
Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  Youth  appear; 

A sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow. 

By  all  the  graces  with  which  Nature’s  hand 
Had  lavishly  arrayed  him.  As  old  Bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  Gods, 

Pan  or  Apollo,  veiled  in  human  form; 

Yet,  like  the  sweet-breathed  violet  of  the  shade. 
Discovered  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 
Of  Mortals  (if  such  fables  without  blame 
May  find  chance-mention  on  this  sacred  ground) 

So,  through  a simple  rustic  garb’s  disguise. 

And  through  the  impediment  of  rural  cares. 

In  him  revealed  a Scholar’s  genius  shone; 

And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men’s  sight. 

In  him  the  spirit  of  a Hero  walked 
Our  unpretending  valley.  — How  the  coit 


I Whizzed  from  the  Stripling’s  arm  ! If  touched  by  him, 
The  inglorious  foot-ball  mounted  to  the  pitch 
Of  the  lark’s  flight,  — or  shaped  a rainbow  curve. 
Aloft,  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field  ! 

The  indefatigable  fox  had  learned 
To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 

With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 
Was  loth  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved : 

Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 
To  guard  the  royal  brood.  The  sailing  glead. 

The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe, 

The  sportive  sea-gull  dancing  with  the  waves. 

And  cautious  water-fowl,  from  distant  climes, 

Fi.\ed  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  Mere, 

Were  subject  to  young  Oswald’s  steady  aim. 

“ From  Gallia’s  coast  a Tyrant  hurled  his  threats ; 

Our  Country  marked  the  preparation  vast 
Of  hostile  Forces;  and  she  called  — with  voice 
That  filled  her  plains,  that  reached  her  utmost  shores, 
And  in  remotest  vales  was  heard  — to  Arms ! 

— Then,  for  the  first  time,  here  you  might  have  seen 
The  Shepherd’s  gray  to  martial  scarlet  changed, 

That  flashed  uncouthly  through  the  woods  and  fields. 
Ten  hardy  Striplings,  all  in  bright  attire. 

And  graced  with  shining  weapons,  weekly  marched. 
From  this  lone  valley,  to  a central  spot. 

Where,  in  assemblage  with  the  Flower  and  Choice 
Of  the  surrounding  district,  they  might  learn 
The  rudiments  of  war;  ten  — hardy,  strong. 

And  valiant;  but  young  Oswald,  like  a Chief 
And  yet  a modest  Comrade,  led  them  forth 
From  their  shy  solitude,  to  face  the  world. 

With  a gay  confidence  and  seemly  pride; 

Measuring  the  soil  beneath  their  happy  feet 
Like  Youths  released  from  labour,  and  yet  bound 
To  most  laborious  service,  though  to  them 
A festival  of  unencumbered  ease ; 

The  inner  spirit  keeping  holiday. 

Like  vernal  ground  to  sabbath  sunshine  left. 

“Oft  have  I marked  him,  at  some  leisure  hour. 
Stretched  on  the  grass  or  seated  in  the  shade 
Among  his  Fellows,  while  an  ample  Map 
Before  their  eyes  lay  carefully  outspread. 

From  which  the  gallant  Teacher  would  discourse. 

Now  pointing  this  way  and  now  that. — ‘ Here  flows,’ 
Thus  would  he  say,  ‘the  Rhine,  that  famous  Stream! 
‘Eastward,  the  Danube  tow’rd  this  inland  sea, 

‘A  mightier  river,  winds  from  realm  to  realm;  — 

‘ And,  like  a serpent,  shows  his  glittering  back 
‘Bespotted  with  innumerable  isles: 

‘ Here  reigns  the  Russian,  there  the  Turk ; observe 
‘ His  capital  city  !’  — Thence  — along  a tract 
Of  livelier  interest  to  his  hopes  and  fears  — 

His  finger  moved,  distinguishing  the  spots 


C22 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Where  wide-spread  conflict  then  most  fiercely  raged ; 
Nor  left  unstigniatized  those  fatal  Fields 
On  which  the  Sons  of  mighty  Germany 
Were  taught  a base  submission.  — ‘ Here  behold 
‘ A nobler  race,  the  Switzers,  and  their  Land ; 

‘Vales  deeper  far  than  these  of  ours,  huge  woods, 
‘And  mountains  white  with  everlasting  snow!’ 

— And,  surely,  he,  that  spake  with  kindling  brow 
Was  a true  Patriot,  hopeful  as  the  best 
Of  that  young  Peasantry,  who,  in  our  days. 

Have  fought  and  perished  for  Helvetia’s  rights, — 

Ah,  not  in  vain  ! — or  those  wlio,  in  old  time, 

For  work  of  happier  issue,  to  the  side 
Of  Tell  came  trooping  from  a thousand  huts. 

When  he  had  risen  alone  ! No  braver  Youth 
Descended  from  Judean  heights,  to  march 
With  righteous  Joshua;  or  appeared  in  arms 
When  grove  was  felled,  and  altar  was  cast  down. 

And  Gideon  blew  the  trumpet,  soul-inflamed. 

And  strong  in  hatred  of  idolatry.” 

This  spoken,  from  his  seat  the  Pastor  rose, 

And  moved  towards  the  grave ; instinctively 
His  steps  we  followed ; and  my  voice  exclaimed, 

“ Power  to  the  Oppressors  of  the  world  is  given, 

A might  of  which  they  dream  not.  Oh  ! the  curse. 
To  be  the  Awakener  of  divinest  thoughts. 

Father  and  Founder  of  exalted  deeds. 

And  to  whole  nations  bound  in  servile  straits 
The  liberal  Donor  of  capacities 
More  than  heroic  I this  to  be,  nor  yet 
Have  sense  of  one  connatural  wish,  nor  yet 
Deserve  the  least  return  of  human  thanks; 

Winning  no  recompense  but  deadly  hate 
With  pity  mixed,  astonishment  with  scorn  I” 

When  these  involuntary  words  had  ceased. 

The  Pastor  said,  “ So  Providence  is  served  ; 

The  forked  weapon  of  the  skies  can  send 
Illumination  into  deep,  dark  Holds, 

Which  the  mild  sunbeam  hath  not  power  to  pierce. 
Why  do  ye  quake,  intimidated  Thrones  ! 

For,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  debt 
Which  to  outrageous  Wrong  the  Sufferer  owes, 
Europe,  through  all  her  habitable  seats. 

Is  thirsting  for  their  overthrow,  who  still 
Exist,  as  pagan  Temples  stood  of  old. 

By  very  horror  of  their  impious  rites 
Preserved  ; are  suffered  to  extend  their  pride, 

I.ike  Cedars  on  the  top  of  Lebanon 
Darkening  the  sun.  — But  less  impatient  thoughts. 
And  love  ‘all  hoping  and  expecting  all,’ 

This  hallowed  Grave  demands,  where  rests  in  peace 
A humble  Champion  of  the  better  Cause; 

A Peasant-youth,  so  call  him,  for  he  asked 
No  higher  name;  in  whom  our  Country  showed. 

As  in  a favourite  Son,  most  beautiful. 

In  spite  of  vice,  and  misery,  and  disease. 


Spread  with  the  spreading  of  her  wealthy  arts, 
England,  the  ancient  and  the  free,  appeared. 

In  him  to  stand  before  my  swimming  eyes, 
Unconquerably  virtuous  and  secure. 

— No  more  of  this,  lest  I offend  his  dust : 

Short  was  his  life,  and  a brief  tale  remains. 

“One  summer’s  day  — a day  of  annual  pomp 
And  solemn  chase  — from  morn  to  sultry  noon 
His  steps  had  followed,  fleetest  of  the  fleet, 

The  red-deer  driven  along  its  native  heights 
With  cry  of  hound  and  horn ; and,  from  that  toil 
Returned  with  sinews  weakened  and  relaxed. 

This  generous  Youth,  too  negligent  of  self. 

Plunged  — ’mid  a gay  and  busy  throng  convened 
To  wash  the  fleeces  of  his  Father’s  flock  — 

Into  the  chilling  flood. 

“ Convulsions  dire 

Seized  him,  that  self-same  night;  and  through  the 
space 

Of  twelve  ensuing  days  his  frame  was  wrenched. 

Till  nature  rested  from  her  work  in  death. 

— To  him,  thus  snatched  away,  his  Comrades  paid 
A Soldier’s  honours.  At  his  funeral  hour 
Bright  was  the  sun,  the  sky  a cloudless  blue  — 

A golden  lustre  slept  upon  the  hills; 

And  if  by  chance  a Stranger,  wandering  there. 

From  some  commanding  eminence  had  looked 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A glittering  Spectacle ; but  every  face 
Was  pallid,  — seldom  hath  that  eye  been  moist 
With  tears,  that  wept  not  then ; nor  were  the  few 
Who  from  their  Dwellings  came  not  forth  to  join 
In  this  sad  service,  less  disturbed  than  we. 

They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 
Of  instantaneous  thunder,  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  Grave ; 

And  distant  mountains  echoed  with  a sound 
Of  lamentation,  never  heard  before  !” 

The  Pastor  ceased.  — My  venerable  Friend 
Victoriously  upraised  his  clear  bright  eye  ; 

And,  when  that  eulogy  was  ended,  stood 
Enrapt, — as  if  his  inward  sense  perceived 
The  prolongation  of  some  still  response. 

Sent  by  the  ancient  Soul  of  this  wide  Land, 

The  Spirit  of  its  mountains  and  its  seas. 

Its  cities,  temples,  fields,  its  awful  power, 

Its  rights  and  virtues  — by  that  Deity 
Descending,  and  supporting  his  pure  heart 
With  patriotic  confidence  and  joy. 

And,  at  the  last  of  those  memorial  words. 

The  pining  Solitary  turned  aside. 

Whether  through  manly  instinct  to  conceal 
Tender  emotions  spreading  from  the  heart 
To  his  worn  cheek ; or  with  uneasv  shame 
For  those  cold  humours  of  habitual  spleen. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G23 


That  fondly  seekint^  in  dispraise  of  Man 
Solace  and  self-excuse,  had  sometimes  urged 
To  self-abuse  a not  ineloquent  tongue, 

— Right  tovv’rd  the  sacred  Edifice  his  steps 
Had  been  directed ; and  we  saw  him  now 
Intent  upon  a monumental  Stone, 

Whose  uncouth  Form  was  grafted  on  the  wall. 

Or  rather  seemed  to  have  grown  into  the  side 
Of  the  rude  Pile;  as  ofl-tirnes  trunks  of  trees. 

Where  Nature  works  in  wild  and  craggy  spots, 

Are  seen  incorporate  with  the  living  rock  — 

To  endure  for  aye.  The  Vicar,  taking  note 
Of  his  employment,  with  a courteous  smile 
Exclaimed,  “The  sagest  Antiquarian’s  eye 
That  task  would  foil then,  letting  fall  his  voice 
While  he  advanced,  thus  spake  : “ Tradition  tells 
That,  in  Eliza’s  golden  days,  a Knight 
Came  on  a war-horse  sumptuously  attired. 

And  fixed  his  home  in  this  sequestered  Vale. 

’T  is  left  untold  if  here  he  first  drew  breath. 

Or  as  a Stranger  reached  this  deep  recess, 

Unknowing  and  unknown.  A pleasing  thought 
T sometimes  entertain,  that,  haply  bound 
To  Scotland’s  court  in  service  of  his  Queen, 

Or  sent  on  mission  to  some  northern  Chief 
Of  England’s  Realm,  this  Vale  he  might  have  seen 
With  transient  observation;  and  thence  caught 
An  Image  fair,  which,  brightening  in  his  soul 
When  joy  of  war  and  jiride  of  Chivalry 
Languished  beneath  accumulated  years. 

Had  power  to  draw  him  from  the  world — resolved 
To  make  that  paradise  his  chosen  home 
To  which  his  peaceful  Fancy  oil  had  turned. 

— Vague  thoughts  are  these;  but,  if  belief  may  rest 
Upon  unwritten  story  fondly  traced 

From  sire  to  son,  in  this  obscure  Retreat 

The  Knight  arrived,  with  pomp  of  spear  and  shield. 

And  borne  upon  a Charger  covered  o’er 

With  gilded  housings.  And  the  lofty  Steed  — 

His  sole  companion,  and  his  faithful  friend. 

Whom  he,  in  gratitude,  let  loose  to  range 
In  fertile  pastures — was  beheld  with  eyes 
Of  admiration  and  delightful  awe. 

By  those  untravelled  Dalesmen.  With  less  pride. 

Yet  free  from  touch  of  envious  discontent. 

They  saw  a Mansion  at  his  bidding  rise. 

Like  a bright  star,  amid  the  lowly  band 

Of  their  rude  Homesteads.  Here  the  Warrior  dwelt; 

And,  in  that  Mansion,  Children  of  his  own. 

Or  Kindred,  gathered  round  him.  As  a Tree 
That  falls  and  disappears,  the  House  is  gone ; 

And,  through  improvidence  or  want  of  love 
For  ancient  worth  and  honourable  things. 

The  spear  and  shield  are  vanished,  which  the  Knight 
Hung  in  his  rustic  Hall.  One  ivied  arch 
Myself  have  seen,  a gateway,  last  remains 
Of  that  Foundation  in  domestic  care 


Raised  by  his  hands.  And  now  no  trace  is  left 
Of  the  mild-hearted  Champion,  save  this  Stone, 
Faithless  memorial ! and  his  family  name 
Borne  by  yon  clustering  cottages,  that  sprang 
From  out  the  ruins  of  his  stately  lodge: 

These,  and  the  name  and  title  at  full  length, — 

Sir  2tlfrcb  Srthii'fi/  with  appropriate  v/ords 
Accompanied,  still  extant,  in  a w.reatli 
Or  posy  — girding  round  the  several  fronts 
Of  three  clear-sounding  and  harmonious  bells. 

That  in  the  steeple  hang,  his  pious  gift.” 

“ So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies,” 

The  gray-haired  Wanderer  pensively  exclaimed, 

“All  that  this  World  is  proud  of.  From  their  .spheres 
The  stars  of  human  glory  are  east  down ; 

Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  Kings,* 

Princes,  and  Emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  pal.ns 
Of  all  the  Mighty,  withered  and  consumed ! 

Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  Innocence 
Long  to  protect  her  own.  The  Man  himselt 
Departs ; and  soon  is  spent  the  Line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  bodily  image,  in  the  mind. 

In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit. 

Did  most  resemble  him.  Degrees  and  Ranks, 
Fraternities  and  Orders  — heaping  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burthen  of  the  old. 

And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirmed 
And  re-confirmed  — are  scoffed  at  with  a smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  Desolation,  aimed : to  slow  decline 
These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow ; 

Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state. 

Expire;  and  Nature’s  pleasant  robe  of  green. 

Humanity’s  appointed  shroud,  enwraps 

Their  monuments  and  their  memory.  The  vast  Frame 

Of  social  Nature  changes  evermore 

Her  organs  and  her  members  with  decay 

Restless,  and  restless  generation,  powers 

And  functions  dying  and  produced  at  need, — 

And  by  this  law  the  mighty  Whole  subsists ; 

With  an  ascent  and  progress  in  the  main; 

Yet,  oh  ! how  disproportioned  to  the  hopes 
And  expectations  of  self-flattering  minds! 

— The  courteous  Knight,  whose  bones  are  here  interred. 
Lived  in  an  age  conspicuous  as  our  own 
For  strife  and  ferment  in  the  minds  of  men ; 

Whence  alteration,  in  the  forms  of  things, 

* The  “ Tiavsil  gloria  mnndi”  is  finely  expressed  in  the  Inlro- 
diiction  to  Ilie  Foundation  Charters  of  some  of  the  'a.icient  Ab- 
beys. Some  expressions  here  used  are  taken  from  that  of  the 
Abbey  of  St.  Mary’s  Furness,  the  translation  of  which  is  as  fol 
lows  — 

“ Considering  every  day  the  uncertainty  of  life,  that  the  roses 
and  flowers  of  Kings,  Emperors,  and  Dukes,  and  the  crowns  and 
palms  of  all  the  great,  wither  and  decay ; and  that  all  things, 
with  an  uninterrupted  course,  tend  to  dissolution  and  death'  I 
therefore,”  &c. 


624 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Various  and  vast.  A memorable  a^e  ! 

Which  did  to  him  assign  a pensive  lot  — 

To  linger  ’mid  the  last  of  those  bright  Clouds, 

That,  on  the  steady  breeze  of  honour,  sailed 
In  long  procession  calm  and  beautiful. 

He  who  had  seen  his  own  bright  Order  fade, 

And  its  devotion  gradually  decline, 

(While  War,  relinquishing  the  lance  and  shield. 

Her  temper  changed,  and  bowed  to  other  laws) 

Had  also  witnessed,  in  his  morn  of  life, 

That  violent  Commotion,  which  o’erthrew. 

In  town,  and  city,  and  sequestered  glen. 

Altar,  and  Cross,  and  Church  of  solemn  roof. 

And  old  religious  House  — Pile  after  Pile; 

,\nd  shook  the  Tenants  out  into  the  fields. 

Like  wild  Beasts  without  home ! Their  hour  was  come; 
But  why  no  softening  thought  of  gratitude, 

No  just  remembrance,  scruple,  or  wise  doubt  I 
Benevolence  is  mild  ; nor  borrows  help. 

Save  at  worst  need,  from  bold  impetuous  force, 

Fitliest  allied  to  anger  and  revenge. 

But  Human-kind  rejoices  in  the  might 
Of  Mutability,  and  airy  Hopes, 

Dancing  around  her,  hinder  and  disturb 


Those  meditations  of  the  soul  that  feed 
The  retrospective  Virtues.  Festive  songs 
Break  from  the  maddened  Nations  at  the  sight 
Of  sudden  overthrow ; and  cold  neglect 
Is  the  sure  consequence  of  slow  decay. 

— Even,”  said  the  Wanderer,  “as  that  courtecuft 

Knight, 

Bound  by  his  vow  to  labour  for  redress 
Of  all  who  suffer  wrong,  and  to  enact 
By  sword  and  lance  the  law  of  gentleness, 

(If  I may  venture  of  myself  to  speak. 

Trusting  that  not  incongruously  I blend 
Low  things  with  lofty)  I too  shall  be  doomed 
To  outlive  the  kindly  use  and  fair  esteem 
Of  the  poor  calling  which  my  Youth  embraced 
With  no  unworthy  prospect.  But  enough; 

— Thoughts  crowd  upon  me  — and  'twere  seemlier 

now 

To  slop,  and  yield  our  gracious  Teacher  thanks 
For  the  pathetic  Records  which  his  voice 
Hath  here  delivered ; words  of  heartfelt  truth. 
Tending  to  patience  when  Affliction  strikes ; 

To  hope  and  love;  to  confident  repose 
In  God ; and  reverence  for  the  dust  of  Man.” 


THE  EXCURSION. 


BOOK  THE  EIGHTH. 
THE  PARSONAGE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Pastor’s  apprehensions  that  he  might  have  detained  his  Auditors  too  long  — Invitation  to  his  House  — Solitary  dis- 
inclined to  comply  — rallies  the  Wanderer ; and  somewhat  playfully  draws  a comparison  between  his  itinerant 
profession  and  that  of  the  Knight-errant  — which  leads  to  Wanderer’s  giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the  Country 
&om  the  manufacturing  spirit  — Favourable  effects  — The  other  side  of  the  picture,  and  chiefly  as  it  has  affected  the 
humbler  classes — Wanderer  asserts  the  hollowness  of  all  national  grandeur  if  unsupported  by  moral  worth  — gives 
Instances— Physical  science  unable  to  support  itself— Lamentations  over  an  excess  of  manufacturing  industry  among 
the  humbler  Classes  of  Society  — Picture  of  a Child  employed  in  a Cotton-mill  — Ignorance  and  degradation  of 
Children  among  the  agricultural  Population  reviewed  — Conversation  broken  off  by  a renewed  Invitation  fntra  the 
Pastor  — Path  leading  to  his  House  — Its  appearance  described  : — His  Daughter  — His  wife  — His  Son  (a  Boy)  enters 
with  his  Companion  — Their  happy  appearance  — The  Wanderer  how  affected  by  the  sight  of  them. 


The  pensive  Sceptic  of  the  lonely  Vale 
To  those  acknowledgments  subscribed  his  own, 
With  a sedate  compliance,  which  the  Priest 
Failed  not  to  notice,  inly  pleased,  and  said. 


“If  Ye,  by  whom  invited  I commenced 
These  narratives  of  calm  and  humble  life. 
Be  satisfied,  ’tis  well,  — the  end  is  gained; 
And,  in  return  for  sympathy  bestowed 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G25 


And  patient  listening,  thanks  accept  from  me. 

- Life,  Death,  Eternity  ! momentous  themes 
Are  they  — and  might  demand  a Seraph’s  tongue, 
Were  tliey  not  equal  to  their  own  support; 

And  therefore  no  incompetence  of  mine 
Could  do  tliem  wrong  The  universal  forms 
Of  human  nature,  in  a Spot  like  this. 

Present  themselves  at  once  to  all  Men’s  view; 

Ve  wished  for  act  and  circumstance,  that  make 
The  Individual  known  and  understood  ; 

And  such  as  my  best  judgment  could  select 
From  what  the  place  afforded  have  been  given ; 
Though  apprehensions  crossed  me  that  my  zeal 
To  his  might  well  be  likened,  who  unlocks 
A Cabinet  with  gems  or  pictures  stored, 

And  draws  them  forth  — soliciting  regard 
To  this,  and  this,  as  worthier  than  the  last. 

Till  the  Spectator,  who  awhile  was  pleased 
More  than  the  Exhibitor  himself,  becomes 
Weary  and  faint,  and  longs  to  be  released. 

— But  let  us  hence  ! my  Dwelling  is  in  sight. 

And  there — ” 

At  this  the  Solitary  shrunk 
With  backward  will ; but,  wanting  not  address 
That  inward  motion  to  disguise,  he  said 
To  his  Compatriot,  smiling  as  he  spake; 

— “ The  peaceable  Remains  of  this  good  Knight 
Would  be  disturbed,  I fear,  with  wrathful  scorn. 

If  consciousness  could  reach  him  where  he  lies 
That  One,  albeit  of  these  degenerate  times. 
Deploring  changes  past,  or  dreading  change 
Foreseen,  had  dared  to  couple,  even  in  thought, 

The  fine  Vocation  of  the  sword  and  lance 
With  the  gross  aims  and  body-bending  toil 
Of  a poor  Brotherhood  who  walk  the  earth 
pitied,  and  where  they  are  not  known,  despised. 

— Yet,  by  the  good  Knight’s  leave,  the  two  Estates 
Are  graced  with  some  resemblance.  Errant  those. 
Exiles  and  Wanderers  — and  the  like  are  these; 
Who, 'with  their  burthen,  traverse  hill  and  dale, 
Carrying  relief  for  Nature’s  simple  wants, 

— What  though  no  higher  recompense  they  seek 
Than  honest  maintenance,  by  irksome  toil 
Full  oft  procured,  yet  Such  may  claim  respect. 
Among  the  Intelligent,  for  what  this  course 
Enables  them  to  be,  and  to  perform. 

Their  tardy  steps  give  leisure  to  observe. 

While  solitude  permits  the  mind  to  feel ; 

Instructs  and  prompts  her  to  supply  defects 
By  the  division  of  her  inward  self. 

For  grateful  converse:  and  to  these  poor  Men 
(As  I have  heard  you  boast  with  honest  pride) 
Nature  is  bountiful,  where’er  they  go; 

Kind  Nature’s  various  wealth  is  all  their  own. 
Versed  in  the  characters  of  men  ; and  bound. 

By  ties  of  daily  interest,  to  maintain 
Conciliatory  manners  and  smooth  speech ; 


Such  have  been,  and  still  are  in  their  degree. 

Examples  efficacious  to  refine 

Rude  intercourse;  apt  Agents  to  expel. 

By  importation  of  unlooked-for  Arts, 

Barbarian  torpor,  and  blind  prejudice ; 

Raising,  through  just  gradation,  savage  life 
To  rustic,  and  tlie  rustic  to  urbane. 

— Within  their  moving  magazines  is  lodged 
Power  that  comes  forth  to  quicken  and  e.xalt 
Affections  seated  in  the  Mother’s  breast. 

And  in  the  lover’s  fancy ; and  to  feed 
The  sober  sympathies  of  long-tried  Friends. 

— By  these  Itinerants,  as  experienced  Men, 

Counsel  is  given  ; contention  they  appease 
With  gentle  language;  in  remotest  Wilds, 

Tears  wipe  away,  and  pleasant  tidings  bring; 

Could  the  proud  quest  of  Chivalry  do  morel” 

“Happy,”  rejoined  the  Wanderer,  “ they  who  gain 
A panegyric  from  your  generous  tongue ! 

But,  if  to  these  Wayfarers  once  pertained 
Aught  of  romantic  interest,  ’t  is  gone  ; 

Their  purer  service,  in  this  realm  at  least, 

Is  past  for  ever.  — An  inventive  Age 
Has  wrought,  if  not  with  speed  of  magic,  yet 
To  most  strange  issues.  I have  lived  to  mark 
A new  and  unforeseen  Creation  rise 
From  out  the  labours  of  a peaceful  Land, 

Wielding  her  potetit  Enginery  to  frame 
And  to  produce,  wfith  appetite  as  keen 
As  that  of  War,  which  rests  not  night  or  day. 
Industrious  to  destroy  ! With  fruitless  pains 
Might  one  like  me  now  visit  many  a tract 
Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod,  and  trod  again, 

A lone  Pedestrian  with  a scanty  freight. 

Wished  for,  or  welcome,  wheresoe’er  he  came. 
Among  the  Tenantry  of  Thorpe  and  Vill ; 

Or  straggling  Burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud. 

And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 
Of  some  stern  Castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 
Of  a green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 

The  foot-path  faintly  marked,  the  horse-track  wild. 
And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 

(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 
Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place) 

Have  vanished,  — swallowed  up  by  stately  roads 
Easy  and  bold,  that  penetrate  the  gloom 
Of  Britain’s  farthest  Glens.  The  Earth  has  lent 
Her  waters.  Air  her  breezes  ;*  and  the  Sail 

* In  treating  this  subject,  it  was  impossible  not  to  recollect, 
with  gratijude,  the  pleasing  picture,  which,  in  his  Poem  of  the 
Fleece,  the  excellent  and  amiable  Dyer  has  given  of  the  inHu- 
ences  of  manufacturing  industry  upon  the  face  of  this  Island, 
lie  wrote  at  a time  when  machinery  was  first  beginning  to  be 
introduced,  and  his  benevolent  heart  prompted  him  to  augur 
from  it  nothing  but  good.  Truth  has  compelled  me  todvxell 
upon  the  baneful  effects  arising  out  of  an  ill-regulated  and 
excessive  application  of  powers  so  admirable  in  themselves. 

53 


6-26 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Of  traffic  glides  with  ceaseless  interchange, 
Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale, 

Or  on  the  naked  mountain’s  lofty  side. 

Meanwhile,  at  social  Industry’s  command. 

How  quick,  how  vast  an  increase  ! From  the  germ 
Of  some  poor  Hamlet,  rapidly  produced 
Here  a huge  Town,  continuous  and  compact. 

Hiding  the  face  of  earth  for  leagues — and  there. 
Where  not  a Habitation  stood  before, 

Abodes  of  men  irregularly  massed 

Like  trees  in  forests,  spread  through  spacious  tracts. 

O’er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  fires 

Hangs  permanent  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 

Of  vapour  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 

And,  wheresoe’er  the  Traveller  turns  his  steps. 

He  secs  the  barren  wilderness  erased. 

Or  disappearing;  triumph  that  proclaims 
How  much  the  mild  Directress  of  the  plough 
Owes  to  alliance  with  these  new-born  Arts! 

— Hence  is  the  wide  Sea  peopled,  hence  the  Shores 
Of  Britain  are  resorted  to  by  Ships 
Freighted  from  every  climate  of  the  world 
With  the  world’s  choicest  produce.  Hence  that  sum 
Of  Keels  that  rest  within  her  crowded  ports 
Or  ride  at  anchor  in  her  sounds  and  bays; 

That  animating  spectacle  of  Sails 
Which,  through  her  inland  regions,  to  and  fro 
Pass  with  the  respirations  of  the  tide. 

Perpetual,  multitudinous  I Finally, 

Hence  a dread  arm  of  floating  Power,  a voice 
Of  Thunder  daunting  those  who  would  approach 
With  hostile  purposes  the  blessed  Isle, 

Truth’s  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 
Impregnable  of  Liberty  and  Peace. 

“ And  yet,  O happy  Pastor  of  a Flock 

Faithfully  watched,  and,  by  that  loving  care 

And  Heaven’s  good  providence,  preserved  from  taint! 

With  You  I grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 

Of  this  great  change  I look  ; and  there  behold 

Such  outrage  done  to  Nature  as  compels 

The  indignant  Power  to  justify  herself; 

Yea,  to  avenge  her  violated  rights. 

For  England’s  bane.  — When  soothing  darkness  spreads 
O’er  hill  and  vale,”  the  Wanderer  thus  expressed 
His  recollections,  “and  the  punctual  stars. 

While  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes. 
Advance,  and  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Glitter  — but  undisturbing,  undisturbed; 

As  if  their  silent  company  were  charged 
With  peaceful  admonitions  for  the  heart 
Of  all-beholding  Man,  earth’s  thoughtful  Lord  ; 

Then,  in  full  many  a region,  once  like  this 
I'he  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 
And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light 
Prepared  for  never-resting  Labour’s  eyes. 

Breaks  from  a many-windowed  Fabric  huge; 

And  at  the  appointed  houE.,4  bell  is  heard. 


Of  harsher  import  than  the  Curfew-knoll 

That  spake  the  Norman  Conqueror’s  stern  behest  — 

A local  summons  to  unceasing  toil ! 

Disgorged  are  now  the  ministers  of  day; 

And,  as  they  issue  from  the  illumined  Pile, 

A fresh  Band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door  — 

And  in  the  courts  — and  where  the  rumbling  Stream, 


Glares,  like  a troubled  Spirit,  in  its  bed 
Among  the  rocks  below.  Men,  Maidens,  Youths, 
Mother,  and  little  Children,  Boys  and  Girls, 
Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 
Within  this  Temple,  where  is  offered  up 
To  Gain  — the  master  Idol  of  the  Realm  — 
Perpetual  sacrifice.  Even  thus  of  old 
Our  Ancestors,  within  the  still  domain 
Of  vast  Cathedral  or  Conventual  Church, 

Their  vigils  kept ; where  tapers  day  and  night 
On  the  dim  altar  burned  continually. 

In  token  that  the  House  was  evermore 
Watching  to  God.  Religious  Men  were  they; 
Nor  would  their  Reason,  tutored  to  aspire 
Above  this  transitory  world,  allow 
That  there  should  pass  a moment  of  the  year. 
When  in  their  land  the  Almighty  Service  ceased. 


“ Triumph  who  will  in  these  profaner  rites 
Which  We,  a generation  self-extolled. 

As  zealously  perform  ! I cannot  share 
His  proud  complacency  ; yet  I exult. 

Casting  reserve  away,  exult  to  see 
An  Intellectual  mastery  exercised 
O’er  the  blind  Elements ; a purpose  given, 

A perseverance  fed  ; almost  a soul 
[ Imparted  — to  brute  Matter.  I rejoice. 

Measuring  the  force  of  those  gigantic  powers. 

That  by  the  thinking  Mind  have  been  compelled 
To  serve  the  will  of  feeble-bodied  Man. 

For  with  the  sense  of  admiration  blends 
The  animating  liope  that  time  may  come 
Wlien,  strengthened,  yet  not  dazzled,  by  the  might 
Of  this  dominion  over  Nature  gained. 

Men  of  all  lands  shall  exercise  the  same 
In  due  proportion  to  their  Country’s  need; 
Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  glory  rests, 

.Ml  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness. 

Upon  the  moral  law.  Egyptian  Thebes, 

Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves, 
Palmyra,  central  in  the  Desert,  fell ; 

And  the  Arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 
— Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  Tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanished  Syracuse, 

And  feelingly  the  Sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself. 

Is  the  Philosophy,  whoso  sway  depends 
On  mere  material  instruments ; — how  weak 
Those  Arts,  and  high  Inventions,  if  unpropped 


THE  EXCURSION. 


By  Virtue.  — lie  with  sighs  of  pensive  grief, 

Amid  his  calm  abstractions,  would  admit 
That  not  the  slender  privilege  is  tiieirs 
To  save  themselves  from  blank  forgetfulness !” 

When  from  the  Wanderer’s  lips  these  words  had  fallen, 
I said,  “And,  did  in  truth  these  vaunted  Arts 
Possess  such  privilege,  how  could  we  escape 
Regret  and  painful  sadness,  who  revere. 

And  would  preserve  as  things  above  all  price. 

The  old  domestic  morals  of  the  land. 

Her  simple  manners,  and  the  stable  worth 
That  dignified  and  cheered  a low  estate? 

Oh  ! where  is  now  the  character  of  peace. 

Sobriety,  and  order,  and  chaste  love. 

And  honest  dealing,  and  untainted  speech, 

And  pure  good-will,  and  hospitable  cheer; 

Tliat  made  the  very  thought  of  Country-life 
A thought  of  refuge,  for  a Mind  detained 
Reluctantly  amid  the  bustling  crowd? 

Where  now  the  beauty  of  the  Sabbath,  kept 
With  conscientious  reverence,  as  a day 
By  the  Almighty  Lawgiver  pronounced 
Holy  and  blest?  and  where  the  winning  grace 
Of  all  the  lighter  ornaments  attaclied 
To  time  and  season,  as  the  year  rolled  round  ?’’ 

“ Fled  !”  was  the  W anderer’s  passionate  response, 

“ Fled  utterly  ! or  only  to  be  traced 
In  a few  fortunate  Retreats  like  this; 

Which  I behold  with  trembling,  when  I think 
What  lamentable  change,  a year  — a month  — 

May  bring  ; that  Brook  converting  as  it  runs 
Into  an  Instrument  of  deadly  bane 
For  those,  who,  yet  untempted  to  forsake 
The  simple  occupations  of  their  Sires, 

Drink  the  pure  water  of  its  innocent  stream 
With  lip  almost  as  pure.  — Domestic  bliss, 

(Or  call  it  comfort,  by  a humbler  name,) 

How  art  thou  blighted  for  the  poor  Man’s  heart ! 

Lo ! in  such  neighbourhood,  from  morn  to  eve. 

The  Habitations  empty  ! or  perchance 
The  Mother  left  alone,  — no  helping  hand 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  her  peevish  babe ; 

No  daughters  round  her,  busy  at  the  wheel. 

Or  in  dispatch  of  each  day’s  little  growth 
Of  household  occupation  ; no  nice  arts 
Of  needle-work  ; no  bustle  at  the  fire, 

Where  once  the  dinner  was  prepared  with  pride  ; 
Nothing  to  speed  the  day,  or  ciieer  the  mind  ; 

Nothing  to  praise,  to  teach,  or  to  command  ! 

— The  Father,  if  perchance  he  still  retain 
His  old  employments,  goes  to  field  or  wood. 

No  longer  led  or  followed  by  the  Sons; 

Idlers  perchance  they  were,  — but  in  his  sight ; 
Breathing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth; 

Till  their  short  holiday  of  childhood  ceased. 


Ne’er  to  return  ! That  birthright  now  is  lost. 
Economists  will  tell  you  that  the  State 
Thrives  by  the  forfeiture  — unfeeling  thought. 

And  false  as  monstrous!  Can  the  Mother  thrive 
By  the  destruction  of  her  innocent  Sons  ? 

In  whom  a premature  Necessity 

Blocks  out  the  forms  of  Nature,  preconsumes 

The  reason,  famishes  the  heart  shuts  up 

The  Infant  Being  in  itself,  and  makes 

Its  very  spring  a season  of  decay ! 

The  lot  is  wretched,  the  condition  sad, 

VV’hether  a pining  discontent  survive, 

And  thirst  for  change;  or  habit  hath  subdued 
The  soul  depre.st,  dejected  — even  to  love 
Of  her  dull  tasks,  and  close  captivity. 

— Oh,  banish  far  such  wisdom  as  condemns 
A native  Briton  to  tliese  inward  chains, 

Fixed  in  his  soul,  so  early  and  so  deep, 

Without  his  own  consent,  or  knowledge,  fixed  ! 
He  is  a Slave  to  whom  release  comes  not. 

And  cannot  come.  The  Boy,  where’er  he  turns. 
Is  still  a prisoner;  when  the  wind  is  up 
Among  the  clouds  and  in  the  ancient  woods; 

Or  when  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  east. 

Quiet  and  calm.  Behold  him  — in  the  school 
Of  his  attainments?  no;  but  with  the  air 
Fanning  his  temples  under  heaven’s  blue  arch. 

His  raiment,  whitened  o’er  with  cotton  flakes. 

Or  locks  of  wool,  announces  whence  he  comes. 
Creeping  his  gait  and  cowering  — his  lip  pale  — 
His  respiration  quick  and  audible; 

And  scarcely  could  you  fancy  that  a gleam 
From  out  those  languid  eyes  could  break,  or  blush 
Mantle  upon  his  cheek.  Is  this  the  form. 

Is  that  the  countenance,  and  such  the  port. 

Of  no  mean  being?  One  who  should  be  clothed 
With  dignity  befitting  his  proud  hope ; 

Who,  in  his  very  childhood,  should  appear 
Sublime  — from  present  purity  and  joy  I 
The  limbs  increase,  but  liberty  of  mind 
Is  gone  for  ever ; this  organic  Frame, 

So  joyful  in  her  motions,  is  become 
Dull,  to  the  joy  of  her  own  motions  dead  ; 

And  even  the  Touch,  so  exquisitely  poured 
Through  the  whole  body,  with  a languid  Will 
Performs  her  functions ; rarely  competent 
To  impress  a vivid  feeling  on  the  mind 
Of  what  there  is  delightful  in  the  breeze. 

The  gentle  visitations  of  the  sun, 

Or  lapse  of  liquid  element  — by  hand. 

Or  foot,  or  lip,  in  summer’s  warmth  — perceived. 

— Can  hope  look  forward  to  a manhood  raised 
On  such  foundations?’’ 

“ Hope  is  none  for  him  !’’ 
The  pale  Recluse  indignantly  exclaimed, 

“ And  tens  of  thousands  suffer  wrong  as  deep. 

Yet  be  it  asked,  in  justice  to  our  age. 


628 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


If  there  were  not,  before  those  Arts  appeared, 

These  structures  rose,  commingling  old  and  young, 
And  unripe  sex  with  sex,  for  mutual  taint ; 

Then,  if  there  were  not,  in  our  far-famed  Isle, 
Multitudes,  who  from  infancy  had  breathed 
Air  unimprisoned,  and  had  lived  at  large ; 

Yet  walked  beneath  the  sun,  in  human  shape. 

As  abject,  as  degraded  ? At  this  day. 

Who  shall  enumerate  the  crazy  huts 
And  tottering  hovels,  whence  do  issue  forth 
A ragged  Offspring,  with  their  own  blanched  hair 
Crowned  like  the  image  of  fantastic  Fear; 

Or  wearing,  we  might  say,  in  that  white  growth 
An  ill-adjusted  turban,  for  defence 
Or  fierceness,  wreathed  around  their  sun-burnt  brows. 
By  savage  Nature’s  unassisted  care. 

Naked,  and  coloured  like  the  soil,  the  feet 
On  which  they  stand ; as  if  thereby  tliey  drew 
Some  nourishment,  as  Trees  do  by  their  roots, 

From  Earth  the  common  Mother  of  us  all. 

Figure  and  mien,  complexion  and  attire, 

Are  leagued  to  strike  dismay,  but  outstretched  hand 
And  whining  voice  denote  them  Supplicants 
For  the  least  boon  that  pity  can  bestow. 

Such  on  the  breast  of  darksome  heaths  are  found ; 

And  with  their  Parents  dwell  upon  the  skirts 
Of  furze-clad  commons  ; such  are  born  and  reared 
At  the  mine’s  mouth,  beneath  impending  rocks. 

Or  in  the  chambers  of  some  natural  cave  ; 

And  where  their  Ancestors  erected  huts. 

For  the  convenience  of  unlawful  gain. 

In  forest  purlieus;  and  the  like  are  bred, 

All  England  through,  where  nooks  and  slips  of  ground. 
Purloined,  in  times  less  jealous  than  our  own. 

From  the  green  margin  of  the  public  way, 

A residence  afford  them,  ’mid  the  bloom 
And  gaiety  of  cultivated  fields. 

— Such  (we  will  hope  the  lowest  in  the  scale) 

Do  I remember  ofl-times  to  have  seen 

’Mid  Buxton’s  dreary  heights.  Upon  the  watch. 

Till  the  swift  vehicle  approach,  they  stand  ; 

Then,  following  closely  with  the  cloud  of  dust. 

An  uncouth  feat  exliibit,  and  are  gone 
Heels  over  head,  like  Tumblers  on  a Stage. 

— Up  from  the  ground  they  snatch  the  copper  coin. 
And,  on  the  freight  of  merry  Passengers 

Fixing  a steady  eye,  maintain  their  speed ; 

And  spin  — and  pant  — and  overhead  again. 

Wild  Pursuivants!  until  their  breath  is  lost. 

Or  bounty  tires  — and  every  face,  that  smiled 
Encouragement,  hath  ceased  to  look  that  way. 

— But,  like  the  Vagrants  of  the  Gipsy  tribe. 

These,  bred  to  little  pleasure  in  themselves, 

Are  profitless  to  others.  Turn  we  then 

To  Britons  born  and  bred  within  the  pale 
Of  civil  polity,  and  early  trained 
To  earn,  by  wholesome  labour  in  the  field. 


The  bread  they  eat.  A sample  should  I give 
Of  what  this  stock  produces  to  enrich 
The  tender  age  of  life,  ye  would  exclaim, 

‘Is  this  the  whistling  Plough-boy  whose  shrill  notes 
Impart  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air !’ 

Forgive  me  if  I venture  to  suspect 
That  many,  sweet  to  hear  of  in  soft  verse. 

Are  of  no  finer  frame  : — his  joints  are  stiff ; 

Beneath  a cumbrous  frock,  that  to  the  knees 
Invests  the  thriving  Churl,  his  legs  appear. 

Fellows  to  those  that  lustily  upheld 
The  wooden  stools  for  everlasting  use. 

Whereon  our  Fathers  sate.  And  mark  bis  brow ! 
Under  whose  shaggy  canopy  are  set 
Two  eyes,  not  dim,  but  of  a healthy  stare; 

Wide,  sluggish,  blank,  and  ignorant,  and  strange ; 
Proclaiming  boldly  that  they  never  drew 
A look  or  motion  of  intelligence 
From  infant  conning  of  the  Christ-cross-row, 

Or  puzzling  through  a Primer,  line  by  line. 

Till  perfect  mastery  crown  the  pains  at  last. 

— What  kindly  warmth  from  touch  of  fostering  hand 
What  penetrating  power  of  sun  or  breeze. 

Shall  e’er  dissolve  the  crust  wherein  his  soul 
Sleeps,  like  a caterpillar  sheathed  in  ice  I 
This  torpor  is  no  pitiable  work 
Of  modern  ingenuity  ; no  Town 
Nor  crowded  City  may  be  taxed  with  aught 
Of  sottish  vice  or  desperate  breach  of  law. 

To  which  in  after  years  he  may  be  roused. 

— This  Boy  the  Fields  produce:  his  spade  and  hoe — 
The  Carter’s  whip  that  on  his  shoulder  rests 
In  air  high-towering  with  a boorish  pomp. 

The  sceptre  of  his  sway  ; his  Country’s  name. 

Her  equal  right  her  churches  and  her  schools  — 
What  have  they  done  for  him  T And,  let  me  ask, 

For  tens  of  thousands  uninformed  as  he? 

In  brief,  what  liberty  of  mind  is  herel” 

This  ardent  sally  pleased  the  mild  good  Man, 

To  whom  the  appeal  couched  in  its  closing  words 
Was  pointedly  addressed ; and  to  the  thoughts 
That,  in  assent  or  opposition,  rose 
Within  his  mind,  he  seemed  prepared  to  give 
Prompt  utterance;  but,  rising  from  our  seat. 

The  hospitable  Vicar  interposed 
With  invitation  urgently  renewed. 

— We  followed,  taking  as  he  led,  a Path 
Along  a hedge  of  hollies,  dark  and  tall. 

Whose  flexile  boughs,  descending  with  a weight 
Of  leafy  spray,  concealed  the  stems  and  roots 
That  gave  them  nourishment.  When  frosty  winds 
Howl  from  the  north,  what  kindly  warmth,  methought 
Is  here,  how  grateful  this  impervious  screen  ! 

Not  shaped  by  simple  wearing  of  the  foot 
On  rural  business  passing  to  and  fro 
Was  the  commodious  M'alk ; a careful  hand 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G29 


Had  marked  the  line,  and  strewn  the  surface  o’er 
With  pure  cerulean  gravel,  from  the  heights 
Fetched  by  the  neighbouring  brook. — Across  the  Vale 
The  stately  Fence  accompanied  our  steps ; 

And  thus  the  Pathway,  by  perennial  green 
Guarded  and  graced,  seemed  fashioned  to  unite. 

As  by  a beautiful  yet  solemn  chain, 

The  Pastor’s  Mansion  with  the  House  of  Prayer. 


Like  Image  of  solemnity,  conjoined 
With  feminine  allurement  soft  and  fair. 

The  Mansion’s  seif  displayed;  — a reverend  Pile 
With  bold  projections  and  recesses  deep ; 

Shadowy,  yet  gay  and  lightsome  as  it  stood 
Fronting  the  noontide  Sun.  We  paused  to  admire 
The  pillared  Porch,  elaborately  embossed ; 

The  low  wide  windows  with  their  mullions  old; 

The  cornice  richly  fretted,  of  gray  stone; 

And  that  smooth  slope  from  which  the  Dwelling  rose. 
By  beds  and  banks  Arcadian  of  gay  Rowers 
And  flowering  shrubs,  protected  and  adorned ; 
Profusion  bright!  and  every  flower  assuming 
A more  than  natural  vividness  of  hue. 

From  unaffected  contrast  with  the  gloom 
Of  sober  cypress,  and  the  darker  foil 
Of  yew,  in  which  survived  some  traces,  here 
Not  unbecoming,  of  grotesque  device 
And  uncouth  fancy.  From  behind  the  roof 
Rose  the  slim  ash  and  massy  sycamore. 

Blending  their  diverse  foliage  with  the  green 
Of  ivy,  flourishing  and  thick,  that  clasped 
The  huge  round  chimneys,  harbour  of  delight 
For  wren  and  redbreast,  — where  they  sit  and  sing 
Their  slender  ditties  when  the  trees  are  bare. 

Nor  must  I leave  untouched  (the  picture  else 
Were  incomplete)  a relique  of  old  times 
Happily  spared,  a little  Gothic  niche 
Of  nicest  workmanship;  that  once  had  held 
The  sculptured  Image  of  some  Patron  Saint, 

Or  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  looking  down 
On  all  who  entered  those  religious  doors. 

But  lo!  where  from  the  rocky  garden  Mount 
Crowned  by  its  antique  summer-house  — descends. 
Light  as  the  silver  fawn,  a radiant  Girl ; 

For  she  hath  recognized  her  honoured  Friend, 

The  Wanderer  ever  welcome ! A prompt  kiss 
The  gladsome  Child  bestows  at  his  request ; 

And,  up  the  flowery  lawn  as  we  advance, 

Hangs  on  the  Old  Man  with  a happy  look, 

And  with  a pretty  restless  hand  of  love. 

— We  enter  — by  the  Lady  of  the  Place 
Cordially  greeted.  Graceful  was  her  port: 

A lofty  stature  undepressed  by  Time, 

Whose  visitation  had  not  wholly  spared 
The  finer  lineaments  of  form  and  face ; 

To  that  complexion  brouglit  which  prudence  trusts  in 
And  wisdom  loves.  — But  whe.u  a stately  Ship 


Sails  in  smooth  weather  by  the  placid  coast 
On  homeward  voyage,  what  — if  wind  and  wave 
And  hardship  undergone  in  various  climes, 

Have  caused  her  to  abate  the  virgin  pride. 

And  that  full  trim  of  inexperienced  hope 
With  which  she  left  her  haven  — not  for  this. 
Should  the  sun  strike  her,  and  the  impartial  breeze 
Play  on  her  streamers,  fails  she  to  assume 
Brightness  and  touching  beauty  of  her  own. 

That  charm  all  eyes.  So  bright,  so  fair,  appeared 
This  goodly  Matron,  shining  in  the  beams 
Of  unexpected  pleasure.  Soon  the  board 
Was  spread,  and  we  partook  a plain  repast. 


Here,  resting  in  cool  shelter,  we  beguiled 
The  mid-day  hours  with  desultory  talk; 

From  trivial  then)es  to  general  argument 
Passing,  as  accident  or  fancy  led. 

Or  courtesy  prescribed.  While  question  rose 
And  answer  flowed,  the  fetters  of  reserve 
Dropping  from  every  mind,  the  Solitary 
Resumed  the  manners  of  his  happier  days; 

And,  in  the  various  conversation,  bore 
A willing,  nay,  at  times,  a forward  part ; 

Yet  with  the  grace  of  one  who  in  the  world 
Had  learned  the  art  of  pleasing,  and  had  now 
Occasion  given  him  to  display  his  skill. 

Upon  the  steadfast  ’vantage  ground  of  truth. 

He  gazed  with  admiration  unsuppressed 
Upon  the  landscape  of  the  sun-bright  vale. 

Seen,  from  the  shady  room  in  which  we  sate. 

In  softened  perspective;  and  more  than  once 
Praised  the  consummate  harmony  serene 
Of  gravity  and  elegance  — diffused 
Around  the  Mansion  and  its  whole  domain ; 

Not,  doubtless,  without  help  of  female  taste 
And  female  care. — “A  blessed  lot  is  yours!” 

The  words  escaped  his  lip  with  a tender  sigh 
Breathed  over  them ; but  suddenly  the  door 
Flew  open,  and  a pair  of  lusty  Boys 
Appeared  — confusion  checking  their  delight. 

— Not  Brothers  they  in  feature  or  attire. 

But  fond  Companions,  so  I guessed,  in  field. 

And  by  the  river’s  margin  — whence  they  come. 
Anglers  elated  with  unusual  spoil. 

One  bears  a wiliow'-pannier  on  his  back. 

The  Boy  of  plainer  garb,  whose  blush  survives 
More  deeply  tinged.  Twin  might  the  other  be 
To  that  fair  Girl  who  from  the  garden  Mount 
Bounded  — triumphant  entry  this  for  him! 

Between  his  hands  he  holds  a smooth  blue  stone, 

On  whose  capacious  surface  see  outspread 
Large  store  of  gleaming  crimson-spotted  trouts; 
Ranged  side  by  side,  and  lessening  by  degrees 
Up  to  the  Dwarf  that  tope  the  pinnacle. 

Upon  the  Board  he  lays  the  sky-blue  stone 

With  its  rich  freight;  — their  number  he  proclaims; 

Tells  from  what  pool  the  noblest  had  been  dragged . 


630 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


And  where  the  very  monarch  of  the  brook, 
After  long  struggle,  had  escaped  at  last  — 
Stealing  alternately  at  them  and  us 
(As  doth  his  Comrade  too)  a look  of  pride ; 

And,  verily,  the  silent  Creatures  made 
A splendid  sight,  together  thus  exposed  ; 

Dead  — but  not  sullied  or  deformed  by  Death, 
That  seemed  to  pity  what  he  could  not  spare. 

But  O,  the  animation  in  the  mien 
Of  those  two  Boys!  Yea  in  the  very  w’ords 
With  which  the  young  Narrator  was  inspired, 
W'hen,  as  our  questions  led,  he  told  at  large 
Of  that  day’s  prowess!  Him  might  I compare, 
His  look,  tones,  gestures,  eager  eloquence. 

To  a bold  Brook  that  splits  for  better  speed. 
And,  at  the  self-same  moment,  works  its  way 
Through  many  channels,  ever  and  anon 
Parted  and  reunited  : his  Compeer 
To  the  still  Lake,  whose  stillness  is  to  sight 


As  beautiful,  as  grateful  to  the  mind. 

— But  to  what  object  shall  the  lovely  Girl 
Be  likened  1 She  whose  countenance  and  air 
Unite  the  graceful  qualities  of  both. 

Even  as  she  shares  the  pride  and  joy  of  both. 

My  gray-haired  Friend  was  moved  ; his  vivid  eye 
Glistened  with  tenderness;  his  Mind,  I knewq 
Was  full ; and  had,  I doubted  not,  returned. 

Upon  this  impulse,  to  the  theme  erewhile 
Abruptly  broken  off.  I'lie  ruddy  Boys 
Withdrew,  on  summons  to  their  well-earned  meal ; 
And  He  — (to  whom  all  tongues  resigned  their  rights 
With  willingness,  to  whom  the  general  ear 
Listened  with  readier  patience  than  to  strain 
Of  music,  lute  or  harp,  — a long  delight 
That  ceased  not  when  his  voice  had  ceased)  as  One 
Who  from  truth’s  central  point  serenely  views 
The  compass  of  his  argument  — began 
Mildly,  and  with  a clear  and  steady  tone. 


THE  EXCURSION. 


BOOK  THE  NINTH. 

DISCOURSE  OF  THE  WANDERER,  AND  AN  EVENING 
VISIT  TO  THE  LAKE. 


ARGUMENT. 

Wanderer  asserts  that  an  active  principle  pervades  the  Universe.  — Its  noblest  seat  the  htiinan  soul  — How  lively 
this  principle  is  in  Childliood  — lienee  the  delight  in  Old  Age  of  looking  back  upon  Childhood  — The  dignity, 
powers,  and  privileges  of  Age  asserted  — These  not  to  be  looked  for  generally  but  under  a just  government  — IliglU 
of  a human  Creature  to  be  exempt  from  being  considered  as  a mere  Instrument — Vicious  inclinations  are  best  kept 
under  by  giving  good  ones  an  0|)portunity  to  show  themselves  — Tlie  condition  of  multitudes  deplored,  from  want 
of  due  respect  to  this  truth  on  the  part  of  their  superiors  in  society.  — Fortner  conversation  recurred  to,  and  the 
Wanderer’s  opinions  set  in  a clearer  light — Genuine  principles  of  equality  — Truth  placed  within  reach  of  the 
humblest  — Happy  slate  of  the  two  Boys  again  adverted  to  — Earnest  wish  expressed  for  a System  of  National  Edu- 
cation established  universally  by  Government  — Glorious  effects  of  this  foretold  — U’anderer  brcalis  off — Walk  to 
the  Lake  — embark  — Description  of  scenery  and  amusements — Grand  spectacle  from  the  side  of  a hill  — .address 
of  Priest  to  the  Supreme  Being  — In  the  course  of  which  he  contrasts  with  ancient  Barbarism  the  present  appears 
ance  of  the  scene  before  him  — The  change  ascribed  to  Christianity  — Apostrophe  to  his  Flock,  living  and  dead  — 
Gratitude  to  the  Almiglity  — Return  over  tlie  Lalte  — Parting  with  the  Solitary  — U nder  what  circmnslaiices. 


“To  every  Form  of  being  is  assigned,” 
Thus  calmly  spake  the  venerable  Sage, 

“ An  active  principle:  — howe’er  removed 
From  sense  and  observation,  it  subsists 


In  all  things,  m all  natures,  in  the  stars 
Of  azure  heaven,  the  unenduring  clouds. 

In  flower  and  tree,  in  every  pebbly  stone 
That  paves  the  brooks,  the  stationary  rocks, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G31 


The  moving’  waters,  and  the  invisible  air. 

VVhate’er  exists  hath  properties  that  spread 
Beyond  itself,  coiiununicating  g(xxl, 

A simple  blessing,  or  with  evil  mixed; 

Spirit  that  knows  no  insulated  spot. 

No  chasm,  no  solitude;  from  link  to  link 
It  circulates,  the  Soul  of  all  the  Worlds. 

This  is  the  freedom  of  the  Universe; 

Unfolded  still  the  more,  more  visible. 

The  more  we  know ; and  yet  is  reverenced  least, 
And  least  respected,  in  the  human  Mind, 

Its  most  apparent  home.  The  food  of  hope 
Is  meditated  action  ; robbed  of  this 
Her  sole  support,  she  languishes  and  dies. 

We  perish  also;  for  we  live  by  hope 
And  by  desire;  W’e  see  by  the  glad  light. 

And  breathe  the  sweet  air  of  futurity. 

And  so  we  live,  or  else  we  have  no  life. 

To-morrow  — nay  perchance  this  very  hour, — 

(For  every  moment  hath  its  o.vn  to-morrow !) 

Those  blooming  Boys,  whose  hearts  are  almost  sick 
With  present  triumph,  will  be  sure  to  find 
A field  before  them  freshened  with  the  dew 
Of  other  expectations ; — in  which  course 
Their  happy  year  spins  round.  The  youth  obeys 
A like  glad  impulse ; and  so  moves  the  Man 
’Mid  all  his  apprehensions,  cares,  and  fears,  — 

Or  so  he  ought  to  move.  Ah ! why  in  age 
Do  we  revert  so  fondly  to  the  walks 
Of  Childhood  — but  that  there  the  Soul  discerns 
The  dear  memorial  footsteps  unimpaired 
Of  her  own  native  vigour  — thence  can  hear 
Reverberations  ; and  a choral  song, 

Commingling  with  the  incense  that  ascends 
Undaunted,  tow’rd  the  imperishable  heavens, 

From  her  own  lonely  altar?  — Do  not  think 
That  Good  and  Wise  ever  will  be  allovi'ed, 

Though  strength  decay,  to  breathe  in  such  estate 
As  shall  divide  them  wholly  from  the  stir 
Of  hopeful  nature.  Rightly  is  it  said 
That  Man  descends  into  the  Vale  of  years; 

Yet  have  I thought  that  we  might  also  speak. 

And  not  presumptuously,  I trust,  of  Age, 

As  of  a final  Eminence,  though  bare 
In  aspect  and  forbidding,  yet  a Point 
On  which ’t  is  not  irnpo.ssible  to  sit 
In  awful  sovereignty  — a place  of  power  — 

A Throne,  that  may  be  likened  unto  his, 

Who,  in  some  placid  day  of  summer,  looks 
Down  from  a mountain-top,  — say  one  of  those 
High  Peaks,  that  bound  the  vale  w'here  now  we  are. 
Faint,  and  diminished  to  the  gazing  eye. 

Forest  and  field,  and  hill  and  dale  appear. 

With  all  the  shapes  upon  their  surface  spread; 

But,  while  the  gross  and  visible  frame  of  things 
Relinquishes  its  hold  upon  the  sense. 

Yea  almost  on  the  Mind  herself,  and  seems 


I All  unsubstantialized,  — how  loud  the  voice 
j Of  waters,  with  invigorated  peal 
I From  the  full  River  in  the  vale  below, 

! Ascending!  — For  on  that  superior  height 
Who  sits,  is  disencumbered  from  the  press 
1 Of  near  obstructions,  and  is  privileged 
I To  breathe  in  solitude  above  the  host 
Of  ever-humming  insects,  ’mid  thin  air 
j That  suits  not  them.  The  murmur  of  the  leaves 
j Many  and  idle,  visits  not  his  ear ; 
j This  he  is  freed  from,  and  from  thousand  notes 
j Not  less  unceasing,  not  less  vain  than  these, — 
j By  which  the  finer  passages  of  sense 
Are  occupied ; and  the  Soul,  that  would  incline 
To  listen,  is  prevented  or  deterred. 

“And  may  it  not  be  hoped,  that,  placed  by  Age 
In  like  removal  tranquil  though  severe, 

We  are  not  so  removed  for  utter  loss  ; 

But  for  some  favour,  suited  to  our  need? 

What  more  than  that  tlie  severing  should  confer 
Fresh  power  to  commune  with  the  invisible  world, 
And  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  tendency 
Uttering,  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 

A clear  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 
To  the  vast  multitude ; whose  doom  it  is 
To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight, 

Or  fret  and  labour  on  the  Plain  below. 

“ But,  if  to  such  sublime  ascent  the  hopes 
Of  Man  may  rise,  as  to  a welcome  close 
And  termination  of  his  mortal  course. 

Them  only  can  such  hope  inspire  whose  minds 
Have  not  been  starved  by  absolute  neglect ; 

Nor  bodies  crushed  by  unremitting  toil; 

To  whom  kind  Nature,  therefore,  may  afford 
Proof  of  the  sacred  love  she  bears  for  all ; 

Whose  birthright  Reason,  therefore,  may  ensure. 
For  me,  consulting  what  I feel  within 
In  times  when  most  existence  with  herself 
Is  satisfied,  I cannot  but  believe. 

That,  far  as  kindly  Nature  hath  free  scope 
And  Reason’s  sway  predominates,  even  so  far. 
Country,  society,  and  time  itself. 

That  saps  the  Individual’s  bodily  frame. 

And  lays  the  generations  low  in  dust. 

Do,  by  the  Almiglity  Ruler’s  grace,  partake 
Of  one  maternal  spirit,  bringing  forth 
And  cherishing  with  ever-constant  love, 

That  tires  not,  nor  betrays.  Our  Life  is  turned 
Out  of  her  course,  wherever  Man  is  made 
j An  offering,  or  a sacrifice,  a tool 
Or  implement,  a passive  Thing  employed 
j As  a brute  mean,  without  acknowledgment 
j Of  common  right  or  interest  in  the  end ; 

Used  or  abused,  as  selfishness  may  prompt. 

Say,  what  can  follow  for  a rational  Soul 
1 Perverted  thus,  but  weakness  in  all  good 


632 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  AVORKS. 


And  strength  in  evil  ? Hence  an  afler-call 
For  chastisement,  and  custody,  and  bonds, 

And  oft-times  Death,  avenger  of  the  past, 

And  the  sole  guardian  in  whose  hands  we  dare 
Entrust  the  future.  — Not  for  these  sad  issues 
Was  Man  created  ; but  to  obey  tlie  law 
Of  life,  and  hope,  and  action.  And ’t  is  known 
That  when  we  stand  upon  our  native  soil, 

Unelbowed  by  such  objects  as  oppress 

Our  active  powers,  those  powers  ti>emselves  become 

Strong  to  subvert  our  no.'cious  qualities  : 

They  sweep  distemper  from  the  busy  day. 

And  make  the  Chalice  of  the  big  round  Year 
Run  o’er  with  gladness;  whence  the  Being  moves 
In  beauty  through  the  world ; and  all  who  see 
Bless  him,  rejoicing  in  his  neighbourhood.” 

“ Then,”  said  the  Solitary,  “by  what  force 

Of  language  shall  a feeling  Heart  express 

Her  sorrow  for  that  multitude  in  whom 

We  look  for  health  from  seeds  that  have  been  sown 

In  sickness,  and  for  increase  in  a power 

That  works  but  by  extinction?  On  themselves 

They  cannot  lean,  nor  turn  to  their  own  hearts 

To  know  what  they  must  do;  their  wisdom  is 

To  look  into  the  eyes  of  others,  thence 

To  be  instructed  what  they  must  avoid  : 

Or  rather,  let  us  say,  how  least  observed. 

How  with  most  quiet  and  most  silent  death. 

With  the  least  taint  and  injury  to  the  air 

The  Oppressor  breathes,  their  human  Form  divine. 

And  their  immortal  Soul,  may  waste  away.” 

The  Sage  rejoined,  “ I thank  you  — you  have  spared 
Jly  voice  the  utterance  of  a keen  regret, 

A wide  compassion  which  with  you  I share. 

When,  heretofore,  I placed  before  your  sight 
A Little-one,  subjected  to  the  Arts 
Of  modern  ingenuity,  and  made 
The  senseless  member  of  a vast  machine. 

Serving  as  doth  a spindle  or  a wheel ; 

Think  not,  that,  pitying  him,  I could  forget 
The  rustic  Boy,  who  walks  the  fields,  untaught; 

The  slave  of  ignorance,  and  oft  of  want. 

And  miserable  hunger.  Much,  too  much 
Of  this  unhappy  lot,  in  early  youth 
We  both  have  witnessed,  lot  which  I myself 
Shared,  though  in  mild  and  merciful  degree : 

Yet  was  the  mind  to  hinderanees  exposed. 

Through  which  I struggled,  not  without  distress 
And  sometimes  injury,  like  a Lamb  enthralled 
’Mid  thorns  and  brambles;  or  a Bird  that  breaks 
Through  a strong  net,  and  mounts  upon  tlie  w ind. 
Though  with  her  plumes  impaired.  If  they,  whose  souls 
Should  open  while  they  range  the  richer  fields 
Of  merry  England,  are  obstructed  less 
By  indigence,  their  ignorance  is  not  less. 

Nor  less  to  he  deplored.  For  who  can  doubt 


That  tens  of  thousands  at  this  day  exist 
Such  as  the  Boy  you  painted,  lineal  Heirs 
Of  those  who  once  were  Vassals  of  her  soil. 

Following  its  fortunes  like  the  beasts  or  trees 
Which  it  sustained.  But  no  one  takes  delight 
In  this  oppression;  none  are  proud  of  it; 

It  bears  no  sounding  name,  nor  ever  bore; 

A standing  grievance,  an  indigenous  vice 
Of  every  country  under  heaven.  My  thoughts 
Were  turned  to  evils  that  are  new  and  chosen, 

A Bondage  lurking  under  shape  of  good,  — 

Arts,  in  themselves  beneficent  and  kind. 

But  all  too  fondly  followed  and  too  far; 

To  Victims,  which  the  merciful  can  see 

Nor  think  that  they  are  Victims ; turned  to  wrongs 

By  Women,  who  have  Children  of  their  own. 

Beheld  without  compassion,  yea  with  praise! 

I spake  of  mischief  by  the  wise  diffused 
With  gladness,  thinking  that  the  more  it  spreads 
The  healthier,  the  securer,  we  become; 

Delusion  which  a moment  may  destroy  ! 

Lastly,  I mourned  for  those  whom  I had  seen 
Corrupted  and  cast  down,  on  fevoured  ground. 

Where  circumstance  and  nature  had  combined 
To  shelter  innocence,  and  cherish  love; 

Who,  but  for  this  intrusion,  would  have  lived, 
Possessed  of  health,  and  strength,  and  peace  of  mind. 
Thus  would  have  lived,  or  never  have  been  born. 

“ Alas ! what  differs  more  than  man  from  man  ! 

And  whence  that  difference?  whence  but  from  himself’ 

For  see  the  universal  Race  endowed 

With  the  same  upright  form!  — The  sun  is  fixed, 

And  the  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven, 

Fi.xed  within  reach  of  every  human  eye ; 

The  sleepless  Ocean  murmurs  for  all  ears; 

The  vernal  field  infuses  fresh  delight 

Into  all  hearts.  Throughout  the  world  of  sense. 

Even  as  an  object  is  sublime  or  fair. 

That  object  is  laid  open  to  the  view 
Without  reserve  or  veil;  and  as  a pow'er 
Is  salutary,  or  an  influence  sweet. 

Are  each  and  all  enabled  to  perceive 
That  power,  that  influence,  by  impartial  law. 

Gifts  nobler  are  vouchsafed  alike  to  all ; 

Reason,  — and,  with  that  reason,  smiles  and  tears. 
Imagination,  freedom  in  the  will. 

Conscience  to  guide  and  check ; and  death  to  be 
Foretasted,  immortality  presumed. 

Strange,  then,  nor  less  than  monstrous  might  be  deemed 
The  failure,  if  the  Almighty,  to  this  point 
Liberal  and  undistinguishing,  should  hide 
The  excellence  of  moral  qualities 
From  common  understanding;  leaving  truth 
I And  virtue,  difficult,  abstruse,  and  dark ; 

Hard  to  be  won,  and  only  by  a few  ; 

Strange,  should  He  deal  herein  with  nice  respects, 

1 And  frustrate  all  the  rest ! Believe  it  not : 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G33 


The  primal  duties  shine  alofl  — like  stars; 

The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless, 

Are  scatttered  at  the  feet  of  Man  — like  flowers. 

The  p^'enerous  inclination,  the  just  rule, 

Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts  — 
No  mystery  is  here;  no  special  boon 
For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  graced 
And  not  for  meek  of  heart.  The  smoke  ascends 
To  heaven  as  lightly  from  the  Cottage  hearth 
As  from  the  haughty  palace.  lie,  whose  soul 
Ponders  this  true  equality,  may  walk 
The  fields  of  earth  with  gratitude  and  hope ; 

Yet,  in  that  meditation,  will  he  find 
Motive  to  sadder  grief,  as  we  have  found, — 
Lamenting  ancient  virtues  overthrown. 

And  for  the  injustice  grieving,  that  hath  made 
So  wide  a difference  betwixt  Man  and  Man. 

“ But  let  us  rather  turn  our  gladdened  thoughts 
Upon  the  brighter  scene.  How  blest  that  Pair 
Of  blooming  Boys  (whom  we  beheld  even  now) 

Blest  in  their  several  and  their  common  lot ! 

A few  short  hours  of  each  returning  day 
The  thriving  Prisoners  of  their  Village  school: 

And  thence  let  loose,  to  seek  their  pleasant  homes 
Or  range  the  grassy  lawn  in  vacancy. 

To  breathe  and  to  be  happy,  run  and  shout 
Idle,  — but  no  delay,  no  harm,  no  loss; 

For  every  genial  Power  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Through  all  the  seasons  of  the  changeful  year. 
Obsequiously  doth  take  upon  herself 
To  labour  for  them ; bringing  each  in  turn 
The  tribute  of  enjoyment,  knowledge,  health, ' 
Beauty,  or  strength ! Such  privilege  is  theirs. 
Granted  alike  in  the  outset  of  their  course 
To  both  ; and,  if  that  partnership  must  cease, 

I grieve  not,”  to  the  Pastor  here  he  turned, 

“Much  as  I glory  in  that  Child  of  yours. 

Repine  not,  for  his  Cottage-comrade,  whom 
Belike  no  higher  destiny  awaits 
Than  the  old  hereditary  wish  fulfilled, 

The  wish  for  liberty  to  live  — content 

With  what  Heaven  grants,  and  die — in  peace  of  mind. 

Within  the  bosom  of  his  native  Vale. 

At  least,  whatever  fate  the  noon  of  life 
Reserves  for  either,  this  is  sure,  that  both 
Have  been  permitted  to  enjoy  the  dawn ; 

Whether  regarded  as  a jocund  time. 

That  in  itself  may  terminate,  or  lead 
In  course  of  nature  to  a sober  eve. 

Both  have  been  fairly  dealt  with ; looking,  back 
They  will  allow  that  justice  has  in  them 
Been  shown  — alike  to  body  and  to  mind.” 

He  paused,  as  if  revolving  in  his  soul 

Some  weighty  matter,  then,  with  fervent  voice 

And  an  impassioned  majesty,  exclaimed, 

‘ 0 for  the  condiig  of  that  glorious  time 


When,  prizing  knowled^  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  best  protection,  thisimperial  Realm, 

While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey ; 
Binding  herself  by  Statute*  to  secure 
For  all  the  Children  whom  her  soil  maintains 
The  rudiments  of  Letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth. 

Both  understood,  and  practised,  — so  that  none, 
However  destitute,  be  left  to  droop 
By  timely  culture  unsustained  ; or  run 
Into  a wild  disorder  ; or  be  forced 
To  drudge  through  weary  life  without  the  aid 
Of  intellectual  implements  and  tools; 

A savage  Horde  among  the  civilized, 

A servile  Band  among  the  lordly  free ! 

This  sacred  right,  the  lisping  Babe  proclaims 
To  be  inherent  in  him,  by  Heaven’s  will. 

For  the  protection  of  his  innocence ; 

And  the  rude  Boy,  — who,  having  overpast 
The  sinless  age,  by  conscience  is  enrolled. 

Yet  mutinously  knits  his  angry  brow. 

And  lifts  his  wilful  hand  on  mischief  bent. 

Or  turns  the  godlike  faculty  of  speech 
To  impious  use  — by  process  indirect 
Declares  his  due,  while  he  makes  known  his  need 
— This  sacred  right  is  fruitlessly  announced. 

This  universal  plea  in  vain  addressed. 

To  eyes  and  ears  of  Parents  who  themselves 
Did,  in  the  time  of  their  necessity. 

Urge  it  in  vain ; and,  therefore,  like  a prayer 
That  from  the  humblest  floor  ascends  to  heaven, 

It  mounts  to  reach  the  State’s  parental  ear ; 

Who,  if  indeed  she  own  a Mother’s  heart, 

And  be  not  most  unfeelingly  devoid 
Of  gratitude  to  Providence,  will  grant 
The  unquestionable  good  ; which  England,  safe 
From  interference  of  external  force. 

May  grant  at  leisure ; without  risk  incurred 
That  what  in  wisdom  for  herself  she  doth. 

Others  shall  e’er  be  able  to  undo. 

“ Look  ! and  behold,  from  Calpe’s  sunburnt  cliffs 
To  the  flat  margin  of  the  Baltic  sea. 
Long-reverenced  Titles  cast  away  as  weeds ; 

Laws  overturned; — and  Territory  split. 

Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind, 

And  forced  to  join  in  less  obnoxious  shapes, 
Which,  ere  they  gain  consistence,  by  a gust 
Of  the  same  breath  are  shattered  and  destroyed. 
Meantime  the  Sovereignty  of  these  fair  Isles 


* The  discovery  of  Dr.  Bell  affords  marvellous  facilities  for 
carrying  this  into  effect ; and  it  is  impossible  to  over-rate  the 
benefit  which  might  accrue  to  humanity  from  the  universal  ap- 
plication of  this  simple  engine  under  an  enlightened  and  con- 
scientious government. 


634 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Remains  entire  and  indivisible  ; 

And,  if  that  ignorance  were  Amoved,  which  breeds 
Within  the  compass  of  their  several  shores 
Dark  discontent,  or  loud  commotion,  each 
Might  still  preserve  the  beautiful  repose 
Of  heavenly  Bodies  shining  in  their  spheres. 

— The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 
Amongst  us,  — hence  the  more  do  we  require 
The  discipline  of  virtue;  order  else 
Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peace. 

Thus,  duties  rising  out  of  good  possessed. 

And  prudent  caution  needful  to  avert 
Impending  evil,  equally  require 

That  the  whole  people  should  be  taught  and  trained. 
So  shall  licentiousness  and  black  resolve 
Be  rooted  out,  and  virtuous  habits  take 
Their  place;  and  genuine  piety  descend 
Like  an  inheritance,  from  age  to  age. 

“ With  such  foundations  laid,  avaunt  the  fear 
Of  numbers  crowded  on  their  native  soil. 

To  the  prevention  of  all  healthful  growth 
Through  mutual  injury  ! Rather  in  the  law 
Of  increase  and  the  mandate  from  above 
Rejoice  ! — and  Ye  have  special  cause  for  joy. 

— For,  as  the  element  of  air  affords 
An  easy  passage  to  the  industrious  bees 
Fraught  with  their  burthens  ; and  a way  as  smooth 
For  those  ordained  to  take  their  sounding  flight 
From  the  thronged  hive,  and  settle  where  they  list 
In  fresh  abodes,  their  labour  to  renew  ; 

So  the  wide  waters,  open  to  the  power. 

The  will,  the  instincts,  and  appointed  needs 
Of  Britain,  do  invite  her  to  cast  off 
Her  swarms,  and  in  succession  send  them  forth ; 
Bound  to  establish  new  communities 
On  every  shore  whose  aspect  favours  hope 
Or  bold  adventure;  promising  to  skill 
And  perseverance  their  deserved  reward. 

— Yes,”  he  continued,  kindling  as  he  spake, 

“ Change  wide,  and  deep,  and  silently  performed. 

This  Land  shall  witness ; and  as  days  roll  on. 

Earth’s  universal  Frame  shall  feel  the  effect 
Even  till  the  smallest  habitable  Rock, 

Beaten  by  lonely  billows,  hear  the  songs 

Of  humanized  Society  ; and  bloom 

With  civil  arts,  that  send  their  fragrance  forth, 

A grateful  tribute  to  all-ruling  Heaven. 

From  Culture,  unexclusively  bestowed 
On  Albion’s  noble  Race  in  freedom  born. 

Expect  these  mighty  issues;  from  the  pains 
And  faithful  care  of  unambitious  Schools 
Instructing  simple  Childhood’s  ready  ear: 

Thence  look  for  these  magnificent  results  ! 

Vast  the  circumference  of  hope  — and  Ye 
Are  at  its  centre,  British  Lawgivers; 

Ah  ! sleep  not  there  in  shame  1 Shall  Wisdom’s  voice 


From  out  the  bosom  of  these  troubled  Times 
Repeat  the  dictates  of  her  calmer  mind. 

And  shall  the  venerable  Halls  ye  fill 
Refuse  to  echo  the  sublime  decree  1 
Trust  not  to  partial  care  a general  good ; 

Transfer  not  to  futurity  a work 

Of  urgent  need.  — Your  Country  must  complete 

Her  glorious  destiny.  — Begin  even  now. 

Now,  when  Oppression,  like  the  Egyptian  plague 
Of  darkness,  stretched  o’er  guilty  Europe,  makes 
The  brightness  more  conspicuous,  that  invests 
The  happy  Island  where  ye  think  and  act; 

Now,  when  Destruction  is  a prime  pursuit. 

Show  to  the  wretched  Nations  for  what  end 
The  Powers  of  civil  Polity  were  given  I” 

Abruptly  here,  but  with  a graceful  air. 

The  Sage  broke  off.  No  sooner  had  he  ceased 
Than,  looking  forth,  the  gentle  Lady  said, 

“ Behold  the  shades  of  afternoon  have  fallen 
Upon  this  flowery  slope;  and  see  — beyond  — 

The  Lake,  though  bright,  is  of  a placid  blue ; 

As  if  preparing  for  the  peace  of  evening. 

How  temptingly  the  Landscape  shines  ! — The  air 
Breathes  invitation  ; easy  is  the  walk 
To  the  Lake’s  margin,  where  a boat  lies  moored 
Beneath  her  sheltering  tree.”  — Upon  this  hint 
We  rose  together:  all  were  pleased — but  most 
The  beauteous  Girl,  whose  cheek  was  flushed  with  joy 
Light  as  a sunbeam  glides  along  the  hills 
She  vanished  — eager  to  impart  the  scheme 
To  her  loved  Brother  and  his  shy  Compeer. 

— Now  was  there  bustle  in  the  Vicar’s  house 
And  earnest  preparation.  — Forth  wo  went. 

And  down  the  vale  along  the  Streamlet’s  edge 
Pursued  our  way,  a broken  Company, 

Mute  or  conversing,  single  or  in  pairs. 

Thus  having  reached  a bridge,  that  overarched 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalmed 
In  a deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A two-fold  Image ; on  a grassy  bank 
A snow-white  Ram,  and  in  the  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  ! Most  beautiful. 

On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb. 

The  breathing  Creature  stood  ; as  beautiful. 

Beneath  him,  showed  his  shadowy  counterpart. 

Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky. 

And  each  seemed  centre  of  liis  own  fair  world: 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other. 

Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres. 

Blended  in  perfect  stillness,  to  our  sight ! 

“ Ah  ! what  a pity  were  it  to  disperse. 

Or  to  disturb,  so  fair  a spectacle, 

I And  yet  a breath  can  do  it!” 


THE  EXCURSION. 


635 


These  few  words 

The  Lady  whispered,  while  we  stood  and  g-azed 
Gathered  together,  all,  in  still  delight. 

Not  without  awe.  Thence  passing  on,  she  said 
In  like  low  voice  to  my  particular  ear, 

“ I love  to  hear  that  eloquent  Old  Man 
Pour  forth  his  meditations,  and  descant 
On  human  life  from  infancy  to  age. 

How  pure  his  spirit!  in  what  vivid  hues 

His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  things. 

Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  attitude  ! 

While  he  is  speaking,  I have  power  to  see 
Even  as  he  sees;  but  when  his  voice  hath  ceased. 
Then,  with  a sigh,  sometimes  I feel,  as  now. 

That  combinations  so  serene  and  bright. 

Like  those  reflected  in  yon  quiet  Pool, 

Cannot  be  lasting  in  a world  like  ours. 

To  great  and  small  disturbances  exposed.” 

More  had  slie  said  — but  sportive  shouts  were  heard  ; 
Sent  from  the  jocund  hearts  of  those  two  Boys, 

Who,  bearing  each  a basket  on  his  arm, 

Down  the  green  field  came  tripping  after  ns. 

— When  we  had  cautiously  embarked,  the  Pair 
Now  for  a prouder  service  were  addrest; 

But  an  inexorable  law  forbade. 

And  each  resigned  the  oar  which  he  had  seized. 
Whereat,  with  willing  hand  I undertook 
The  needful  labour;  grateful  task  ! — -to  me 
Pregnant  with  recollections  of  the  time 
When,  on  thy  bosom,  spacious  Windermere ! 

A Youth,  I practised  this  delightful  art; 

Tos.sed  on  the  waves  alone,  or  ’mid  a crew 
Of  joyous  comrades. — Now,  the  reedy  marge 
Cleared,  with  a strenuous  arm  I dipped  the  oar. 

Free  from  obstruction  ; and  the  Boat  advanced 
Through  crystal  water,  smootlily  as  a Hawk, 

That,  disentangled  from  the  shady  boughs 
Of  some  thick  wood,  her  place  of  covert,  cleaves 
With  correspondent  wings  tlia  abyss  of  air. 

— “ Observe,”  the  Vicar  said,  “ yon  rocky  Isle 
With  birch-trees  fringed  ; my  hand  shall  guide  the 
helm. 

While  thitherward  we  bend  our  course;  or  while 
We  seek  that  other,  on  tlie  western  shore,  — 

Where  the  bare  columns  of  those  lofly  firs, 

Supporting  gracefully  a massy  Dome 
Of  sombre  foliage,  seem  to  imitate 
A Grecian  Temple  rising  from  the  Deep.” 

“ Turn  where  we  may,”  said  I,  “ we  cannot  err 
In  this  delicious  Region.”  — Cultured  slopes. 

Wild  tracts  of  forest-ground,  and  scattered  groves, 
And  mountains  bare  — or  clothed  with  ancient  woods, 
Surrounded  us ; and,  as  we  held  our  way 
Along  the  level  of  the  glassy  flood. 

They  ceased  not  to  surround  us  ; change  of  place. 
From  kindred  features  diversely  combined, 

Producing  change  of  beauty  ever  new. 


— Ah  ! that  sucli  beauty,  varying  in  the  light 
Of  living  nature,  cannot  be  portrayed 

By  words,  nor  by  the  pencil’s  silent  skill ; 

But  is  the  property  of  him  alone 
Who  hath  beheld  it,  noted  it  with  care. 

And  in  his  mind  recorded  it  with  love ! 

Suffice  it,  therefore,  if  the  rural  Muse 
Vouchsafe  sweet  influence,  while  her  Poet  speaks 
Of  trivial  occupations  well  devised. 

And  unsought  pleasures  springing  up  by  chance; 

As  if  some  friendly  Genius  had  ordained 
That,  as  the  day  thus  far  had  been  enriched 
By  acquisition  of  sincere  delight, 

Tlie  same  should  be  continued  to  its  close. 

One  spirit  animating  old  and  young, 

A gipsy  fire  we  kindled  on  the  shore 

Of  the  fair  Isle  with  birch-trees  fringed  — and  there, 

Merrily  seated  in  a ring,  partook 

The  beverage  drawn  from  China’s  fragrant  herb. 

— Lanched  from  our  hands,  the  smooth  stone  skimmed 

the  lake ; 

With  shouts  w^e  roused  the  echoes; — stiller  sounds 
The  lovely  Girl  supplied  — a simple  song. 

Whose  low  tones  reached  not  to  the  distant  rocks 
To  be  repeated  thence,  but  gently  sank 
Into  our  hearts  ; and  charmed  the  peaceful  flood. 
Rapaciously  w'e  gathered  flowery  spoils 
From  land  and  water;  Lilies  of  each  hue  — 

Golden  and  white,  that  float  upon  the  waves. 

And  court  the  wind ; and  leaves  of  that  shy  Plant, 
(Her  flowers  were  shed)  the  Lily  of  the  Vale, 

That  loves  the  ground,  and  from  the  sun  withholds 
Her  pensive  beauty,  from  the  breeze  her  sweets. 

Such  product,  and  such  pastime  did  the  place 
And  season  yield ; but,  as  we  re-embarked. 

Leaving,  in  quest  of  other  scenes,  the  shore 

Of  that  wild  Spot,  the  Solitary  said 

In  a low  voice,  yet  careless  wdio  might  hear, 

“ The  fire,  that  burned  so  brightly  to  our  wish. 

Where  is  it  now  1 Deserted  on  the  beach 
It  seems  extinct ; nor  shall  the  fanning  breeze 
Revive  its  ashes.  What  care  we  for  this. 

Whose  ends  are  gained  ? Behold  an  emblem  here 
Of  one  day’s  pleasure,  and  all  mortal  joys ! 

And,  in  this  unpremeditated  slight 
Of  that  which  is  no  longer  needed,  see 
The  common  course  of  human  gratitude  !” 

This  plaintive  note  disturbed  not  the  repose 
Of  the  still  evening.  Right  across  the  Lake 
Our  pinnace  moves:  then,  coasting  creek  and  bay, 
Glades  we  behold  — and  into  thickets  peep  — 

Where  couch  the  spotted  deer ; or  raised  our  eyes 
To  shaggy  steeps  on  which  tlie  careless  goat 
Browsed  by  the  side  of  dashing  waterfalls. 

Thus  did  the  Bark,  meandering  with  the  shore 


636 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Pursue  her  voyage,  till  a natural  pier 
Of  jutting  rock  invited  us  to  land. 

— Alert  to  follow  as  the  Pastor  led, 

We  clomb  a green  hill’s  side;  and  as  we  clomb. 

The  Valley,  opening  out  her  bosom,  gave 
Fair  prospect,  intercepted  less  and  less. 

Of  the  flat  meadows  and  indented  coast 

Of  the  smooth  lake  — in  compass  seen:  — far  off. 

And  yet  conspicuous,  stood  the  old  Church-tower, 

In  majesty  presiding  over  fields 
And  habitations,  seemingly  preserved 
From  the  intrusion  of  a restless  world 
By  rocks  impassable  and  mountains  huge. 

Soft  heath  this  elevated  spot  supplied. 

And  clioice  of  moss-clad  stones,  whereon  we  couched 

Or  sate  reclined  — admiring  quietly 

The  general  aspect  of  the  scene ; but  each 

Not  seldom  over-anxious  to  make  known 

His  own  discoveries;  or  to  favourite  points 

Directing  notice,  merely  from  a wish 

To  impart  a joy,  imperfect  while  unshared. 

That  rapturous  moment  ne’er  shall  I forget 
When  these  particular  interests  were  effaced 
From  every  mind!  — Already  had  the  sun. 

Sinking  with  less  than  ordinary  state. 

Attained  his  western  bound  ; but  rays  of  light  — 
Now  suddenly  diverging  from  the  orb 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops  or  veiled 
By  the  dense  air  — shot  upw'ards  to  the  crown 
Of  the  blue  firmament  — aloft  — and  wide: 

And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds. 

Ere  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 
Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 
Vivid  as  fire  — clouds  separately  poised. 

Innumerable  multitude  of  Forms 
Scattered  through  half  the  circle  of  the  sky  ; 

And  giving  back,  and  shedding  each  on  eacli. 

With  prodigal  communion,  the  bright  hues 
Which  from  the  unapparent  Fount  of  glory 
They  had  imbibed,  and  ceased  not  to  receive. 

That  which  the  heavens  displayed,  the  liquid  deep 
Repeated;  but  with  unity  sublime! 

While  from  the  grassy  mountain’s  open  side 
We  gazed,  in  silence  hushed,  with  eyes  intent 
On  the  refulgent  spectacle  — diffused 
Through  earth,  sky,  water,  and  all  visible  space. 

The  Priest  in  holy  transport  thus  exclaimed  — 

“ Eternal  Spirit ! universal  God  ! 

Power  inaccessible  to  human  thought. 

Save  by  degrees  and  steps  which  Thou  hast  deigned 
To  furnish ; for  this  effluence  of  Thyself, 

To  the  infirmity  of  mortal  sense 
Vouchsafed ; this  local  transitory  type 
Of  thy  paternal  splendours,  and  the  pomp 


Of  those  who  fill  thy  courts  in  highest  heaven. 

The  radiant  Cherubim;  — accept  the  thanks 
Which  we,  thy  humble  Creatures,  here  convened, 
Presume  to  offer ; we,  who  from  the  breast 
Of  the  frail  earth,  permitted  to  behold 
The  faint  reflections  only  of  thy  face, 

Are  yet  exalted,  and  in  soul  adore  ! 

Such  as  they  are  wdio  in  thy  presence  stand 
Unsullied,  incorruptible,  and  drink 
Imperishable  majesty  streamed  forth 
From  thy  empyreal  Throne,  the  elect  of  Earth 
Shall  be  — divested  at  the  appointed  hour 
Of  all  dishonour  — cleansed  from  mortal  stain. 

— Accomplish,  then,  their  number;  and  conclude 
Time’s  weary  course ! Or  if,  by  thy  decree. 

The  consummation  that  will  come  by  stealth 

Be  yet  far  distant,  let  thy  Word  prevail. 

Oh ! let  thy  Word  prevail,  to  take  away 
The  sting  of  human  nature.  Spread  the  Law, 

As  it  is  written  in  thy  holy  Book, 

Throughout  all  lands : let  every  nation  hear 
The  high  behest,  and  every  heart  obey  ; 

Both  for  the  love  of  purity,  and  hope 
Which  it  affords,  to  such  as  do  thy  will 
And  persevere  in  good,  that  they  shall  rise. 

To  have  a nearer  view  of  Thee,  in  heaven. 

— Father  of  Good  ! this  prayer  in  bounty  grant. 

In  mercy  grant  it  to  thy  wretched  Sons. 

Then,  nor  till  then,  shall  persecution  cease. 

And  cruel  Wars  expire.  The  way  is  marked. 

The  guide  appointed,  and  the  ransom  paid. 

Alas!  the  Nations,  who  of  yore  received 
These  tidings,  and  in  Christian  Temples  meet 
The  sacred  truth  to  acknowledge,  linger  still; 
Preferring  bonds  and  darkness  to  a state 

Of  holy  freedom,  by  redeeming  love 
Proffered  to  all,  wdiile  yet  on  earth  detained. 

“ So  fare  the  many  ; and  the  thoughtful  few. 

Who  in  the  anguish  of  their  souls  bewail 
This  dire  perverseness,  cannot  choose  but  ask. 

Shall  it  endure?  — Shall  enmity  and  strife. 

Falsehood  and  guile,  be  left  to  sow  their  seed ; 

And  the  kind  never  perish  ? Is  the  hope 
Fallacious,  or  shall  righteousness  obtain 
A peaceable  dominion,  wide  as  earth. 

And  ne’er  to  fail  ? Shall  that  blest  day  arrive 
When  they,  whose  choice  or  lot  it  is  to  dwell 
In  crowded  cities,  without  fear  shall  live 
Studious  of  mutual  benefit ; and  he. 

Whom  morning  wakes,  among  sweet  dews  and  flowers 
Of  every  clime,  to  till  the  lonely  field. 

Be  happy  in  himself? — The  law  of  faith 
Working  through  love,  such  conquest  shall  it  gain, 
Such  triumph  over  sin  and  guilt  achieve  ? 

Almighty  Lord,  thy  further  grace  impart! 

And  with  that  help  the  wonder  shall  be  seen 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G37 


Fulfilled,  the  hope  accomplished  ; and  thy  praise 
Be  sung  with  transport  and  unceasing  joy. 

“ Once,”  and  with  mild  demeanour,  as  he  spake, 

On  us  the  Venerable  Pastor  turned 

His  beaming  eye  that  had  been  raised  to  Heaven, 

“ Once,  while  the  Name,  Jehovah,  was  a sound 
Within  the  circuit  of  this  sea-girt  isle 
Unheard,  the  savage  nations  bowed  the  head 
To  Gods  delighting  in  remorseless  deeds; 

Gods  which  themselves  had  fashioned,  to  promote 
111  purposes,  and  flatter  foul  desires. 

Then,  in  the  bosom  of  yon  mountain  cove. 

To  those  inventions  of  corrupted  Man 
Mysterious  rites  were  solemnized  ; and  there, 

Amid  impending  rocks  and  gloomy  woods. 

Of  those  terrific  Idols,  some  received 
Such  dismal  service,  that  the  loudest  voice 
Of  the  swoln  cataracts  (which  now  are  heard 
Soft  murmuring)  was  too  weak  to  overcome, 

Though  aided  by  wild  winds,  the  groans  and  shrieks 

Of  human  Victims,  offered  up  to  appease 

Or  to  propitiate.  And,  if  living  eyes 

Had  visionary  faculties  to  see 

The  thing  that  hath  been  as  the  thing  that  is, 

Aghast  we  might  behold  this  crystal  Mere 
Bedimmed  with  smoke,  in  wreaths  voluminous. 

Flung  from  the  body  of  devouring  fires, 

To  Taranis  erected  on  the  heights 
By  priestly  hands,  for  sacrifice  performed 
Exultingly,  in  view  of  open  day 
And  full  assemblage  of  a barbarous  Host; 

Or  to  Andates,  Female  Power ! who  gave 
(For  so  they  fancied)  glorious  Victory. 

— A few  rude  Monuments  of  mountain-stone 
Survive;  all  else  is  swept  away.  — How  bright 
The  appearances  of  things ! From  such,  how  changed 
The  existing  worship;  and  with  those  compared, 

The  Worshippers  how  innocent  and  blest! 

So  wide  the  difference,  a willing  mind. 

At  this  affecting  hour,  might  almost  think 
That  Paradise,  the  lost  abode  of  man. 

Was  raised  again  : and  to  a happy  Few, 

In  its  original  beauty,  here  restored. 

— Whence  but  from  Thee,  the  true  and  only  God, 
And  from  the  faith  derived  through  Him  who  bled 
Upon  the  Cross,  this  marvellous  advance 

Of  good  from  evil ; as  if  one  extreme 

Were  left — the  other  gained  — O Ye,  who  come 

To  kneel  devoutly  in  yon  reverend  Pile, 

Called  to  such  office  by  the  peaceful  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells;  and  Ye,  who  sleep  in  earth. 

All  cares  forgotten,  round  its  hallowed  walls! 

For  You,  in  presence  of  this  little  Band 
Gathered  together  on  the  green  hill-side. 

Your  Pastor  is  emboldened  to  prefer 
Vocal  thanksgivings  to  the  Eternal  King  ; 


Whose  love,  whose  counsel,  whose  commands  have 
made 

Your  very  poorest  rich  in  peace  of  thought 
And  in  gootl  works;  and  Him,  who  is  endowed 
With  scantiest  knowledge.  Master  of  all  truth 
Which  the  salvation  of  his  soul  requires. 

Conscious  of  that  abundant  favour  showered 
On  you,  the  Children  of  my  liuinble  care. 

And  this  dear  Land,  our  Country,  while  on  Earth 
We  sojourn,  have  I lifted  up  my  soul, 

Joy  giving  voice  to  fervent  gratitude. 

These  barren  rocks,  your  stern  inheritance; 

These  fertile  fields,  that  recompense  your  pains; 

The  shadowy  vale,  the  sunny  mountain-top ; 

Woods  waving  in  the  wind  their  lofly  head.s, 

Or  hushed  ; the  roaring  waters,  and  the  still ; 

They  see  the  offering  of  my  lifted  hands  — 

They  hear  my  lips  present  their  sacrifice  — 

They  know  if  I be  silent,  morn  or  even : 

For,  though  in  whi.spers  speaking,  the  full  heart 
Will  find  a vent ; and  Thought  is  praise  to  Him, 
Audible  praise,  to  Thee,  Omniscient  Mind, 

From  Whom  all  gifts  descend,  all  blessings  flow !’’ 

This  Vesper  service  closed,  without  delay. 

From  that  exalted  station  to  the  plain 
Descending,  we  pursued  our  homeward  course. 

In  mute  composure,  o’er  the  shadowy  lake. 

Beneath  a faded  sky.  No  trace  remained 
Of  those  celestial  splendours ; gray  the  vault, 

Pure,  cloudless  ether;  and  the  Star  of  Eve 
Was  wanting  ; — but  inferior  Lights  appeared 
Faintly,  too  faint  almost  for  sight;  and  some 
Above  the  darkened  hills  stood  boldly  forth 
In  twinkling  lustre,  ere  the  Boat  attained 
Her  mooring-place ; — where,  to  the  sheltering  tree 
Our  youthful  Voyagers  bound  fast  her  prow. 

With  prompt  yet  careful  hands.  This  done,  we  paced 
The  dewy  fields  ; but  ere  the  Vicar’s  door 
Was  reached,  the  Solitary  checked  his  steps ; 

Then,  intermingling  thanks,  on  each  bestowed 
A farewell  salutation,  — and,  the  like 
Receiving,  took  tlie  slender  path  that  leads 
To  the  one  Cottage  in  the  lonely  dell ; 

But  turned  not  without  welcome  promise  given, 

That  he  would  share  the  pleasures  and  pursuits 
Of  yet  another  summer’s  day,  consumed 
In  wandering  with  us  through  the  Valleys  fair. 

And  o’er  the  Mountain-wastes.  “ Another  sun,” 

Said  he,  “ shall  shine  upon  us,  ere  we  part,  — 

Another  sun,  and  peradvcnture  more ; 

If  time,  with  free  consent,  is  yours  to  give,  — 

And  season  favours.” 

To  enfeebled  Pow'er, 

From  this  communion  with  uninjured  Minds, 

What  renovation  had  been  brought ; and  what 
Degree  of  healing  to  a wounded  spirit, 

54 


638 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Dejected,  and  habitually  disposed 
To  seek,  in  degradation  of  the  Kind, 
Excuse  and  solace  for  her  own  defects; 
How  far  those  erring  notions  were  reformed  ; 
And  whether  aught,  of  tendency  as  good 


And  pure,  from  further  intercourse  ensued  ; 
This  — (if  delightful  hopes,  as  heretofore. 
Inspire  the  serious  song,  and  gentle  Hearts 
Cherish,  and  lofty  Minds  approve  the  past) 
My  future  Labours  may  not  leave  untold. 


END  OF  THE  EXCURSION. 


NOTES 

TO 

THE  EXCURSION. 


Note  1,  p.  556. 


“ much  did  he  see  of  Men.” 


At  the  risk  of  giving  a shock  to  the  prejudices  of 
artificial  society,  I have  ever  been  ready  to  pay  hom- 
age to  the  Aristocracy  of  Nature;  under  a conviction 
that  vigorous  human-heartedness  is  the  constituent 
principle  of  true  taste.  It  may  still,  however,  be  sat- 
isfactory to  have  prose-testimony  how  far  a Character, 
employed  for  purposes  of  imagination,  is  founded  upon 
general  fact.  I,  therefore,  subjoin  an  extract  from  an 
author  who  had  opportunities  of  being  well  acquainted 
with  a class  of  men,  from  whom  my  own  personal 
knowledge  emboldened  me  to  draw  this  Portrait. 

“ We  learn  from  Cffisar  and  other  Roman  Writers, 
that  the  travelling  merchants  who  frequented  Gaul  and 
other  barbarous  countries,  either  newly  conquered  by 
the  Roman  arms,  orbordering  on  the  Roman  conquests, 
were  ever  the  first  to  make  the  inhabitants  of  those 
countries  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  Roman  modes 
of  life,  and  to  inspire  them  with  an  inclination  to  fol- 
low the  Roman  fashions,  and  to  enjoy  Roman  conve- 
niences. In  North  America,  travelling  merchants  from 
the  Settlements  have  done  and  continue  to  do  much 
more  towards  civilizing  the  Indian  natives,  than  all 
the  Missionaries,  Papist  or  Protestant,  who  have  ever 
been  sent  among  them. 

It  is  farther  to  be  observed,  for  the  credit  of  this  most 
useful  class  of  men,  that  they  commonly  contribute,  by 
their  personal  manners,  no  less  than  by  the  sale  of 
their  wares,  to  the  refinement  of  the  people  among 
whom  they  travel.  Their  dealings  form  them  to  great 
quickness  of  wit  and  acuteness  of  judgment.  Having 
constant  occasion  to  recommend  themselves  and  their 
goods,  they  acquire  habits  of  the  most  obliging  atten- 
tion, and  the  most  insinuating  address.  As  in  their 
peregrinations  they  have  opportunity  of  contemplating 
the  manners  of  various  Men  and  various  Cities,  they 
become  eminently  skilled  in  the  knowledge  of  the 
world.  As  they  tuandcr,  each  alone,  through  thinly- 


\ 

i 


inhabited  districts,  they  form  habits  of  reflection,  and 
of  sublime  contemplation.  With  all  these  qualifica- 
tions, no  wonder,  that  they  should  often  be,  in  remote 
parts  of  the  country,  the  best  mirrors  of  fashion,  and 
censors  of  manners;  and  should  contribute  much  to 
polish  the  roughness,  and  soften  the  rusticity  of  our 
peasantry.  It  is  not  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  years, 
since  a young  man  going  from  any  part  of  Scotland  to 
England,  of  purpose  to  carry  the  pack,  was  considered 
as  going  to  lead  the  life,  and  acquire  the  Fortune,  of 
a Gentleman.  When,  after  twenty  years’  absence,  in 
that  honourable  line  of  employment,  he  returned  with 
his  acquisitions  to  his  native  country,  he  was  regarded 
as  a Gentleman  to  all  intents  and  purposes.” 

Heron's  Journey  in  Scotland,  Vol.  i.  p.  89. 

Note  2,  p.  572. 

“ Lost  in  unsearchable  Eternity 

Since  this  paragraph  w'as  composed,  I have  read 
w'ith  so  much  pleasure,  in  Burnet’s  Theory  of  the 
Earth,  a passage  expressing  correspondent  sentiments, 
excited  by  objects  of  a similar  nature,  that  I cannot 
forbear  to  transcribe  it. 

“ Siquod  verb  Natura  nobis  dedit  spectaculum,  in 
hue  tellure,  vere  gratum,  et  philosopho  dignum,  id  se- 
mel  mihi  contigisse  arbitror;  cum  ex  celsissimfi  rupe 
speculabundus  ad  oram  maris  Mediterranei,  hinc  ff>quor 
cseruleum,  illinc  tractus  Alpinos  prospexi ; nihil  quidetn 
magis  dispar  aut  dissimile,  nec  in  suo  genere,  magis 
egregium  et  singulare.  Hoc  theatrum  ego  facile  pra;- 
tulerim  Romanis  cunctis,  Gra;cisve ; atque  id  quod 
natura  hlc  spectandum  exhibet,  scenicis  ludis  omnibus 
aut  amphitheatri  certaminibus.  Nihil  hie  elegans  aut 
venustum,  sed  ingens  et  magnificum,  et  quod  placet 
magnitudinesuAetqufidam  specie  immensitatis.  Hir.c 
intuebar  maris  cequabilem  superficiem,  usque  et  usque 
dilfusam,  quantum  maximum  oculorum  acies  ferri 
potuit;  illinc  disruptissimam  terra;  faciem,  et  vastas 
moles  varie  elevatas  aut  epressas,  erectas,  propendentes, 


THE  EXCURSION. 


G39 


roclinatas,  coacervatas,  omni  situ  ina?quali  et  lurbido. 
Placuit,  cx  h:\c  parte,  Naturaj  unitas  et  sirnplicitas,  et 
inex'iausta  quffidain  planities ; ex  altera,  multiformis 
confusio  magnorum  corporum,  et  insana;  rerum  strages: 
quas  cum  intuebar,  non  urbis  alicujus  aut  oppidi,  sed  con- 
fracti  mundi  rudera,  ante  oculos  habere  mihi  visus  sum, 

“ In  singulis  fere  montibus  erat  aliqiiid  insolens  et 
mirabile,  sed  prae  cseteris  mihi  placebat  ilia,  qua  sede- 
bam,  rupes;  erat  maxima  et  altissima,  et  qiiA,  terram 
respiciebat,  molliori  ascensu  altitudinem  suam  dissimu- 
labat : qua  verb  mare,  horrendum  praiceps,  et  quasi  ad 
perpendiculum  facta,  instar  parietis.  Praeterea  facies 
ilia  marina  adeo  erat  leevis  ac  uniformis  (quod  in  rupi- 
bus  aliquando  observare  licet)  ac  si  scissa  fuisset  a 
summo  ad  imum,  in  illo  piano;  vel  terrse  motu  aliquo, 
aut  fulrnine,  divulsa. 

“ Ima  pars  rupis  erat  cava,  recessusque  habuit,  et 
saxeos  specus,  euntes  in  vacuum  montem  ; sive  natura 
pridem  factos,  sive  exesos  mari,  et  undarum  crebris 
ictibus:  In  bos  enim  cum  impetu  ruebant  et  fragore, 
eestuantis  maris  fluctus;  quos  iterum  spumantes  reddi- 
dit antrum,  et  quasi  ab  imo  ventre  evomuit. 

“Dextrnm  latus  mentis  erat  pr®ruptum,  aspero  saxo 
et  nudb  caute ; sinistrum  non  adeo  neglexerat  Natura, 
arboribus  utpote  ornatum : et  prope  pedem  mentis  rivus 
limpidae  aquae  prorupit;  qui  cum  vicinam  vallem  irri- 
gaverat,  lento  motu  serpens,  et  per  varies  mseandros, 
quasi  ad  protrahendam  vitam,  in  magno  mari  absorptus 
subito  periit.  Denique  in  summo  vertice  promontorii, 
commode  eminebat  saxum,  cui  insidebam  contempla- 
bundus.  Vale  augusta  sedes,  Rege  digna:  Augusta 
rupes,  semper  mihi  memoranda!”  P.  89.  Telluris 
Thcoria  sacra,  &c.  Editio  secunda. 

Note  3,  p.  .578. 

“ Whate'er  Abstraction  furnished  for  my  needs 
Or  purposes 

[“It  seems  a paradox  only  to  the  unthinking,  and  it 
is  a fact  that  none,  but  the  unread  in  history,  will  deny, 
that  in  periods  of  popular  tumult  and  innovation  the 
more  abstract  a notion  is,  the  more  readily  has  it  been 
found  to  combine,  the  closer  has  appeared  its  affinity, 
with  the  feelings  of  a people  and  with  all  their  imme- 
diate impulses  to  action.  At  the  commencement  of 
the  French  Revolution,  in  the  remotest  villages  every 
tongue  was  employed  in  echoing  and  enforcing  the 
almost  geometrical  abstractions  of  the  physiocratic 
politicians  and  economists.  The  public  roads  were 
crowded  with  armed  enthusiasts  disputing  on  the  in- 
alienable sovereignty  of  the  people,  the  imprescripti- 
ble laws  of  the  pure  reason,  and  the  universal  consti- 
tution, which,  as  rising  out  of  the  nature  and  rights 
of  man  as  man,  all  nations  alike  were  under  the  obli- 
gation of  adopting.” 

“It  is  with  nations  as  with  individuals.  In  tranquil 
moods  and  peaceable  times  we  are  quite  practical. 
Facts  only  and  cool  common  sense  are  then  in  fashion. 


But  let  the  winds  of  passion  swell,  and  straightway 
men  begin  to  generalize ; to  connect  by  remotest 
analogies ; to  express  the  most  universal  positions  of 
reason  in  the  most  glowing  figures  of  fancy  ; in  short, 
to  feel  particular  truths  and  mere  facts,  as  poor,  cold, 
narrow,  and  incommensurate  with  their  feelings. 

“ The  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles  quoted  from  a Greet 
comic  poet.  Let  it  not  then  be  condemned  as  unsea- 
sonable or  out  of  place,  if  I remind  you  that  in  the  in- 
tuitive knowledge  of  this  truth,  and  with  his  wonted 
fidelity  to  nature,  our  own  great  poet  has  placed  the 
greater  number  of  his  profoundest  maxims  and  general 
truths,  both  political  and  moral,  not  in  the  mouths  of 
men  at  ease,  but  of  men  under  the  influence  of  pas- 
sion, when  the  mighty  thoughts  overmaster  and  be- 
come the  tyrants  of  the  mind  that  has  brought  them 
forth.  In  his  Lear,  Othello,  IMacbeth,  Hamlet,  princi- 
ples of  deepest  insight  and  widest  interest  fly  off  like 
sparks  from  the  glowing  iron  under  the  loud  anvil.” 
Coleridge  : ‘ The  Statesman's  Manual,  a Lay 
Sermon.' II.  R.] 

Note  4,  p.  579. 

“O/'  Mississippi,  or  that  Northern  Stream." 

“ A man  is  supposed  to  improve  by  going  out  into 
the  World,  by  visiting  London.  Artificial  man  does; 
he  extends  with  his  sphere;  but,  alas  ! that  sphere  is 
microscopic;  it  is  formed  of  minutise,  and  he  surrenders 
his  genuine  vision  to  the  artist,  in  order  to  embrace  it 
in  his  ken.  His  bodily  senses  grow  acute,  even  to 
barren  and  inhuman  pruriency;  while  his  mental  be- 
come proportionally  obtuse.  The  reverse  is  the  Man 
of  Mind : He  who  is  placed  in  the  sphere  of  Nature 
and  of  God,  might  be  a mock  at  Tattersall’s  and 
Brookes’s,  and  a sneer  at  St.  James’s:  he  would  cer- 
tainly be  swallowed  alive  by  the  first  Pizarro  that 
crossed  him:  — But  when  he  walks  along  the  River 
of  Amazons;  when  he  rests  bis  eye  on  the  unrivalled 
Andes;  when  he  measures  the  long  and  watered  Savan- 
nah; or  contemplates,  from  a sudden  Promontory,  the 
distant,  vast  Pacific  — and  feels  himself  a Freeman  in 
this  vast  Theatre,  and  commanding  each  ready  pro- 
duced fruit  of  this  wilderness,  and  each  progeny  of 
this  stream  — His  exaltation  is  not  less  than  Imperial. 
He  is  as  gentle,  too,  as  he  is  great:  His  emotions  of 
tenderness  keep  pace  with  his  elevation  of  sentiment; 
for  he  says,  ‘These  were  made  by  a good  Being,  who, 
unsought  by  me,  placed  me  here  to  enjoy  them.’  He 
becomes  at  once  a Child  and  a King.  His  mind  is  in 
himself ; from  hence  he  argues,  and  from  hence  he 
acts;  and  he  argues  unerringly, and  acts  magisterially  : 
His  mind  in  himself  is  also  in  his  God;  and  therefore 
he  loves,  and  therefore  he  soars.”  — From  the  notes 
upon  The  Hurricane,  a Poem,  by  William  Gilbert. 

The  Reader,  I am  sure,  will  thank  me  for  the  above 
Quotation,  which,  though  from  a strange  book,  is  one 
of  the  finest  passages  of  modern  English  prose. 


C40 


WORDSWORTH’S  POETICAL  WORKS. 


Note  5,  p.  5S2. 

“ Alas ! the  endowment  of  immortal  Power, 

Is  matched  imeqnalhj  with  custom,  time,"  &c. 
This  subject  is  treated  at  length  in  the  Ode  entitled 
“Intimations  of  Immortality  from  Recollections 
OF  Early  Childhood,  p.  470. 

[This  Note  affords  an  appropriate  place  for  two  ex- 
tracts from  Coleridge’s  writings  — one,  a comment, 
and  the  other  a description  of  tliat  temperament  of 
which  tiiere  are  manifestations  throughout  this  ode: 
“To  the  ‘Ode  on  the  intimations  of  Immortality 
from  Recollections  of  Early  Childhood,’  the  Poet  might 
have  prefixed  the  lines  which  Dante  addresses  to  one 
of  his  own  Canzoni:  — 

‘Canzon!  io  credo,  che  saranno  radi 
Che  Ilia  ragione  intendan  bene : 

Tanto  lor  sei  laticoso  ed  alto !” 

‘ O Ivric  song,  there  will  be  few,  think  I, 

Who  may  thy  import  understand  aright : 

Thou  art  for  them  so  arduous  and  so  high !’ 

“ But  the  ode  was  intended  for  such  readers  only  as 
had  been  accustomed  to  watch  the  flux  and  reflux  of 
their  inmost  nature,  to  venture  at  times  into  the  twi- 
light realms  of  consciousness,  and  to  feel  a deep  inte- 
rest in  modes  of  inmost  being,  to  which  they  know 
that  the  attributes  of  time  and  space  are  inapplicable 
and  alien,  but  which  yet  cannot  be  conveyed,  save  in 
symbols  of  time  and  space.  For  such  readers  the 
sense  is  sufficiently  plain,  and  they  will  be  as  little 
disposed  to  charge  Mr.  Wordsworth  with  believing  the 
Platonic  pre-existence  in  the  ordinary  interpretation  of 
the  words,  as  I am  to  believe  that  Plato  himself  ever 
meant  or  taught  it. 

poi  £i7r’  ayKui- 

vo%  i/tfa  /3/Xi;, 

’'Erfor  ii/Ti  tpapirpai 
•i>ijivavTa  (TvviTdiCtv' 

AI  rb  TTUP,  ipfivviaiv 

"XaTt^ci.  crotpb^  b ttoX- 
Xa  hbCjs  4>vq  • 

. Ma-Sdprej 

Ylayy\u}(T(Ttqj  KdpaKes  wj, 

^AKpavra  yapvifxtv 

Atoff  TTpoy  opviSa  Sehv. PiXDAR  : OljTIip.  II.” 

Coleridge:  ^Biograjikia  IJieraria,*  Ch.  xxii. 

“ To  find  no  contradiction  in  the  union  of  old 

and  new,  to  contemplate  the  Ancient  of  Days  with 
feelings  as  fresh  as  if  they  then  sprang  forth  at  his  own 
fiat,  this  characterizes  the  minds  that  feel  the  riddle  of 
the  world,  and  may  help  to  unravel  it ! To  carry  on  the 
feelings  of  childhood  into  the  powers  of  manhood,  to 
combine  the  child’s  sense  of  wmnder  and  novelty  with 
the  appearances  which  every  day  for  perhaps  forty 
years  had  rendered  familiar, 

With  Sun  and  Moon  and  Stars  Ihrougliout  the  year. 

And  Man  and  Woman 

this  is  the  character  and  privilege  of  genius,  and  one 
of  the  marks  which  distinguish  genius  from  talents.” 

‘ The  Friend,'  Vol.  I.  p.  183. II.  R.] 


Note  6,  p.  583. 

“ Knowing  the  heart  of  Man  is  set  to  be,"  & c. 

The  passage  quoted  from  Daniel  is  taken  from 
poem  addressed  to  the  Lady  Margaret,  Countess  o, 
Cumberland,  and  the  two  last  lines,  printed  in  Italics, 
are  by  him  translated  from  Seneca.  The  whole  Poem 
is  very  beautiful.  I will  transcribe  four  stanzas  from 
it,  as  they  contain  an  admirable  picture  of  the  state 
of  a wise  Man’s  mind  in  a time  of  public  commotion. 

‘Nor  is  he  moved  wilh  all  the  thunder-cracks 
Of  Tyrant’s  threats,  or  with  the  surly  brow 
Of  Power,  that  proudly  sits  on  other's  crimes ; 

Charged  with  more  crying  sins  than  those  he  checks. 

The  storms  of  sad  confusion  that  may  grow 
Up  in  the  present  lor  the  coming  times. 

Appal  not  him ; that  hath  no  side  at  all, 

But  of  himself,  and  knows  the  worst  can  fall. 

Although  his  heart  (so  near  allied  to  earth) 

Cannot  but  pity  the  perplexed  state 
Of  troublous  and  distressed  mortality. 

That  thus  make  w.ay  unto  the  ugly  Birth 
Of  their  own  Sorrows,  and  do  still  beget 
Affliction  upon  Imbecility: 

■y^et  seeing  thus  the  course  of  things  must  run. 

He  looks  thereon  not  strange,  but  as  fore-done. 

And  whilst  distraught  Ambition  compasses. 

And  is  encompassed,  wliile  as  Craft  deceives. 

And  is  deceived  : whilst  Man  doth  rai.sack  Man, 

And  builds  on  blood,  and  rises  by  distress; 

And  th’  Inheritance  of  desolation  leaves 
To  great-expecting  Hopes  : He  looks  thereon. 

As  from  the  shore  of  Peace,  with  unwet  eye. 

And  bears  no  venture  in  Impiety. 

Thus,  Lady,  fares  that  Man  that  hath  prepared 
A Rest  fi>r  his  desires  ; and  sees  all  things 
Beneath  him  ; and  hath  learned  this  Book  of  Man. 

Full  of  the  notes  of  frailty;  and  compared 
The  best  of  Glory  with  her  sufferings  : 

By  whom,  I see,  you  labour  all  you  can 

To  plant  your  heart  1 and  set  your  thoughts  as  near 

His  glorious  Mansion  as  your  powers  can  bear. 

This  concord.  Lady,  of  a well-tuned  mind 
Hath  been  so  set  by  that  all-working  hand 
Of  Heaven,  that  though  the  world  hath  done  his  worst 
To  put  it  out  by  discords  most  unkind  ; 

Yet  doth  it  still  in  perfect  union  stand 
With  God  and  man  ; nor  ever  will  be  forced 
From  that  most  sweet  accord ; but  still  agree. 

Equal  in  fortune's  inequality.’ 

I have  added  to  the  quotation  another  stanza  of  this 
admirable  poem  ; tliough  not  in  immediate  connection 
with  the  former  stanzas,  it  may  be  regarded  as  part  of 
the  same  picture.  In  transcribing  this  stanza,  my 
thoughts  have  turned  to  Wordsworth’s  own  character 
and  career — the  purity  of  purpose  with  which  he  de- 
voted himself  to  his  high  calling,  and  the  constancy 
with  which,  tlirough  the  evil  and  the  good  report  of 
criticism,  he  has  adhered  to  it. — II.  R ] 


APPENDIX. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


The  observations  prefixed  to  that  portion  of  this  I 
Volume  which  was  published  many  years  ago, 
under  the  title  of  “ Lyrical  Ballads,”  have  so  little  | 
of  a special  application  to  the  greater  part  of  the 
present  enlarged  and  diversified  collection,  that 
they  could  not  with  propriety  stand  as  an  Intro- 
duction to  it.  Not  deeming  it,  however,  expedient 
to  suppress  that  exposition,  slight  and  imperfect 
as  it  is,  of  the  feelings  which  had  determined  the 
choice  of  the  subjects,  and  the  principles  which 
had  regulated  the  composition  of  those  Pieces,  I 
have  transferred  it  to  an  Appendix,  to  bo  attended 
to,  or  not,  at  the  pleasure  of  the  Reader. 

In  the  Preface  to  that  part  of  “ The  Recluse,” 
lately  published  under  the  title  of  “ The  Excur- 
sion,” I have  alluded  to  a meditated  arrangement 
of  )ny  minor  Poems,  which  should  assist  the  at- 
tentive Reader  in  perceiving  their  connexion  with 
each  other,  and  also  their  subordination  to  that 
Work.  I shall  here  say  a few  words  explanatory 
of  this  arrangement,  as  carried  into  effect. 

The  powers  requisite  for  the  production  of 
poetry  are,  first,  those  of  observation  and  descrip- 
tion, i.  e.  the  ability  to  observe  wdth  accuracy 
things  as  they  are  in  themselves,  and  with  fidelity 
to  describe  them,  unmodified  by  any  passion  or 
feeling  existing  in  the  mind  of  the  Describer : 
whether  the  things  depicted  be  actually  present  to 
the  senses,  or  have  a place  only  in  the  memory. 
This  power,  though  indispensable  to  a Poet,  is  one 
which  he  employs  only  in  submission  to  necessity, 
and  never  for  a continuance  of  time : as  its  exer- 
cise supposes  all  the  higher  qualities  of  the  mind 
to  be  passive,  and  in  a state  of  subjection  to  exter- 
nal objects,  much  in  the  same  way  as  the  Trans- 
lator or  Engraver  ought  to  be  to  his  Original. 
2dly,  Sensibility,- — which,  the  more  exquisite  it  is, 
the  wider  will  be  the  range  of  a Poet’s  perceptions  ; 
and  the  moi-e  will  he  be  incited  to  observe  objects, 
both  as  they  exist  in  themselves  and  as  re-acted 
upon  by  his  own  mind.  (The  distinction  between 
poetic  and  human  sensibility  has  been  marked  in 
the  character  of  the  Poet  delineated  in  the  original 
preface,  before-mentioned.)  3dly,  Reflection, — 
which  makes  the  Poet  acquainted  with  the  value  ] 


of  actions,  images,  thoughts,  and  feelings ; and 
assists  the  sensibility  in  perceiving  their  con- 
nexion with  each  other.  4thly,  Imagination  and 
Fancy, — to  modify,  to  create,  and  to  associate, 
5thly,  Invention, — by  which  characters  are  com- 
posed out  of  materials  supplied  by  observation ; 
whether  of  the  Poet’s  own  heart  and  mind,  or  of 
external  life  and  nature ; and  such  incidents  and 
situations  produced  as  are  most  impressive  to  the 
imagination,  and  most  fitted  to  do  justice  to  the 
characters,  sentiments,  and  passions,  which  the 
Poet  undertakes  to  illustrate.  And,  lasMy,  Judg- 
ment,— to  decide  how  and  where,  and  in  « hat  de- 
gree, each  of  these  faculties  ought  to  be  e.xerted ; 
so  that  the  less  shall  not  be  sacrificed  to  the 
greater;  nor  the  greater,  slighting  the  less,  arro- 
gate, to  its  own  injury,  more  than  its  due.  By 
judgment,  also,  is  determined  what  are  the  laws 
and  appropriate  graces  of  every  species  of  com- 
position. 

The  materials  of  Poetry,  by  these  powers  col- 
lected and  produced,  are  cast,  by  means  of  various 
moulds,  into  divers  forms.  The  moulds  may  be 
enumerated,  and  the  forms  specified,  in  the  fol- 
lowing order.  1st,  the  Narrative, — including  the 
Epopoeia,  the  Historic  Poem,  the  Tale,  the  Ro- 
mance, the  Mock-heroic,  and,  if  the  spirit  of  Ho- 
mer will  tolerate  such  neighbourhood,  that  dear 
production  of  our  days,  the  metrical  Novel.  Of 
this  Class,  the  distinguishing  mark  is,  that  the 
Narrator,  however  liberally  his  speaking  agents 
be  introduced,  is  himself  the  source  from  which 
everything  primarily  flow's.  Epic  Poets,  in  order 
that  their  mode  of  composition  may  accord  with 
the  elevation  of  their  subject,  represent  themselves 
as  singing  from  the  inspiration  of  the  Muse,  “ Ar- 
ma  virumque  cano  but  this  is  a fiction,  in  mo- 
dern times,  of  slight  value : the  Iliad  or  the  Para- 
dise Lost  would  gain  little  in  our  estimation  by 
1 being  chanted.  The  other  poets  w'ho  belong  to 
this  class  are  commonly  content  to  tell  their  tale- 
— so  that  of  the  whole  it  may  be  affirmed  that 
they  neither  require  nor  reject  the  accompaniment 
of  music. 

2dly,  The  Dramatic, — consisting  of  Tragedy, 
54* 


G42 


APPENDIX. 


Historic  Drama,  Comedy,  and  Masque,  in  which 
the  poet  does  not  appear  at  all  in  liis  own  person, 
and  where  the  whole  action  is  carried  on  by 
speech  and  dialogue  of  the  agents ; music  being 
admitted  only  incidentally  and  rarely.  The 
Opera  may  be  placed  here,  inasmuch  as  it  pro- 
ceeds by  dialogue  ; though  dcjicnding,  to  the  de- 
gree that  it  does,  upon  music,  it  has  a strong  claim 
to  be  ranked  with  the  Lyrical.  The  characteristic 
and  impassioned  Epistle,  of  which  Ovid  and  Pope 
have  given  examples,  considered  as  a species  of 
monodrama,  may,  without  impropriety,  be  placed 
in  this  class. 

3dly,  The  Lyrical, — containing  the  Hymn,  the 
Ode,  the  Elegy,  the  Song,  and  the  Ballad ; in  all 
which,  for  the  production  of  their  full  effect,  an 
accompaniment  of  music  is  indispensable. 

4thly,  The  Idyllium, — descriptive  chiefly  either 
of  the  processes  and  appearances  of  external  na- 
ture, as  the  Seasons  of  Tliomson ; or  of  charac- 
ters, manners,  and  sentiments,  as  are  Shenstone’s 
Schoolmistress,  The  Cotter’s  Saturday  Night  of 
Burns,  The  Twa  Dogs  of  the  same  Author;  or 
of  those  in  conjunction  with  the  appearances  of 
Nature,  as  most  of  the  pieces  of  Theocritus,  the 
Allegro  and  Penseroso  of  Milton,  Beattie’s  Min- 
stre'.  Goldsmith’s  Deserted  Village.  The  Epi- 
ta[)h,  the  Inscription,  the  Sonnet,  most  of  the  epis- 
tleS  of  poets  writing  in  their  own  persons,  and  all 
loco-descriptive  poetry,  belong  to  this  class. 

5thly,  Didactic, — the  principal  object  of  which 
is  direct  instruction ; as  the  Poem  of  Lucretius, 
the  Georgies  of  Virgil,  The  Fleece  of  Dyer,  Ma- 
son’s “ English  Garden,”  &c. 

And,  lastly,  philosophical  satire,  like  that  of 
Horace  and  Juvenal;  personal  and  occasional  Sa- 
tire rarely  comprehending  sufficient  of  the  general 
in  the  individual  to  be  dignified  with  the  name  of 
poetry. 

Out  of  the  three  last  has  been  constructed  a 
composite  order,  of  which  Young’s  Night  Thoughts, 
and  Cowper’s  Task,  are  excellent  examples. 

It  is  deducible  from  the  above,  that  poems,  ap- 
parently miscellaneous,  may  with  propriety  be 
arranged  either  with  reference  to  the  powers  of 
mind  'predominant  in  the  production  of  them ; or 
to  the  mould  in  which  they  are  cast ; or,  lastly, 
to  the  sulijects  to  which  they  relate.  From  each 
of  these  considerations,  the  following  Poems  have 
been  divided  into  classes ; ■which,  that  the  work 
may  more  obviously  correspond  with  the  course 
of  human  life,  and  for  the  sake  of  exhibiting  in  it 
the  three  requisites  of  a legitimate  whole,  a begin- 
ning, a middle,  and  an  end,  have  been  also  ar- 


I 


ranged,  as  far  as  it  was  possible,  according  to  an 
order  of  time,  commencing  with  Childhood,  and 
terminating  with  Old  Age,  Death,  and  Immortality. 
My  guiding  wish  was,  that  the  small  pieces  in  this 
volume,  thus  discriminated,  might  be  regarded 
under  a two-fold  view ; as  composing  an  entire 
work  within  themselves,  and  as  adjuncts  to  the 
philosophical  Poem,  “ The  Recluse.”  This  ar- 
rangement has  long  presented  itself  habitually  to 
my  own  mind.  Nevertheless,  I should  have  pre- 
ferred to  scatter  them  at  random,  if  I had  been 
persuaded  that,  by  the  plan  adopted,  any  thing 
material  would  be  taken  from  the  natural  effect  of 
the  pieces,  individually,  on  the  mind  of  the  unre- 
flecting Reader.  I trust  there  is  a sufficient  va- 
riety in  each  class  to  prevent  this ; while,  for  him 
who  reads  with  reflection,  the  arrangement  will 
serve  as  a commentary  unostentatiously  directing 
his  attention  to  my  purposes,  both  particular  and 
general.  But,  as  I wish  to  guard  against  the  pos- 
sibility of  misleading  by  this  classification,  it  is 
proper  first  to  remind  the  Reader,  that  certain 
poems  are  placed  according  to  the  powers  of  mind, 
in  the  Author’s  conception,  predominant  in  the 
production  of  them ; predominant,  which  implies 
tlie  exertion  of  other  faculties  in  less  degree. 
Where  there  is  more  imagination  than  fancy  in  a 
poem,  it  is  placed  under  the  head  of  imagination, 
and  vice  versa.  Both  the  above  classes  might 
without  impropriety  have  been  enlarged  from  that 
consisting  of  “ Poems  founded  on  the  Affections  ;” 
as  might  this  latter  from  those,  and  from  the  class 
“ proceeding  from  Sentiment  and  Reflection.” 
The  most  striking  characteristics  of  each  piece, 
mutual  illustration,  variety,  and  proportion,  have 
governed  me  throughout. 

It  may  he  proper  in  this  place  to  state,  that  the 
Extracts  in  the  Second  Class,  entitled  “ Juvenile 
Pieces,”  are  in  many  places  altered  from  the 
printed  copy,  chiefly  by  omission  and  compression. 
The  slight  alterations  of  another  kind  were  for  the 
most  part  made  not  long  after  the  publication  of 
the  Poems  from  which  the  Extracts  are  taken.* 
These  Extracts  seem  to  have  a title  to  be  placed 
here,  as  they  were  the  productions  of  youth,  and 
represent  implicitly  some  of  the  features  of  a 
youthful  mind,  at  a time  when  images  of  nature 
supplied  to  it  the  place  of  thought,  sentiment,  and 
almost  of  action  ; or  as  it  will  be  found  expressed, 
of  a state  of  mind  when 

“ the  sounding  cataract 

Haunted  me  like  a passion  : tlie  tall  rock, 

The  mountain,  and  the  dec))  and  gloomy  wood, 

♦ These  Poems  are  now  printed  entire. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


G43 


Their  colours  and  their  forms  were  then  to  me 
An  appetite,  a feeling,  and  a love. 

That  had  no  need  of  a remoter  charm. 

By  thought  supplied,  or  any  interest 
Unborrowed  from  tlie  eye.” — 

I will  own  that  I was  much  at  a loss  what  to  se- 
lect of  these  descriptions ; and  perhaps  it  would 
have  been  better  either  to  have  reprinted  the  whole, 
or  suppressed  what  I have  given. 

None  of  the  other  Classes,  except  those  of 
Fancy  and  Imagination,  require  any  particular 
notice.  But  a remark  of  general  application  may 
be  made.  All  Poets,  except  the  dramatic,  have 
been  in  the  practice  of  feigning  that  their  works 
were  composed  to  the  music  of  the  harp  or  lyre ; 
with  what  degree  of  affectation  this  has  been  done 
in  modern  times,  I leave  to  the  judicious  to  deter- 
mine. For  my  own  part,  I have  not  been  dis- 
posed to  violate  probability  so  far,  or  to  make 
such  a targe  demand  upon  the  Reader’s  charity. 
Some  of  these  pieces  are  essentially  lyrical ; and, 
therefore,  cannot  have  their  due  force  without  a 
supposed  musical  accompaniment ; but,  in  much 
the  greatest  part,  as  a substitute  for  the  classic 
lyi’e  or  romantic  harp,  I require  nothing  more 
than  an  animated  or  impassioned  recitation, 
adapted  to  the  subject.  Poems,  however  humble 
in  their  kind,  if  they  be  good  in  that  kind,  cannot 
read  themselves : the  law  of  long  syllable  and 
short  must  not  be  so  inflexible, — the  letter  of  metre 
must  not  be  so  impassive  to  the  spirit  of  versifi- 
cation,— as  to  deprive  the  Reader  of  a voluntary 
power  to  modulate,  in  subordination  to  the  sense, 
the  music  of  the  poem ; — in  the  same  manner  as 
his  mind  is  left  at  liberty,  and  even  summoned,  to 
act  upon  its  thoughts  and  images.  But,  though 
the  accompaniment  of  a musical  instrument  be 
frequently  dispensed  with,  the  true  Poet  does  not 
therefore  abandon  his  privilege  distinct  from  that 
of  the  mere  Proseman  ; 

“ He  murmurs  near  the  running  brooks 
A music  sweeter  than  their  own.” 

I come  now  to  the  consideration  of  the  words 
Fancy  and  Imagination,  as  employed  in  the  classi- 
fication of  the  following  Poems.  “A  man,”  says 
an  intelligent  author,  “ has  imagination  in  propor- 
tion as  he  can  distinctly  copy  in  idea  the  impres- 
sions of  sense : it  is  the  faculty  which  images 
within  the  mind  the  phenomena  of  sen.sation.  A 
man  has  fancy  in  proportion  as  he  can  call  up, 
connect,  or  associate,  at  pleasure,  those  internal 
images  is  to  cause  to  appear)  so  as  to 

complete  ideal  representations  of  absent  objects. 
Imagination  is  the  power  of  depicting,  and  fancy 


of  evoking  and  combining.  The  imagination  is 
formed  by  patient  observation  ; the  fancy  by  a 
voluntary  activity  in  shifting  the  scenery  of  the 
mind.  The  more  accurate  the  imagination,  the 
more  safely  may  a painter,  or  a poet,  undertake  a 
delineation,  or  a description,  without  the  presencQ 
of  the  objects  to  be  characterised.  The  more  ver 
satile  the  fancy,  the  more  original  and  striking 
will  be  the  decorations  produced.” — British  Sy- 
nonyms discriminated,  by  W.  Taylor. 

Is  not  this  as  if  a man  should  undertake  to  sup- 
ply an  account  of  a building,  and  be  so  intent  upon 
what  he  had  discovered  of  the  foundation,  as  to 
conclude  his  task  without  once  looking  up  at  the 
superstructui’e  ? Here,  as  in  other  instances 
throughout  the  volume,  the  judicious  Author’s 
mind  is  enthralled  by  Etymology  ; he  takes  up  the 
original  word  as  his  guide  and  escort,  and  too 
often  does  not  perceive  how  soon  he  becomes  its 
prisoner,  without  liberty  to  tread  in  any  path  but 
that  to  which  it  confines  him.  It  is  not  easy  to 
find  out  how  imagination,  thus  explained,  differs 
from  distinct  remembrance  of  images ; or  fancy 
from  quick  and  vivid  recollection  of  them : each 
is  nothing  more  than  a mode  of  memory.  If  the 
two  words  bear  the  above  meaning,  and  no  other, 
what  term  is  left  to  designate  that  Faculty  of  which 
the  Poet  is  “ all  compact he  whose  eye  glances 
from  earth  to  heaven,  whose  spiritual  attributes 
body  forth  what  his  pen  is  prompt  in  turning  to 
shape;  or  what  is  left  to  characterise  Fancy,  as 
insinuating  herself  into  the  heart  of  objects  with 

creative  activity  1 Imagination,  in  the  sense 

of  the  word  as  giving  title  to  a Class  of  the  fol- 
lowing Poems,  has  no  reference  to  images  that  are 
merely  a faithful  copy,  existing  in  the  mind,  of 
absent  external  objects ; but  is  a word  of  higher 
import,  denoting  operations  of  the  mind  upon 
those  objects,  and  processes  of  creation  or  of  com- 
position, governed  by  certain  fixed  laws.  I pro- 
ceed to  illustrate  my  meaning  by  instances.  A 
parrot  hangs  from  the  wires  of  his  cage  by  his 
beak  or  by  his  claws ; or  a monkey  from  the 
bough  of  a tree  by  his  paws  or  his  tail.  Each 
creature  does  so  literally  and  actually.  In  the 
first  Eclogue  of  Virgil,  the  Shepherd,  thinking  of 
the  time  when  he  is  to  take  leave  of  his  Farm, 
thus  addresses  his  Goats 

“ Non  ego  VOS  posthac  viridi  projectus  in  antro 
Dumostl  pendere  procul  de  rupe  videbo.” 


■ “ Half  way  down 


Hangs  one  who  gathers  samphire,” 
is  the  well-known  expression  of  Shakspeare,  de» 
llneating  an  ordinary  image  upon  the  Cliffs  of 


C14 


APPENDIX. 


Dover.  In  these  two  instances  is  a slight  exer- 
tion of  the  faculty  which  I denominate  Imagina- 
tion, in  the  use  of  one  word  : neither  the  goats 
nor  the  samphire-gatherer  do  literally  hang,  as 
docs  the  parrot  or  the  monkey  ; but,  presenting  to 
tlie  senses  something  of  such  an  appearance,  the 
mind  in  its  activity,  for  its  own  gratification,  con- 
templates them  as  hanging. 

“ As  when  far  off  at  Sea  a Fleet  descried 
Hangs  in  the  clouds,  by  equinoctial  winds 
Close  sailing  from  Bengala,  or  the  Isles 
Of  Ternate  or  Tidore,  whence  Merchants  bring 
Their  spicy  drugs ; they  on  the  trading  flood 
Through  the  wide  Ethiopian  to  the  Cape 
Ply,  stemming  nightly  toward  the  Pole  : so  seemed 
Far  off  the  flying  Fiend.” 

Here  is  the  full  strength  of  the  imagination  in- 
volved in  the  word  hangs,  and  exerted  upon  the 
whole  image : First,  the  Fleet,  an  aggregate  of 
many  Ships,  is  represented  as  one  mighty  Person, 
w'hose  track,  we  know  and  feel,  is  upon  the  wa- 
ters : but,  taking  advantage  of  its  appearance  to 
the  senses,  the  Poet  dares  to  represent  it  as  hang- 
ing in  the  clouds,  both  for  the  gratification  of  the 
mind  in  contemplating  the  image  itself,  and  in 
reference  to  the  motion  and  appearance  of  the 
sublime  objects  to  which  it  is  compared. 

From  images  of  sight  we  will  pass  to  those  of 
sound : 

“ Over  his  own  sweet  voice  the  Stock-dove  broods 
of  the  same  bird, 

“ His  voice  was  buried  among  trees. 

Yet  to  be  come  at  by  the  breeze 

“ O,  Cuckoo ! shall  I call  thee  Hird, 

Or  but  a wandering  Voice  ?” 

The  Stock-dove  is  said  to  coo,  a "Sound  well 
imitating  the  note  of  the  bird ; but,  by  the  inter- 
vention of  the  metaphor  broods,  the  affections  are 
called  in  by  the  imagination  to  assist  in  marking 
the  manner  in  which  the  Bird  reiterates  and  pro- 
longs her  soft  note,  as  if  herself  delighting  to 
listen  to  it,  and  participating  of  a still  and  quiet 
sofisfaction,  like  that  which  may  be  supposed  inse- 
jiarable  from  the  continuous  process  of  incubation. 
“ His  voice  was  buried  among  trees,”  a metaphor 
expressing  the  love  of  seclusion  hy  which  this 
Bird  is  marked  ; and  characterising  its  note  as  not 
partaking  of  the  shrill  and  the  piercing,  and  there- 
fore more  easily  deadened  by  the  intervening 
.shade;  yet  a note  so  peculiar  and  withal  so  pleas- 
ing, that  the  breeze,  gified  with  that  love  of  the 
sound  which  the  Poet  feels,  penetrates  the  shade 


in  which  it  is  entombed,  and  conveys  it  to  the  eai 
of  the  listener. 

“ Shall  I call  thee  Bird, 

Or  but  a wandering  Voice  ?” 

. This  concise  interrogation  characterises  the 
seeming  ubiquity  of  the  voice  of  the  Cuckoo,  and 
dispossesses  the  creature  almost  of  a corporeal 
existence ; the  Imagination  being  tempted  to  this 
exertion  of  her  power  by  a consciousness  in  the 
memory  that  the  Cuckoo  is  almost  perpetually 
heard  throughout  the  season  of  Spring,  but  seldom 
becomes  an  object  of  sight. 

Thus  far  of  images  independent  of  each  other, 
and  immediately  endowed  by  the  mind  with  pro- 
perties that  do  not  inhere  in  them,  upon  an  incite- 
ment from  properties  and  qualities  the  existence 
of  which  is  inherent  and  obvious.  These  pro- 
cesses of  imagination  are  carried  on  either  by  eon- 
ferring  additional  properties  upon  an  object,  or 
abstracting  from  it  some  of  those  which  it  actually 
possesses,  and  thus  enabling  it  to  re-act  upon  the 
mind  which  hath  performed  the  process,  like  a 
new  existence. 

I pass  from  the  Imagination  acting  upon  an 
individual  image  to  a consideration  of  the  same 
faculty  employed  upon  images  in  a conjunction 
by  which  they  modify  each  other.  The  Reader 
has  already  had  a fine  instance  before  him  in  the 
passage  quoted  from  Virgil,  where  the  apparently 
perilous  situation  of  the  Goat,  hanging  upon  the 
shaggy  precipice,  is  contrasted  with  that  of  the 
Shepherd,  contemplating  it  from  the  seclusion  of 
the  Cavern  in  which  he  lies  stretched  at  ease  and 
in  security.  Take  these  images  separately,  and 
how  unaffecting  the  picture  compared  with  that 
produced  by  their  being  thus  connected  with,  and 
opposed  to,  each  other  ! 

“ As  a huge  Stone  is  sometimes  seen  to  lie 
Couched  on  the  bald  top  of  an  eminence. 

Wonder  to  all  who  do  the  same  espy 

By  what  means  it  could  thither  come,  and  whence. 

So  that  it  seems  a thing  endued  with  sense. 

Like  a Sea-beast  crawled  forth,  which  on  a shelf 
Of  rock  or  sand  reposeth,  there  to  sun  himself. 

Such  seemed  this  Man  ; not  all  alive  or  dead. 

Nor  all  asleep,  in  his  c.xtremc  old  age. 

Motionless  as  a cloud  the  old  .tlan  stood. 

That  hcarcth  not  the  loud  winds  when  they  call, 

And  moveth  altogether  if  it  move  at  all.” 

In  these  images,  the  conferring,  the  abstracting, 
and  the  modifying  powers  of  the  Imagination,  im- 
j mediately  and  mediately  acting,  are  all  brought 
into  conjunction.  The  Stone  is  endowed  with 
! something  of  the  power  of  life  to  approximate  it 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


G15 


o the  Sca-bcast;  and  the  Sca-beast  stripped  of 
some  of  its  vital  qualities  to  assimilate  it  to  the 
stone ; which  intermediate  image  is  tluis  treated 
for  the  purpose  of  bringing  the  original  image, 
that  of  the  stone,  to  a nearer  resemblance  to  the 
figure  and  condition  of  the  aged  Man ; who  is  di-  j 
vested  of  so  much  of  the  indications  of  life  and  ' 
motion  as  to  bring  him  to  the  point  where  the  two  j 
objects  unite  and  coalesce  in  just  comparison. 
After  what  has  been  said,  the  image  of  the  Cloud 
need  not  be  commented  upon.  j 

Thus  far  of  an  endowing  or  modifying  power : ^ 
but  the  Imagination  also  shapes  and  creates  ; and  I 
how?  By  innumerable  processes;  and  in  none 
does  it  more  delight  than  in  that  of  consolidating 
numbers  into  unity,  and  dissolving  and  separating 
unity  into  number, — alternations  proceeding  from, 
and  governed  by,  a sublime  consciousness  of  the 
soul  in  her  own  mighty  and  almost  divine  powers. 
Recur  to  the  passage  already  cited  from  Milton. 
When  the  compact  Fleet,  as  one  Person,  has  been 
introduced  “ Sailing  from  Bengala,”  “ They,”  i.  e. 
the  “ Merchants,”  representing  the  Fleet,  resolved 
into  a Multitude  of  Ships,  “ ply”  their  voyage 
towards  the  extremities  of  the  earth : “ So”  (re- 
ferring to  the  word  “ As”  in  the  commencement) 
“ seemed  the  flying  Fiend ;”  the  image  of  his  Per- 
son acting  to  recombine  the  multitude  of  Ships 
into  one  body, — the  point  from  which  the  compa- 
rison set  out.  “ So  seemed,”  and  to  whom  seemed  ? 
To  the  heavenly  Muse  who  dictates  the  poem,  to 
the  eye  of  the  Poet’s  mind,  and  to  that  of  the 
Reader,  present  at  one  moment  in  the  wide  Ethio- 
pian, and  the  next  in  the  solitudes,  then  first 
broken  in  upon,  of  the  infernal  regions ! 


have  already  done  by  implication)  as  tliat  power 
which,  in  the  language  of  one  of  my  most  es- 
teemed Friends,  “ draws  all  things  to  one  ; which 
makes  things  animate  or  inanimate,  beings  with 
their  attributes,  subjects  witli  their  accessaries, 
take  one  colour  and  serve  to  one  effect.”*  The 
grand  store-houses  of  enthusiastic  and  meditative 
Imagination,  of  poetical,  as  contradistinguished 
from  human  and  dramatic  Imagination,  are  the 
prophetic  and  lyrical  parts  of  tiie  Holy  Scriptures, 
and  the  works  of  Milton,  to  which  I cannot  for- 
bear to  add  those  of  Spenser.  I select  these 
writers  in  preference  to  those  of  ancient  Greece 
and  Rome,  because  the  anthropomorphitism  of  the 
Pagan  religion  subjected  the  minds  of  the  greatest 
poets  in  those  countries  too  much  to  the  bondage 
of  definite  form  ; from  which  the  Hebrews  were 
preserved  by  their  abhorrence  of  idolatry.  This 
abhorrence  was  almost  as  strong  in  our  great  epic 
Poet,  both  from  circumstances  of  his  life,  and  from 
the  constitution  of  his  mind.  However  imbued 
the  surface  might  be  with  classical  literature,  he 
was  a Hebrew  in  soul ; and  all  things  tended  in 
him  towards  the  sublime.  Spenser,  of  a gentler 
nature,  maintained  his  freedom  by  aid  of  his  alle- 
gorical spirit,  at  one  time  inciting  him  to  create 
persons  out  of  abstractions;  and,  at  another,  by 
a superior  effort  of  genius,  to  give  the  universality 
and  permanence  of  abstractions  to  his  human  be- 
ings, by  means  of , attributes  and  emblems  that 
belong  to  the  highest  moral  truths  and  the  purest 
sensations, — of  which  his  character  of  Una  is  a 
glorious  example.  Of  the  human  and  dramatic 
Imagination  the  works  of  Shakspeare  arc  an  inex 
haustible  source. 


“ Modo  me  Thebis,  mode  ponit  Athenis.” 

Hear  again  this  mighty  Poet, — speaking  of  the 
Messiah  going  forth  to  expel  from  Heaven  the 
rebellious  Angels, 

“ Attended  by  ten  thousand  thousand  Saints 
Ho  onward  came:  far  off  bis  coming  shone,” — 

the  retinue  of  Saints,  and  the  Person  of  the  Mes- 
siah himself,  lost  almost  and  merged  in  the  splen- 
dour of  that  indefinite  abstraction,  “ His  com- 
ing!” 

As  I do  not  mean  here  to  treat  this  subject  fur- 
ther than  to  throw  some  light  upon  the  present 
Poems,  and  especially  upon  one  division  of  them, 
I shall  spare  myself  and  the  Reader  the  trouble 
of  considering  the  Imagination  as  it  deals  with 
thoughts  and  sentiments,  as  it  regulates  tlie  com- 
position of  characters,  and  determines  the  course 
of  actions:  I will  not  consider  it  (more  than  I 


“ I tax  not  you,  ye  Elements,  with  unkindness, 

I never  gave  you  Kingdoms,  called  you  Daughters  i" 

And  if,  bearing  in  mind  the  many  Poets  distin- 
guished by  this  prime  quality,  whose  names  1 
omit  to  mention  ; yet  justified  by  a recollection 
of  the  insults  which  the  Ignorant,  the  Incapable 
and  the  Presumptuous,  have  heaped  upon  these 
and  my  other  writings,  I may  be  permitted  to  an- 
ticipate the  judgmenf  of  posterity  upon  myself; 
I shall  declare  (ccnsui^hle,  I grant,  if  the  noto- 
riety of  the  fact  above  stated  docs  not  justify  me) 
that  I have  given,  in  these  unfavourable  times, 
evidence  of  exertions  of  this  faculty  upon  its 
I worthiest  objects,  tlic  external  universe,  the  moral 
and  religious  sentiments  of  Man,  his  natural  al- 
fections,  and  his  acquired  passions;  which  have 
the  same  ennobling  tendency  as  the  productions 

•Charles  Lamb  upon  tlic  genius  of  Hogarth. 


Ci6 


APPENDIX. 


of  men,  in  this  kind,  worthy  to  be  holden  in  un- 
dying remembrance. 

This  subject  may  be  dismissed  with  observing 
— that,  in  the  series  of  Poems  placed  under  the 
liead  of  Imagination,  I have  begun  with  one  of  the 
earliest  processes  of  Nature  in  the  developement 
of  this  faculty.  Guided  by  one  of  my  own  pri- 
mary consciousnesses,  I have  represented  a com- 
mutation and  transfer  of  internal  feelings,  co- 
operating with  external  accidents,  to  plant,  for 
immortality,  images  of  sound  and  sight,  in  the  ce- 
'estial  soil  of  the  Imagination.  The  Boy,  there 
introduced,  is  listening,  with  something  of  a fever- 
ish and  restless  anxiety,  for  the  recurrence  of  the 
riotous  sounds  which  he  had  previously  excited  ; 
and,  at  the  moment  when  the  intenseness  of  bis 
mind  is  beginning  to  remit,  he  is  surprised  into  a 
perception  of  the  solemn  and  tranquillizing  images 
which  the  Poem  describes. — The  Poems  next  in 
succession  exhibit  the  faculty  exerting  itself  upon 
various  objects  of  the  external  universe ; then  fol- 
low others,  where  it  is  employed  upon  feelings, 
characters,  and  actions*;  and  the  Class  is  con- 
cluded with  imaginative  pictures  of  moral,  politi- 
cal, and  religious  sentiments. 

To  the  mode  in  which  Fancy  has  already  been 
characterised  as  the  Power  of  evoking  and  com- 
bining, or,  as  my  friend  Mr.  Coleridge  has  styled 
it,  “ the  aggregative  and  associative  Power,”  my 
objection  is  only  that  the  definition  is  too  general. 
To  aggregate  and  to  associate,  to  evoke  and  to 
combine,  belong  as  well  to  the  Imagination  as  to 
the  Fancy : but  either  the  materials  evoked  and 
combined  are  different ; or  they  are  brought  toge- 
ther under  a different  law,  and  for  a different  pur- 
pose. Fancy  does  not  require  that  the  materials 
which  she  makes  use  of  should  be  susceptible  of 
change  in  their  constitution,  from  her  touch  ; and, 
where  they  admit  of  modification,  it  is  enough  for 
her  purpose  if  it  be  slight,  limited,  and  evanescent. 
Directly  the  reverse  of  these,  are  the  desires  and 
demands  of  the  Imagination.  She  recoils  from 
every  thing  but  the  plastic,  the  pliant,  and  the  in- 
definite. She  leaves  it  to  Fancy  to  describe  Queen 
Mab  as  coming,  * 

“ In  shape  no  bigg-er^ian  an  agate-stone 
On  the  fore-finger  of  an  Alderman.” 

Having  to  speak  of  stature,  she  does  not  tell  you 
that  her  gigantic  Angel  was  as  tall  as  Pompey’s 
Pillar  ; much  less  that  he  was  twelve  cubits,  or 
twelve  hundred  cubits  high  ; or  that  his  dimen- 

* In  the  present  edition,  such  of  tliese  as  were  furnished  j 

by  Scottish  subjects  are  incorporated  witli  a class  entitled,  . 
Memorials  of  Tours  in  Scotland.  j 


sions  equalled  those  of  Teneriffe  or  Atlas ; — be- 
cause these,  and  if  they  were  a million  times  as 
high,  it  would  be  the  same,  are  bounded  : The  ex- 
pression is,  “ Mis  stature  reached  the  sky !”  the 
illimitable  firmament ! — When  the  Imagination 
frames  a comparison,  if  it  does  not  strike  on  the 
first  presentation,  a sense  of  the  truth  of  the  like- 
ness, from  the  moment  that  it  is  perceived,  grows 
— and  continues  to  grow — upon  the  mind ; the 
resemblance  depending  less  upon  outline  of  form 
and  feature,  than  upon  expression  and  effect;  less 
upon  casual  and  outstanding,  than  upon  inherent 
and  internal,  properties: — ^moreover,  the  images 
invariably  modify  each  other. — The  law  under 
which  the  processes  of  Fancy  are  carried  on  is  as 
capricious  as  the  accidents  of  things  ; and  the  ef- 
fects are  surprising,  playful,  ludicrous,  amusing, 
tender,  or  pathetic,  as  the  objects  happen  to  be 
appositely  produced  or  fortunately  combined. 
Fancy  depends  upon  the  rapidity  and  profusion 
with  which  she  scatters  her  thoughts  and  images ; 
trusting  that  their  number,  and  the  felicity  with 
which  they  are  linked  together,  will  make  anrends 
for  the  want  of  individual  value:  or  site  prides 
herself  upon  the  curious  subtilty  and  the  success- 
ful elaboration  with  which  she  can  delect  their 
lurking  affinities.  If  she  can  win  you  over  to  her 
purpose,  and  impart  to  you  her  feelings,  she  cares 
not  how  unstable  or  transitory  may  be  her  influ- 
ence, knowing  that  it  will  not  be  out  of  her  power 
to  resume  it  upon  an  apt  occasion.  But  the  Ima- 
gination is  conscious  of  an  indestructible  domi- 
nion ; — the  Soul  may  fall  away  from  it,  not  being 
able  to  sustain  its  grandeur ; but,  if  once  felt  and 
acknowledged,  by  no  act  of  any  other  faculty  of 
the  mind  can  it  be  relaxed,  impaired,  or  dimin- 
ished.— Fancy  is  given  to  quicken  and  to  beguile 
the  temporal  part  of  our  Nature,  Imagination  to 
incite  and  to  support  the  eternal. — Yet  is  it  not  the 
loss  true  that  Fancy,  as  she  is  an  active,  is  also, 
under  licr  owm  laws  and  in  her  owm  spirit,  a cre- 
ative faculty.  In  what  manner  Fancy  ambitiously 
aims  at  a rivalship  with  the  Imagination,  and  Ima- 
gination stoops  to  work  with  the  materials  of 
Fancy,  might  be  illustrated  from  the  compositions 
of  all  eloquent  writer's,  wlrether  in  prose  or  verse  ; 
and  chiefly  from  those  of  our  own  Country. 
Scarcely  a page  of  the  impassioned  parts  of  Bishop 
Taylor’s  orks  can  be  opened  that  shall  not  af- 
ford examples. — Referring  the  Reader  to  tho.se 
inestimable  Volumes,  I will  content  myself  with 
placing  a conceit  (ascribed  to  Loixl  Chesterfield)  in 
contrast  with  a passage  from  the  Paradise  Lost : — 
“ Tlie  dews  of  tlie  evening  most  carefulty  shun, 

They  are  tlie  tears  of  the  sky  for  tlie  loss  of  the  Sun.** 


PREFACE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


647 


After  the  transgression  of  Adam,  Milton,  with 
other  appearances  of  sympatliising  Nature,  thus 
marks  the  immediate  consequence, 

“ Sky  lowered,  and  muttering  tlmndcr,  some  sad  drops 
Wept  at  completion  of  the  mortal  sin.” 

The  associating  link  is  the  same  in  each  instance  ; 
— dew  or  rain,  not  distinguishable  from  the  liquid 
substance  of  tears,  are  employed  as  indications  of 
sorrow.  A flash  of  surprise  is  the  effect  in  the 
former  case ; a flash  of  surprise,  and  nothing 
more ; for  the  nature  of  things  docs  not  sustain 
the  combination.  In  the  latter,  the  effects  of  the 
act,  of  which  there  is  this  immediate  consequence 
and  visible  sign,  are  so  momentous,  that  the  mind 
acknowledges  the  justice  and  reasonableness  of 
the  sympathy  in  Nature  so  manifested;  and  the 
sky  weeps  drops  of  water  as  if  with  human  eyes, 
as  “ Earth  had  before,  trembled  from  her  enti-ails, 
and  Nature  given  a second  groan.” 

Awe-stricken  as  I am  by  contemplating  the 
operations  of  the  mind  of  this  truly  divine  Poet,  I 
scarcely  dare  venture  to  add  that  “ An  Address 
to  an  Infant,”  which  the  reauer  will  find  under  the 
Class  of  Fancy  in  the  present  Volume,  exhibits 
something  of  this  communion  and  interchange  of 
instruments  and  functions  between  the  two  pow- 
ers ; and  is,  accordingly,  placed  last  in  the  class, 
as  a preparation  for  that  of  Imagination  which 
follows. 

Finally,  I will  refer  to  Cotton’s  “ Ode  upon 
Winter,”  an  admirable  composition,  though  stained 
with  some  peculiarities  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived,  for  a general  illustration  of  the  characteris- 
tics of  Fancy.  The  middle  part  of  this  ode  con- 
tains a most  lively  description  of  the  entrance  of 
Winter,  with  his  retinue,  as  “ A palsied  King,” 
and  yet  a military  Monarch, — advancing  for  con- 
quest with  his  Army  ; tlie  several  bodies  of  which, 
and  their  arms  and  equipments,  are  described  with 
a rapidity  of  detail,  and  a profusion  o?  fanciful 
comparisons,  which  indicate  on  the  part  of  the 
Poet  extreme  activity  of  intellect,  and  a cori’e- 
spondent  hurry  of  delightful  feeling.  Winter  re- 
tires from  the  Foe  into  his  fortress,  where 

“ a magazine 

Of  sovereign  juice  is  cellared  in; 

Liquor  that  will  the  siege  maintain 
Should  riicebus  ne’er  return  again.” 

Though  myself  a water-drinker,  I cannot  resist 
the  pleasure  of  transcribing  what  follows,  as  an 
instance  stilt  more  happy  of  Fancy  employed  in 
the  treatment  of  feeling  than,  in  its  preceding 


passages,  the  Poem  supplies  of  her  management 
of  forms. 

“ ’Tis  that,  that  gives  the  Poet  rage. 

And  thaws  the  gelly’d  blood  of  Age ; 

Matures  the  Young,  restores  the  Old, 

And  makes  the  fainting  Coward  bold. 

It  lays  the  careful  head  to  rest. 

Calms  palpitations  in  the  breast, 

Renders  our  lives’  misfortune  sweet ; 

Then  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow. 

And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow. 

Or  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore. 

And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar. 

Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 

Careless,  and  crowned  with  mirth  and  wit. 

Where,  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home. 

Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

We’ll  think  of  .ill  the  Friends  we  know, 

And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to  ; 

W’hen  having  drunk  all  thine  and  mine, 

We  rather  shall  want  healths  than  wine. 

But  where  Friends  fail  us,  we’ll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity  ; 

Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 

Shall  by  our  lusty  Brimmers  thrive. 

We’ll  drink  the  wanting  into  Wealtli, 

And  those  that  languish  into  health  ; 

The  Afflicted  into  joy ; th’  Opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

The  Worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
Favour  return  again  more  kind. 

And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie, 

Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

The  Brave  shall  triumph  in  success, 

The  Lovers  shall  have  Mistresses, 

Poor  unregarded  Virtue,  praise. 

And  the  neglected  Poet,  Bays. 

Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good. 

Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would  ; 

For,  freed  from  envy  and  from  care. 

What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are  ?” 

It  remains  that  I should  express  my  regret  a 
the  necessity  of  separating  my  compositions  from 
some  beautiful  Poems  of  Mr.  Coleridge,  with 
which  they  have  been  long  associated  in  publica- 
tion. The  feelings  with  which  that  joint  publica- 
tion was  made,  have  been  gratified  ; its  end  is  an- 
swered ; and  the  time  is  come  when  considerations 
of  general  propriety  dictate  the  separation.  Four 
short  pieces  are  the  work  of  a Feiuale  Friend  ; 
and  the  Reader,  to  whom  they  may  be  acceptable, 
is  indebted  to  me  for  his  pleasure;  if  any  one 
regard  them  with  dislike,  or  be  disposed  to  con- 


648 


APPENDIX. 


demn  them,  let  the  censure  fall  upon  him  who, 
trusting  in  his  own  sense  of  their  merit  and  their 
fitness  for  the  place  which  they  occupy,  extorted 
them  from  the  Authoress. 

When  1 sate  down  to  write  this  preface,  it  was 
my  intention  to  have  made  it  more  comprehen- 


sive ; but  as  all  that  I deem  necessary  is  expressed, 
I will  here  detain  the  reader  no  longer:  — what  I 
have  further  to  remark  shall  be  intro  1 need  in  a 
Supplementary  Essay.* 


* See  Appendix  II. 


NOTE  IN  EDITION  OF  1845. 


Much  the  greatest  part  of  the  foregoing  Poenns  have 
been  so  long  before  the  public  that  no  prefatory  matter, 
explanatory  of  any  portion  of  them  or  of  the  arrange- 
ment which  has  been  adopted,  appears  to  be  required ; 


and  had  it  not  been  for  the  observations  contained  in 
these  Prefaces  upon  the  principles  of  Poetry  in  general, 
they  would  not  have  been  reprinted  even  as  an  Appendix 
, in  this  Edition. 


DEDICATION  * 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1815. 


TO 

SIR  GEORGE  HOWLAND  BEAUMONT,  BART. 


My  dear  Sir  George, 

Accept  my  thanks  for  the  permission  given  me  to 
dedicate  these  Poems  to  you.  — In  addition  to  a lively 
pleasure  derived  from  general  considerations,  I feel  a 
particular  satisfaction  ; for  by  inscribing  them  with  your 
Name,  1 seem  to  myself  in  some  degree  to  repay,  by  an 
appropriate  honour,  the  great  obligation  which  I owe  to 
one  part  of  the  Collection  — as  having  been  the  means 
of  first  making  us  personally  known  to  each  other. 
Upon  much  of  the  remainder,  also,  you  have  a peculiar 
claim,  — for  several  of  the  best  pieces  were  composed 
under  the  shade  of  your  own  groves,  upon  the  classic 
g-ound  of  Coleorton ; where  I was  animated  by  the 
recollection  of  those  illustrious  Poets  of  your  Name 
and  Family,  who  were  born  in  that  neighbourhood ; 
and,  we  may  be  assured,  did  not  wander  with  indiffer- 
ence by  the  dashing  stream  of  Grace  Dieu,  and  among 
the  rocks  that  diversify  the  forest  of  Charnwood. — Nor 
is  there  any  one  to  whom  such  parts  of  this  Collection 


as  have  been  inspired  or  coloured  by  the  beautiful 
Country  from  which  I now  address  you,  could  be  pre- 
sented with  more  propriety  than  to  yourself— who  have 
composed  so  many  admirable  Pictures  from  the  sug- 
gestions of  the  same  scenery.  Early  in  life,  the  sub- 
limity and  beauty  of  this  Region  excited  your  admira- 
tion ; and  I know  that  you  are  bound  to  it  in  mind  by  a 
still-strengthening  attachment. 

Wishing  and  hoping  that  this  Work  may  survive  as 
a lasting  memorial  of  a friendship,  which  I reckon 
among  the  blessings  of  my  life, 

I have  the  honour  to  be. 

My  dear  Sir  George, 

Yours  most  affectionately  and  faithfully, 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

EyDAL  MoONT,  WESTMORELiND, 

February  1,  1815. 


APPENDIX  II. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE* 


With  the  young  of  both  Sexes,  Poetry  is,  like  love, 
a passion  ; but,  for  much  the  greater  part  of  those  who 
have  been  proud  of  its  power  over  their  minds,  a neces- 
sity soon  arises  of  breaking  the  pleasing  bondage ; or  it 
relaxes  of  itself ; — the  thoughts  being  occupied  in  do- 
mestic cares,  or  the  time  engrossed  by  business.  Poetry 
then  becomes  only  an  occasional  recreation  ; while  to 
those  whose  existence  passes  away  in  a course  of  fash- 
ionable pleasure,  it  is  a species  of  luxurious  amuse- 
ment.— In  middle  and  declining  age,  a scattered  number 
of  serious  persons  resort  to  poetry,  as  to  religion,  for  a 
protection  against  the  pressure  of  trivial  employments, 
and  as  a consolation  for  the  afflictions  of  life.  And,  last- 
ly, there  are  many,  who,  havL'ig  been  enamoured  of  this 
art  in  their  youth,  have  found  leisure,  after  youth  was 
spent,  to  cultivate  general  literature;  in  which  poetry 
has  continued  to  be  comprehended  as  a study. 

Into  the  above  Classes  the  Readers  of  poetry  may 
be  divided  ; Critics  abound  in  them  all ; but  from  the 
last  only  can  opinions  be  collected  of  absolute  value, 
and  worthy  to  be  depended  upon,  as  prophetic  of  the 
destiny  of  a new  work.  The  young,  who  in  nothing 
can  escape  delusion,  are  especially  subject  to  it  in  their 
intercourse  with  Poetry.  The  cause,  not  so  obvious  as 
the  fact  is  unquestionable,  is  the  same  as  that  from 
which  erroneous  judgments  in  this  art,  in  the  minds 
of  men  of  all  ages,  chiefly  proceed ; but  upon  Youth 
it  operates  with  peculiar  force.  The  appropriate  busi- 
ness of  poetry,  (which,  nevertheless,  if  genuine,  is  as 
permanent  as  pure  science,)  her  appropriate  employ- 
ment, her  privilege  and  her  duty,  is  to  treat  of  things 
not  as  they  are,  but  as  they  appear ; not  as  they  exist 
in  themselves,  but  as  they  seem  to  exist  to  the  senses 
and  to  the  passions.  What  a world  of  delusion  does 
this  acknowledged  principle  prepare  for  the  inexpe- 
rienced ! what  temptations  to  go  astray  are  here  held 
forth  for  them  whose  thoughts  have  been  little  disci- 
plined by  the  understanding,  and  whose  feelings  revolt 
from  the  sway  of  reason  ! — When  a juvenile  Reader 
is  in  the  height  of  his  rapture  with  some  vicious  pas- 
sage, should  experience  throw  in  doubts,  or  common- 


sense  suggest  suspicions,  a lurking  consciousness  that 
the  realities  of  the  Muse  are  but  shows,  and  that  her 
liveliest  excitements  are  raised  by  transient  shocks  of 
conflicting  feeling  and  successive  assemblages  of  con- 
tradictory thoughts  — is  ever  at  hand  to  justify  extra- 
vagance, and  to  sanction  absurdity.  But,  it  may  be 
asked,  as  these  illusions  are  unavoidable,  and,  no  doubt, 
eminently  useful  to  the  mind  as  a process,  what  good 
can  be  gained  by  making  observations,  the  tendency  of 
which  is  to  diminish  the  confidence  of  youth  in  its 
feelings,  and  thus  to  abridge  its  innocent  and  even 
profitable  pleasures'!  The  reproach  implied  in  the  ques- 
tion could  not  be  warded  off,  if  Youth  were  incapable 
of  being  delighted  with  what  is  truly  e.xcellent;  or,  if 
these  errors  always  terminated  of  themselves  in  due 
season.  But,  with  the  majority,  though  their  force  be 
abated,  they  continue  through  life.  Moreover,  the  fire 
of  youth  is  too  vivacious  an  element  to  be  extinguished 
or  damped  by  a philosophical  remark;  and,  while  there 
is  no  danger  that  what  has  been  said  will  be  injurious 
or  painful  to  the  ardent  and  the  confident,  it  may  prove 
beneficial  to  those  who,  being  enthusiastic,  are,  at  the 
same  time,  modest  and  ingenuous.  The  intimation 
may  unite  with  their  own  misgivings  to  regulate  their 
sensibility,  and  to  bring  in,  sooner  than  it  would  other- 
wise have  arrived,  a more  discreet  and  sound  judg- 
ment. 

If  it  should  excite  wonder  that  men  of  ability,  in 
later  life,  whose  understandings  have  been  rendered 
acute  by  practice  in  affairs,  should  be  so  easily  and  so 
far  imposed  upon  when  they  happen  to  take  up  a new 
work  in  verse,  this  appears  to  be  the  cause;  — that, 
having  discontinued  their  attention  to  poetry,  whatever 
progress  may  have  been  made  in  other  departments  of 
knowledge,  they  have  not,  as  to  this  art,  advanced  in 
true  discernment  beyond  the  age  of  youth.  If,  then,  a 
new  poem  falls  in  their  way,  whose  attractions  are  of 
that  kind  which  would  have  enraptured  them  during 
the  heat  of  youth,  the  judgment  not  being  improved  to 
a degree  that  they  shall  be  disgusted,  they  are  daz- 
zled ; and  prize  and  cherish  the  faults  for  having  had 
power  to  make  the  present  time  vanish  before  them, 
and  to  throw  the  mind  back,  as  by  enchantment,  into 
55  619 


[*  See  Appendix  1.,  p.  648.  — II.  R.] 
4G 


650 


APPENDIX. 


the  happiest  season  of  life.  As  they  read,  powers 
seem  to  be  revived,  passions  are  regenerated,  and 
pleasures  restored.  The  Book  was  probably  taken  up 
after  an  escape  from  the  burthen  of  business,  and  with 
a wish  to  forget  the  world,  and  all  its  vexations  and 
anxieties.  Having  obtained  this  wish,  and  so  much 
more,  it  i=  natural  that  they  should  make  report  as  they 
have  felt. 

If  Men  of  mature  age,  through  want  of  practice,  be 
tlius  easily  beguiled  into  admiration  of  absurdities,  ex- 
travagances, and  misplaced  ornaments,  thinking  it  pro- 
per that  their  understandings  should  enjoy  a holiday, 
while  they  are  unbending  their  minds  with  verse,  it 
may  be  expected  that  such  Readers  will  resemble  their 
former  selves  also  in  strength  of  prejudice,  and  an  in- 
aptitude to  be  moved  by  the  unostentatious  beauties  of 
a pure  style.  In  the  higher  poetry,  an  enlightened 
Critic  chiefly  looks  for  a reflection  of  the  wisdom  of 
the  heart  and  the  grandeur  of  the  imagination. 
Wherever  these  appear,  simplicity  accompanies  them; 
Magnificence  herself,  when  legitimate,  depending  upon 
a simplicity  of  her  own,  to  regulate  her  ornaments. 
But  it  is  a well-known  property  of  human  nature,  that 
our  estimates  are  ever  governed  by  comparisons,  of 
which  we  are  conscious  w'ith  various  degrees  of  dis- 
tinctness. Is  it  not,  then,  inevitable  (confining  these 
observations  to  the  effects  of  style  merely)  that  an  eye, 
accustomed  to  the  glaring  hues  of  diction  by  which 
such  Readers  are  caught  and  excited,  will  for  the  most 
part  be  rather  repelled  than  attracted  by  an  original 
Work,  the  colouring  of  which  is  disposed  according  to 
a pure  and  refined  scheme  of  harmony  1 It  is  in  the 
fine  arts  as  in  the  affairs  of  life,  no  man  can  serve  (i.  e. 
obey  with  zeal  and  fidelity)  two  Masters. 

As  Poetry  is  most  just  to  its  own  divine  origin  when 
it  administers  the  comforts  and  breathes  the  spirit  of 
religion,  they  w'ho  have  learned  to  perceive  this  truth, 
and  who  betake  themselves  to  reading  verse  for  sacred 
purposes,  must  be  preserved  from  numerous  illusions  to 
which  the  two  Classes  of  Readers,  whom  we  have  been 
considering,  are  liable.  But,  as  the  mind  grows  seri- 
ous from  the  weight  of  life,  the  range  of  its  passions 
is  contracted  accordingly;  and  its  sympathies  become 
BO  exclusive,  that  many  species  of  high  excellence 
wholly  escape,  or  but  languidly  excite,  its  notice.  Be- 
sides, men  w’ho  read  from  religious  or  moral  inclina- 
tions, even  when  the  subject  is  of  that  kind  which 
they  approve,  are  beset  with  misconceptions  and  mis- 
takes peculiar  to  themselves.  Attaching  so  much  im- 
portance to  the  truths  which  interest  them,  they  are 
prone  to  over-rate  the  Authors  by  whom  these  truths 
are  expressed  and  enforced.  They  come  prepared  to 
impart  so  much  passion  to  the  Poet’s  language,  that 
they  remain  unconscious  how  little.  In  fact,  they  re- 
ceive from  it.  And,  on  the  other  hand,  religious  faith 
is  to  him  who  holds  it  so  momentous  a thing,  and  error 
appears  to  be  attended  with  such  tremendous  conse- 


quences, that,  if  opinions  touching  upon  religion  occur 
which  the  Reader  condemns,  he  not  only  cannot  sym- 
pathise with  them,  however  animated  the  expression, 
but  there  is,  for  the  most  part,  an  end  put  to  all  satis- 
faction and  enjoyment.  Love,  if  it  before  existed,  is 
converted  into  dislike ; and  the  heart  of  the  Reader  is 
set  against  the  Author  and  his  book.  — To  these  ex- 
cesses, they,  who  from  their  professions  ought  to  be 
the  most  guarded  against  them,  are  perhaps  the  most 
liable;  I mean  those  sects  whose  religion,  being  from 
the  calculating  understanding,  is  cold  and  formal.  For 
when  Christianity,  the  religion  of  humility,  is  founded 
upon  the  proudest  faculty  of  our  nature,  what  can  be 
expected  but  contradictions  1 Accordingly,  believers 
of  this  cast  are  at  one  time  contemptuous ; at  another, 
being  troubled,  as  they  are  and  must  be,  with  inward 
misgivings,  they  are  jealous  and  suspicious;  — and  at 
all  seasons,  they  are  under  temptation  to  supply,  by 
the  heat  with  which  they  defend  their  tenets,  the  ani- 
mation which  is  wanting  to  the  constitution  of  the  re- 
ligion itself. 

Faith  was  given  to  man  that  his  affections,  detached 
from  the  treasures  of  time,  might  be  inclined  to  settle 
upon  those  of  eternity : — the  elevation  of  his  nature, 
which  this  habit  produces  on  earth,  being  to  him  a pre- 
sumptive evidence  of  a future  state  of  existence ; and 
giving  him  a title  to  partake  of  its  holiness.  The  re- 
ligious man  values  what  he  sees  chiefly  as  an  “ imper- 
fect shadowing  forth”  of  what  he  is  incapable  of  see- 
ing. The  concerns  of  religion  refer  to  indefinite  ob- 
jects, and  are  too  weighty  for  the  mind  to  support 
them  without  relieving  itself  by  resting  a great  part 
of  the  burthen  upon  words  and  symbols.  The  com- 
merce between  Man  and  his  Maker  cannot  be  carried 
on  but  by  a process  where  much  is  represented  in  lit- 
tle, and  the  Infinite  Being  accommodates  himself  to  a 
finite  capacity.  In  all  this  may  be  perceived  the 
affinity  between  religion  and  poetry;  — between  reli- 
gion — making  up  the  deficiencies  of  reason  by  faith  ; 
and  poetry  — passionate  for  the  instruction  of  reason ; 
between  religion  — whose  element  is  infinitude,  and 
whose  ultimate  trust  is  the  supreme  of  things,  submit- 
ting herself  to  circumscription,  and  reconciled  to  sub- 
stitutions : and  poetry  — ethereal  and  transcendent, 
yet  incapable  to  sustain  her  existence  without  sensuous 
incarnation.  In  this  community  of  nature  may  be  per- 
ceived also  the  lurking  incitements  of  kindred  error ; 
— so  that  we  shall  find  that  no  poetry  has  been  more 
subject  to  distortion,  than  that  species,  the  argument 
and  scope  of  which  is  religious ; and  no  lovers  of  the 
art  have  gone  farther  astray  than  the  pious  and  the 
devout. 

Whither  then  shall  we  turn  for  that  union  of  quali- 
fications which  must  necessarily  exist  before  the  de- 
cisions of  a critic  can  be  of  absolute  value?  For  a 
mind  at  once  poetical  and  philosophical ; for  a critic 
whose  affections  are  as  free  and  kindly  as  the  spirit  of 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


G51 


society,  and  whose  understanding  is  severe  as  that  of 
dispassionate  government]  Where  are  we  to  look  for 
that  initiatory  composure  of  mind  which  no  selfishness 
can  disturb  1 For  a natural  sensibility  that  has  been 
tutored  into  correctness  without  losing  any  thing  of 
its  quickness  ; and  for  active  faculties  capable  of  an- 
swering the  demands  which  an  Author  of  original 
imagination  shall  make  upon  them,  — associated  with 
a judgment  that  cannot  be  duped  into  admiration  by 
aught  that  is  unworthy  of  it]  — Among  those  and 
those  only,  who,  never  having  suffered  their  youthful 
love  of  poetry  to  remit  much  of  its  force,  have  applied 
to  the  consideration  of  the  laws  of  this  art  the  best 
power  of  their  understandings.  At  the  same  time  it 
must  be  observed  — that,  as  this  Class  comprehends 
the  only  judgments  which  are  trust-worthy,  so  does 
it  include  the  most  erroneous  and  perverse.  For  to 
be  mis-taught  is  worse  than  to  be  untaught ; and  no 
perverseness  equals  that  which  is  supported  by  system, 
no  errors  are  so  difficult  to  root  out  as  those  which 
the  understanding  has  pledged  its  credit  to  uphold. 
In  this  Class  are  contained  Censors,  who,  if  they  be 
pleased  with  what  is  good,  are  pleased  with  it  only 
by  imperfect  glimpses,  and  upon  false  principles;  who, 
should  they  generalise  rightly  to  a certain  point,  are 
sure  to  suffer  for  it  in  the  end  ; — who,  if  they  stum- 
ble upon  a sound  rule,  are  fettered  by  misapplying  it, 
or  by  straining  it  too  far ; being  incapable  of  perceiv- 
ing when  it  ought  to  yield  to  one  of  higher  order. 
In  it  are  found  Critics  too  petulant  to  be  passive  to 
a genuine  Poet,  and  too  feeble  to  grapple  with  him ; 
Men,  who  take  upon  them  to  report  of  the  course 
which  he  holds  whom  they  are  utterly  unable  to 
accompany,  — confounded  if  he  turn  quick  upon  the 
wing,  dismayed  if  he  soar  steadily  “into  the  region;” 
— Men  of  palsied  imaginations  and  indurated  hearts; 
in  whose  minds  all  healthy  action  is  languid,  — who 
therefore  feed  as  the  many  direct  them,  or,  wdth  the 
many,  are  greedy  after  vicious  provocatives ; — Judges, 
whose  censure  is  auspicious,  and  whose  praise  omi- 
nous! In  this  class  meet  together  the  two  extremes 
of  best  and  worst. 

The  observations  presented  in  the  foregoing  series 
are  of  too  ungracious  a nature  to  have  been  made 
without  reluctance;  and,  were  it  only  on  this  account, 
1 would  invite  the  reader  to  try  them  by  the  test  of 
comprehensive  experience.  If  the  number  of  Judges 
who  can  be  confidently  relied  upon  be  in  reality  so 
small,  it  ought  to  follow  that  partial  notice  only,  or 
neglect,  perhaps  long  continued,  or  attention  wholly 
inadequate  to  their  merits — must  have  been  the  fate  of 
most  works  in  the  higher  departments  of  poetry ; and 
that,  on  the  other  hand,  numerous  productions  have 
blazed  into  popularity,  and  have  passed  away,  leaving 
scarcely  a trace  behind  them  : — it  will  be  further  found, 
that  when  Authors  have,  at  length,  raised  themselves 
into  general  admiration  and  maintained  their  ground. 


errors  and  prejudices  have  prevailed  concerning  their 
genius  and  tlieir  works,  which  the  few  who  are  con- 
scious of  those  errors  and  prejudices  would  deplore ; if 
they  were  not  recompensed  by  perceiving  that  there 
are  select  Spirits  for  whom  it  is  ordained  that  their 
fame  shall  be  in  the  world  an  existence  like  that  of 
Virtue,  which  owes  its  being  to  the  struggles  it  makes, 
and  its  vigour  to  the  enemies  whom  it  provokes ; — a 
vivacious  quality,  ever  doomed  to  meet  with  opposition, 
and  still  triumphing  over  it;  and,  from  the  nature  of 
its  dominion,  incapable  of  being  brought  to  the  sad 
conclusion  of  Alexander,  when  he  wept  that  there 
were  no  more  worlds  for  him  to  conquer. 

Let  us  take  a hasty  retrospect  of  the  poetical  litera- 
ture of  this  Country  for  the  greater  part  of  the  last 
two  Centuries,  and  see  if  the  facts  support  these  infer- 
ences. 

Who  is  there  that  can  now  endure  to  read  the 
“Creation”  of  Dubartas]  Yet  all  Europe  once  re- 
sounded with  his  praise ; he  was  caressed  by  Kings ; 
and,  when  his  Poem  was  translated  into  our  language, 
the  Faery  Queen  faded  before  it.  The  name  of  Spen- 
ser, whose  genius  is  of  a higher  order  than  even  that 
of  Ariosto,  is  at  this  day  scarcely  known  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  British  Isles.  And  if  the  value  of  his 
works  is  to  be  estimated  from  the  attention  now  paid 
to  them  by  his  Countrymen,  compared  with  that  which 
they  bestow  on  those  of  some  other  writers,  it  must  be 
pronounced  small  indeed. 

“ The  laurel,  meed  of  mighty  Conquerors 
And  Poets  sage" — 

are  his  own  words ; but  his  wisdom  has,  in  this  par- 
ticular, been  his  worst  enemy;  while  its  opposite, 
whether  in  the  shape  of  folly  or  madness,  has  been 
their  best  friend.  But  he  was  a great  power;  and 
bears  a high  name : the  laurel  has  been  awarded  to 
him. 

A Dramatic  Author,  if  he  write  for  the  Stage,  must 
adapt  himself  to  the  taste  of  the  Audience,  or  they 
will  not  endure  him;  accordingly  the  mighty  genius 
of  Shakspeare  was  listened  to.  The  people  were  de- 
lighted: but  I am  not  sufficiently  versed  in  Stage  an- 
tiquities to  determine  whether  they  did  not  flock  as 
eagerly  to  the  representation  of  many  pieces  of  con- 
temporary Authors,  wholly  undeserving  to  appear  upon 
the  same  boards.  Had  there  been  a formal  contest  for 
superiority  among  dramatic  Writers,  that  Shakspeare, 
like  his  predecessors,  Sophocles  and  Euripides,  would 
have  often  been  subject  to  the  mortification  of  seeing 
the  prize  adjudged  to  sorry  competitors,  becomes  too 
probable,  when  we  reflect  that  the  Admirers  of  Settle 
and  Shadwel!  were,  in  a later  age,  as  numerous,  and 
reckoned  as  respectable  in  point  of  talent,  as  those  of 
Dryden.  At  all  events,  that  Shakspeare  stooped  to 
accommodate  himself  to  the  People,  is  sufficiently  ap- 
parent; and  one  of  the  most  striking  proofs  of  his 


652 


APPENDIX. 


almost  omnipotent  genius,  is,  that  he  could  turn  to  such 
glorious  purpose  those  materials  which  the  prepos- 
sessions of  th(.  age  compelled  him  to  make  use  of. 
Yet  even  this  marvellous  skill  appears  not  to  have  been 
enough  to  prevent  his  rivals  from  having  some  advan- 
tage over  him  in  public  estimation ; else  how  can  we 
account  for  passages  and  scenes  that  exist  in  his  works, 
unless  upon  a supposition  that  some  of  the  grossest 
of  them,  a fact  which  in  my  own  mind  I have  no  doubt 
of,  were  foisted  in  by  the  Players,  for  the  gratification 
of  the  many  1 

But  that  his  Works,  whatever  might  be  their  reception 
upon  the  stage,  made  little  impression  upon  the  ruling 
Intellects  of  the  time,  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact 
that  Lord  Bacon,  in  his  multifarious  writings,  nowhere 
either  quotes  or  alludes  to  him.* — His  dramatic  excel- 
lence enabled  him  to  resume  possession  of  the  stage 
after  the  Restoration ; but  Dryden  tells  us  that  in  his 
time  two  of  the  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  were 
acted  for  one  of  Shakspeare.  And  so  faint  and  limited 
was  the  perception  of  the  poetic  beauties  of  his  dramas 
in  the  time  of  Pope,  that,  in  his  Edition  of  the  Plays, 
with  a view  of  rendering  to  the  general  Reader  a ne- 
cessary service,  he  printed  between  inverted  commas 
those  passages  which  he  thought  most  worthy  of  notice. 

At  this  day,  the  French  Critics  have  abated  nothing 
of  their  aversion  to  this  darling  of  our  Nation  : “ the 
English,  with  their  Buflbn  de  Shakspeare,”  is  as  fa- 
miliar an  expression  among  them  as  in  the  time  of 
Voltaire.  Baron  Grimm  is  the  only  French  writer  who 
seems  to  have  perceived  his  infinite  superiority  to  the 
first  names  of  the  French  Theatre ; an  advantage 
which  the  Parisian  Critic  owed  to  his  German  blood 
and  German  education.  The  most  enlightened  Italians, 
thougn  well  acquainted  with  our  language,  are  wholly 
incompetent  to  measure  the  proportions  of  Shakspeare. 
The  Germans  only,  of  foreign  nations,  are  approaching 
towards  a knowledge  and  feeling  of  what  he  is.  In 
some  respects  they  have  acquired  a superiority  over 
the  fellow-countrymen  of  the  Poet:  for  among  us  it  is 
a current,  I might  say,  an  established  opinion,  that 
Shakspeare  is  justly  praised  when  he  is  pronounced  to 
be  “a  wild  irregular  genius,  in  whom  great  faults  are 
compensated  by  great  beauties.”  How  long  may  it  be 
before  this  misconception  passes  away,  and  it  becomes 
universally  acknowledged  that  the  judgment  of  Shak- 
speare in  the  selection  of  his  materials,  and  in  the 
manner  in  which  he  has  made  them,  heterogeneous  as 
they  often  are,  constitute  a unity  of  their  own,  and 
contribute  all  to  one  great  end,  is  not  less  admirable 


*The  learned  Ilakewitl  (a  third  edition  of  whose  book  bears 
date  1635),  writing  to  refute  the  error  “ touching  Nature’s  per- 
petual and  universal  decay,”  cites  triumphantly  the  names  of 
Ariosto,  Tasso,  Bartas,  and  Spenser,  as  instances  that  poetic  ge. 
nius  had  not  degenerated ; but  he  makes  no  mention  of  Shak- 
speare. 


than  his  imagination,  his  invention,  and  his  intuitive 
knowledge  of  human  Nature  ! 

There  is  extant  a small  Volume  of  miscellaneous 
Poems  in  which  Shakspeare  expresses  his  own  feelings 
in  his  own  Person.  It  is  not  difficult  to  conceive  that 
the  Editor,  George  Steevens,  should  have  been  insensi- 
ble to  the  beauties  of  one  portion  of  that  Volume,  the 
Sonnets ; though  there  is  not  a part  of  the  writings  of 
this  Poet  where  is  found,  in  an  equal  compass,  a great- 
er number  of  exquisite  feelings  felicitously  expressed. 
But,  from  regard  to  the  Critic’s  own  credit,  he  would 
not  have  ventured  to  talk  of  an  act  of  parliament  not 
I being  strong  enough  to  compel  the  perusal  of  these,  or 
any  production  of  Shakspeare,!  if  he  had  not  known 
that  the  people  of  England  were  ignorant  of  the  trea- 
sures contained  in  those  little  pieces;  and  if  he  had 
not,  moreover,  shared  the  too  common  propensity  of 
human  nature  to  exult  over  a supposed  fall  into  the 
mire  of  a genius  whom  he  had  been  compelled  to  re- 
gard with  admiration,  as  an  inmate  of  the  celestial  re- 
gions,— “ there  sitting  where  he  durst  not  soar.” 

Nine  years  before  the  death  of  Shakspeare,  Milton 
was  born  ; and  early  in  life  he  published  several  small 
poems,  which,  though  on  their  first  appearance  they 
were  praised  by  a few  of  the  judicious,  were  afterwards 
neglected  to  that  degree,  that  Pope,  in  his  youth,  could 
borrow  from  them  without  risk  of  its  being  known. 
Whether  these  poems  are  at  this  day  justly  apprecia- 
ted, I will  not  undertake  to  decide:  nor  would  it  im- 
ply a severe  reflection  upon  the  mass  of  Readers  to 
suppose  the  contrary  ; seeing  that  a Man  of  the  ac- 
knowledged genius  of  Voss,  the  German  Poet,  could 
suffer  their  spirit  to  evaporate;  and  could  change  their 
character,  as  is  done  in  the  translation  made  by  him  of 
the  most  popular  of  those  pieces.  At  all  events,  it  is 
certain  that  these  Poems  of  Milton  are  now  much  read, 
and  loudly  praised;  yet  were  they  little  heard  of  till 
more  than  l.'jO  years  after  their  publication  ; and  of  the 
Sonnets,  Dr.  Johnson,  as  appears  from  Boswell’s  life 
of  him,  was  in  the  habit  of  thinking  and  speaking  as 
contemptuously  as  Steevens  jvrote  upon  those  of  Shak- 
speare. 

About  the  time  when  the  Pindaric  Odes  of  Cowley 
and  his  imitators,  and  the  productions  of  that  class  of 
curious  thinkers  whom  Dr.  Johnson  has  strangely  styled 
Metaphysical  Poets,  were  beginning  to  lose  some- 
thing of  that  extravagant  admiration  which  they  had 
excited,  the  Paradise  Ixist  made  its  appearance.  “ Fit 
audience  find  though  few,”  was  tlie  petition  addressed 
by  the  Poet  to  his  inspiring  Muse.  I have  said  else- 


t This  flippant  insensibility  was  publicly  reprehended  by  Mr. 
Coleridge,  in  a course  of  I.,ectures  ujOTn  Poetry  given  by  him  at 
the  Royal  Institution.  For  the  various  merits  of  thought  and 
language  in  Shakspeare 's  Sonnets,  see  Numbers  27.  29,  30.  32,  33 
54.  64.  66.  68.  73.  76.  86.  91. 92. 93.  97.  98.  105.  107, 108, 109.  Ill 
113,  114.  116,  117.  129.  and  many  others. 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


G53 


where  that  he  gained  more  than  he  asked ; this  I be- 
lieve to  bo  true;  but  Dr.  Johnson  has  fallen  into  a 
gross  mistake  when  he  attempts  to  prove,  by  the  sale 
of  the  work,  that  Milton’s  Countrymen  were  “just  to 
it”  upon  its  first  appearance.  Thirteen  hundred  Copies 
were  sold  in  two  years;  an  uncommon  example,  he 
asserts,  of  the  prevalence  of  genius  in  opposition  to  so 
much  recent  enmity  as  Milton’s  public  conduct  had 
excited.  But,  be  it  remembered  that,  if  Milton’s  po- 
litical and  religious  opinions,  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  announced  them,  had  raised  him  many  enemies,  they 
had  procured  him  numerous  friends;  who,  as  all  person- 
al danger  was  passed  away  at  the  time  of  publication, 
would  be  eager  to  procure  the  master-work  of  a Man 
whom  they  revered,  and  whom  they  would  be  proud  of 
praising.  The  demand  did  not  immediately  increase  ; 
“ for,”  says  Dr.  Johnson,  “ many  more  Readers”  (he 
means  Persons  in  the  habit  of  reading  poetry)  “ than 
were  supplied  at  first  the  Nation  did  not  afford.”  IIow 
careless  must  a writer  be  who  can  make  this  assertion 
in  the  face  of  so  many  existing  title-pages  to  belie  it ! 
Turning  to  my  own  shelves,  I find  the  folio  of  Cowley, 
7th  Edition,  1681.  A book  near  it  is  Flatman’s  Poems, 
4th  Edition,  1686.  Waller,  5th  Edition,  same  date. 
The  Poems  of  Norris  of  Bemerton  not  long  after  went, 
I believe,  through  nine  Editions.  What  further  de- 
mand there  might  be  for  these  works  I do  not  know, 
but  I well  remember,  that  25  years  ago,  tlie  Booksell- 
ers’ stalls  in  London  swarmed  with  the  folios  of  Cow'- 
ley.  This  is  not  mentioned  in  disparagement  of  that 
able  writer  and  amiable  Man ; but  merely  to  show — 
that,  if  Milton’s  work  was  not  more  read,  it  was  not 
because  readers  did  not  exist  at  the  time.  The  early 
Editions  of  the  Paradise  Lost  were  printed  in  a shape 
which  allowed  them  to  be  sold  at  a low  price,  yet  only 
3000  copies  of  the  Work  were  sold  in  11  years;  and 
the  Nation,  says  Dr.  Johnson,  had  been  satisfied  from 
1623  to  1644,  that  is  21  years,  with  only  two  Editions 
of  the  Works  of  Shakspeare;  which  probably  did  not 
together  make  1000  Copies ; facts  adduced  by  the  critic 
to  prove  the  “ paucity  of  Readers.” — There  were  Read- 
ers in  multitudes ; but  their  money  went  for  other  pur- 
poses, as  their  admiration  was  fixed  elsewhere.  We 
are  authorized,  then,  to  affirm,  that  the  reception  of  the 
Paradise  Lost,  and  the  slow  progress  of  its  fame,  are 
proofs  as  striking  as  can  be  desired  that  the  positions 
which  I am  attempting  to  establish  are  not  erroneous.* 
— How  amusing  to  shape  to  one’s  self  such  a critique 
as  a Wit  of  Charles’s  days,  or  a Lord  of  the  Miscella- 
nies or  trading  Journalist  of  King  William’s  time, 
would  have  brought  forth,  if  he  had  set  his  faculties 


* Hughes  is  express  upon  this  subject ; in  his  dedication  of 
Spenser’s  Works  to  Lord  Somers,  he  writes  thus:  “ It  was  your 
Lordship’s  encouraging  a beautiful  Edition  of  Paradise  Lost  that 
first  brought  that  incomparable  Poem  to  be  generally  known  and 
esteemed.” 


industriously  to  work  upon  tliis  Poem,  every  where 
impregnated  with  original  excellence  ! 

So  strange  indeed  are  the  obliqu'ties  of  admiration, 
that  they  whose  opinions  are  much  infltienced  by  au- 
thority will  often  be  tempted  to  think  that  there  are  no 
fixed  principles!  human  nature  for  this  art  to  rest 
upon.  I have  been  honoured  by  being  permitted  to  pe- 
ruse in  MS.  a tract  composed  between  tlie  period  of 
the  Revolution  and  the  close  of  that  Century.  It  is  the 
Work  of  an  English  Peer  of  high  accomplishments,  its 
object  to  form  the  character  and  direct  the  studies  of 
his  Son.  Perhaps  nowhere  does  a more  beautiful  trea- 
tise of  the  kind  exist.  The  good  sense  and  wisdom  of 
the  thoughts,  the  delicacy  of  the  feelings,  and  the 
charm  of  the  style,  are,  throughout,  equally  conspicu- 
ous. Yet  the  Author,  selecting  among  the  Poets  of 
his  own  Country  those  whom  he  deems  most  worthy 
of  his  son’s  perusal,  particularises  only  Lord  Rochester, 
Sir  John  Denham,  and  Cowley.  Writing  about  the 
same  time,  Shaftesbury,  an  Author  at  present  unjustly 
depreciated,  describes  the  English  Muses  as  only  yet 
lisping  in  their  Cradles. 

The  arts  by  which  Pope,  soon  afterwards,  contrived 
to  procure  to  himself  a more  general  and  a higher 
reputation  than  perhaps  any  English  Poet  ever  attain- 
ed during  his  life-time,  are  known  to  the  judicious. 
And  as  well  known  is  it  to  them,  that  the  undue  e.xer- 
tion  of  these  arts  is  the  cause  why  Pope  has  for  some 
time  held  a rank  in  literature,  to  which,  if  he  had  not 
been  seduced  by  an  over-love  of  immediate  popularity,, 
and  had  confided  more  in  his  native  genius,  he  never 
could  have  descended.  He  bewitched  the  nation  by 
his  melody,  and  dazzled  it  by  his  polished  style,  and 
was  himself  blinded  by  his  own  success.  Having  wan- 
dered from  humanity  in  his  Eclogues  with  boyish  inex- 
perience, the  praise,  which  these  compositions  obtain- 
ed, tempted  him  into  a belief  that  Nature  was  not  to 
be  trusted,  at  least  in  pastoral  Poetry.  To  prove  this 
by  example,  he  put  his  friend  Gay  upon  writing  those 
Eclogues  which  the  Author  intended  to  be  burlesque. 
The  Instigator  of  the  work,  and  his  Admirers,  could 
perceive  in  them  nothing  but  what  was  ridiculous. 
Nevertheless,  though  these  Poems  contain  some  detest- 
able passages,  the  effect,  as  Dr.  Johnson  well  observe.s, 
“of  reality  and  truth  became  conspicuous  even  when 
the  intention  was  to  show  them  grovelling  and  degra- 
ded.” These  Pastorals,  ludicrous  to  those  who  prided 
themselves  upon  their  refinement,  in  spite  of  those  dis- 
gusting passages,  “ became  popular,  and  were  read  with 
delight,  as  just  representations  of  rural  manners  and 
occupations.” 

Something  less  than  60  years  after  the  publication  of 

t Thi-s  opinion  seems  actually  to  have  been  entertained  by 
Adam  Smith,  the  worst  critic,  David  Ilume  not  excepted,  that 
Scotland,  a soil  to  which  this  sort  of  weed  seems  natural,  has 
produced. 


55 


654 


APPENDIX. 


ihe  Paradise  Lost  appeared  Thomson’s  Winter;  which 
was  speedily  followed  by  his  other  Seasons.  It  is  a 
work  of  inspiration ; much  of  it  is  written  from  him- 
self, and  nobly  from  himself.  How  was  it  received  1 “ It 
was  no  sooner  read,”  says  one  of  his  contemporary  Bio- 
graphers, “ than  universally  admired  : those  only  ex- 
cepted who  had  not  been  used  to  feel,  or  to  look  for 
any  thing  in  poetry,  beyond  point  of  satirical  or  epi- 
grammatic wit,  a smart  antithesis  richly  trimmed  with 
rhyme,  or  the  softness  of  an  elegiac  complaint.  To  such 
his  manly  classical  spirit  could  not  readily  commend 
itself;  till,  after  a more  attentive  perusal,  they  had  got 
the  better  of  their  prejudices,  and  either  acquired  or  af- 
fected a truer  taste.  A few  others  stood  aloof,  merely 
because  they  had  long  before  fi.xed  the  articles  of  their 
poetical  creed,  and  resigned  themselves  to  an  absolute 
despair  of  ever  seeing  any  thing  new  and  original. 
These  were  somewhat  mortified  to  find  their  notions  dis- 
turbed by  the  appearance  of  a poet,  who  seemed  to  owe 
nothing  but  to  nature  and  his  own  genius.  But,  in  a 
short  time,  the  applause  became  unanimous ; every  one 
wondering  how  so  many  pictures,  and  pictures  so  fa- 
miliar, should  have  moved  them  but  faintly  to  what 
they  felt  in  his  descriptions.  His  digressions,  too,  the 
overflowings  of  a tender  benevolent  heart,  charmed  the 
reader  no  less;  leaving  him  in  doubt,  whether  he 
should  more  admire  the  Poet  or  love  the  Man.” 

This  case  appears  to  bear  strongly  against  us:  — 
but  we  must  distinguish  between  wonder  and  legiti- 
mate admiration.  The  subject  of  the  work  is  the 
changes  produced  in  the  appearances  of  nature  by  the 
revolution  of  the  year:  and,  by  undertaking  to  write 
in  verse,  Thomson  pledged  himself  to  treat  his  sub- 
ject as  became  a Poet.  Now  it  is  remarkable  that,  ex- 
cepting the  nocturnal  Reverie  of  Lady  Winchelsea, 
and  a passage  or  two  in  the  Windsor  Forest  of  Pope, 
the  Poetry  of  the  period  intervening  between  the  pub- 
lication of  the  Paradise  Lost  and  the  Seasons  does  not 
contain  a single  new  image  of  external  nature  ; and 
scarcely  presents  a familiar  one  from  which  it  can  be 
inferred  that  the  eye  of  the  Poet  had  been  steadily  fixed 
upon  his  object,  much  less  that  his  feelings  had  urged 
him  to  work  upon  it  in  the  spirit  of  genuine  imagination. 
To  what  a low  state  knowledge  of  the  most  obvious 
and  important  phenomena  had  sunk,  is  evident  from 
the  style  in  which  Dryden  has  executed  a description 
of  Night  in  one  of  his  Tragedies,  and  Pope  his  trans- 
lation of  the  celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the  Iliad. 
A blind  man,  in  the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to 
descriptions  casually  dropped  from  the  lips  of  those 
around  him,  might  easily  depict  these  appearances  with 
more  truth.  Dryden’s  lines  are  vague,  bombastic,  and 
senseless*;  those  of  Pope,  though  he  had  Homer  to 


* Cortez  alone  in  a night-gown. 

All  things  are  hushed  as  Nature’s  self  lay  dead : 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  liead : 


guide  him,  are  throughout  false  and  contradictory.  The 
verses  of  Dryden,  once  highly  celebrated,  are  forgotten  ; 
those  of  Pope  still  retain  their  hold  upon  public  esti- 
mation,— nay,  there  is  not  a passage  of  descriptive 
poetry,  which  at  this  day  finds  so  many  and  such 
ardent  admirers.  Strange  to  think  of  an  Enthusiast, 
as  may  have  been  the  case  with  thousands,  reciting 
those  verses  under  the  cope  of  a moonlight  sky,  with- 
out having  his  raptures  in  the  least  disturbed  by  a sus- 
picion of  their  absurdity  ! — If  these  two  distinguished 
Writers  could  habitually  think  that  the  visible  universe 
was  of  so  little  consequence  to  a Poet,  that  it  was 
scarcely  necessary  for  him  to  cast  his  eyes  upon  it,  we 
may  be  assured  that  those  passages  of  the  elder  Poets 
which  faithfully  and  poetically  describe  the  phenomena 
of  nature,  were  not  at  that  time  holden  in  much  esti- 
mation, and  that  there  was  little  accurate  attention 
paid  to  these  appearances. 

Wonder  is  the  natural  product  of  Ignorance ; and 
as  the  soil  was  in  such  good  condition  at  the  time 
of  the  publication  of  the  Seasons,  the  crop  was  doubt- 
less abundant.  Neither  individuals  nor  nations  become 
corrupt  all  at  once,  nor  are  they  enlightened  in  a mo- 
ment. Thomson  was  an  inspired  Poet,  but  he  could 
not  work  miracles ; in  cases  where  the  art  of  seeing 
had  in  some  degree  been  learned,  the  teacher  would 
further  the  proficiency  of  his  pupils,  but  he  could  do 
little  more,  though  so  far  does  vanity  assist  men  in  acts 
of  self-deception,  that  many  would  often  fancy  they 
recognized  a likeness  when  they  knew  nothing  of  the 
original.  Having  shown  that  much  of  what  his  Bio- 
grapher deemed  genuine  admiration  must  in  fact  have 
been  blind  wonderment,  — how  is  the  rest  to  be  account- 
ed for?  — Thomson  was  fortunate  in  the  very  title  oi 
his  Poem,  which  seemed  to  bring  it  home  to  the  pre- 
pared sympathies  of  every  one ; in  the  next  place,  not- 
withstanding his  high  powers,  he  writes  a vicious  style  ; 
and  his  false  ornaments  are  exactly  of  that  kind  which 
would  be  most  likely  to  strike  the  undiscerning.  He 
likewise  abounds  with  sentimental  common-places, 
that,  from  the  manner  in  which  they  were  brought  for- 
ward, bore  an  imposing  air  of  novelty.  In  any  well- 
used  copy  of  the  Seasons,  the  Book  generally  opens  of 
itself  with  the  rhapsody  on  love,  or  with  one  of  the 
stories  (perhaps  Damon  and  Musidora) ; these  also  are 
prominent  in  our  Collections  of  Extracts;  and  are  the 
parts  of  his  Work,  which,  after  all,  were  probably 
most  efficient  in  first  recommending  the  -author  to 
general  notice.  Pope,  repaying  praises  which  he  had 
received,  and  wishing  to  extol  him  to  the  highest,  only 
styles  him  “an  elegant  and  philosophical  Poet;”  nor 
are  we  able  to  collect  any  unquestionable  proofs  that 
the  true  characteristics  of  Thomson’s  genius  as  an 

The  litlle  Birds  in  dreams  Ihcir  songs  repeat. 

And  sleeping  Flowere  beneath  the  Night-dew  sweat: 

Even  Lust  and  Envy  sleep ; yet  Love  denies 

Rest  to  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes. 

Dryden’s  Indian  Emperor 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


655 


imaginative  Poet*  were  perceived,  till  the  elder  War- 
ton,  almost  40  years  after  the  publication  of  the  Sea- 
sons, pointed  them  out  by  a note  in  his  Essay  on  the 
Life  and  Writings  of  Pope.  In  the  Castle  of  Indolence 
(of  which  Gray  speaks  so  coldly)  these  characteristics 
were  almost  as  conspicuously  displayed,  and  in  verse 
more  harmonious,  and  diction  more  pure.  Yet  that 
fine  Poem  was  neglected  on  its  appearance,  and  is  at 
this  day  the  delight  only  of  a Few  ! 

When  Thomson  died,  Collins  breathed  forth  his  re- 
grets in  an  Elegiac  Poem,  in  which  he  pronounces  a 
poetical  curse  upon  him  who  should  regard  with  insen- 
sibility the  place  where  the  Poet’s  remains  were  de- 
posited. The  Poems  of  the  mourner  himself  have  now 
passed  through  innumerable  Editions,  and  are  univer- 
sally known ; but  if,  when  Collins  died,  the  same  kind 
of  imprecation  had  been  pronounced  by  a surviving 
admirer,  small  is  the  number  whom  it  would  not  have 
comprehended.  The  notice  which  his  poems  attained 
during  his  life-time  was  so  small,  and  of  course  the 
sale  so  insignificant,  that  not  long  before  his  death  he 
deemed  it  right  to  repay  to  the  Bookseller  the  sum 
which  he  had  advanced  for  them,  and  threw  the  Edition 
into  the  fire . 

Next  in  importance  to  the  Seasons  of  Thomson, 
though  at  considerable  distance  from  that  work  in  order 
of  time,  come  the  Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry ; 
collected,  new-modelled,  and  in  many  instances  (if  such 
a contradiction  in  terms  may  be  used)  composed  by  the 
Editor,  Dr.  Percy.  This  work  did  not  steal  silently 
into  the  world,  as  is  evident  from  the  number  of  legen- 
dary tales,  which  appeared  not  long  after  its  publica- 
tion ; and  which  were  modelled,  as  the  Authors  persua- 
ded themselves,  after  the  Old  Ballad.  The  Compila- 
tion was  however  ill  suited  to  the  then  existing  taste 
of  City  society ; and  Dr.  Johnson,  ’mid  the  little  senate 
to  which  he  gave  laws,  was  not  sparing  in  his  exertions 
to  make  it  an  object  of  contempt.  The  Critic  triumph- 
ed, the  legendary  imitators  were  deservedly  disregard- 
ed, and,  as  undeservedly,  their  ill-imitated  models  sank, 
in  this  Country,  into  temporary  neglect;  while  Burger, 
and  other  able  writers  of  Germany,  were  translating, 
or  irritating  these  Reliques,  and  composing,  with  the 
aid  of  inspiration  thence  derived.  Poems  which  are  the 
delight  of  the  German  nation.  Dr.  Percy  was  so 
abashed  by  the  ridicule  flung  upon  his  labours  from  the 
ignorance  and  insensibility  of  the  Persons  with  whom 
he  lived,  that,  though  while  he  was  writing  under  a 
mask  he  had  not  wanted  resolution  to  follow  his  genius 
into  the  regions  of  true  simplicity  and  genuine  pathos 
(as  is  evinced  by  the  exquisite  ballad  of  Sir  Cauline 


* Since  these  observations  upon  Thomson  were  written,  I 
have  perused  the  2d  Edition  of  his  Seasons,  and  find  that  even 
that  does  not  contain  the  most  striking  passages  which  Warton 
points  out  for  admiration;  these,  with  other  improvements, 
throughout  the  whole  work,  must  have  been  added  at  a later 
period. 


I and  by  many  other  pieces),  yet  w’hen  he  appeared  in 
his  own  person  and  character  as  a poetical  writer,  he 
I adopted,  as  in  the  tale  of  The  Hermit  of  Warkworth, 
I a diction  scarcely  in  any  one  of  its  features  distinguish- 
I able  from  the  vague,  the  glossy,  and  unfeeling  language 
' of  his  day.  I mention  this  remarkable  factf  with  re- 
j gret,  esteeming  the  genius  of  Dr.  Percy  in  this  kind 
of  writing  superior  to  that  of  any  other  man  by  whom 
in  modern  times  it  has  been  cultivated.  That  even 
Burger  (to  whom  Klopstock  gave,  in  my  hearing,  a 
commendation  which  he  denied  to  Goethe  and  Schiller, 
pronouncing  him  to  be  a genuine  Poet,  and  one  of  the 
few  among  the  Germans  whose  works  would  last,)  had 
not  the  fine  sensibility  of  Percy,  might  be  shown  from 
many  passages,  in  which  he  has  deserted  his  original 
only  to  go  astray.  For  example. 

Now  daye  was  gone,  and  night  was  come, 

An<i  all  were  fa.st  asleepe, 

All  save  the  Lady  Emeline, 

Wlio  sate  in  her  bowre  to  weepe : 

And  soone  she  heard  her  true-love’s  voicn 
Low  whispering  at  the  walle. 

Awake,  awake,  my  dear  Ladye, 

T is  I thy  true-love  call. 

Which  is  thus  tricked  out  and  dilated : 

Als  nun  die  Nacht  Gebirg’  und  Tha 
Vermuramt  in  Rabenschatten, 

Und  Ilochburgs  Lampen  uber-all 
Schon  ausgeflimmert  batten, 

Und  alles  tief  enischlafen  war; 

Doch  nur  das  Fraulein  immerdar, 

Voll  Fieberangst,  noch  wachte, 

Und  seinen  Ritter  dachte : 

Da  horch  ! Ein  susser  Liebeslon 
Kam  leis’  empor  geflogen. 

“ tio,  Trudehen,  ho ! Da  bin  ich  schon ! 

Frisch  auf!  Dich  angezogen  !” 

But  from  humble  ballads  we  must  ascend  to  heroics. 

All  hail,  Maepherson  ! hail  to  thee.  Sire  of  Ossian  ! 
The  Phantom  was  begotten  by  the  snug  embrace  of 
an  impudent  Highlander  upon  a cloud  of  tradition — it 
travelled  southward,  where  it  was  greeted  with  accla- 
mation, and  the  thin  Consistence  took  its  course  through 
Europe,  upon  the  breath  of  popular  applause.  The 
Editor  of  the  “ Reliques”  had  indirectly  preferred  a 
claim  to  the  praise  of  invention,  by  not  concealing  that 
his  supplementary  labours  were  considerable ! how 
selfish  his  conduct,  contrasted  with  that  of  the  disinter- 
ested Gael,  who,  like  Lear,  gives  his  kingdom  away, 
and  is  content  to  become  a pensioner  upon  his  own 

t Shenstone,  in  his  Schoolmistress,  gives  a still  more  remarka- 
ble instance  of  this  timidity.  On  its  first  appearance,  (See  D’lsra- 
eli’s  2d  Series  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature)  the  Poem  was 
accompanied  with  an  absurd  prose  commentary,  showing,  as  in- 
deed some  incongruous  expressions  in  the  text  imply,  that  the 
whole  was  intended  for  burlesque.  In  subsequent  editions,  the 
commentary  was  dropped,  and  the  People  have  since  continued 
to  read  in  seriousness,  doing  fiir  the  Author  what  he  had  not 
courage  openly  to  venture  upon  for  liimself. 


656 


APPENDIX. 


issue  for  a beggarly  pittance!  — Open  this  far-famed 
Book  ! — I liave  done  so  at  random,  and  the  beginning 
of  the  “Epic  Poem  Temora,”  in  8 Books,  presents 
itself.  “ The  blue  waves  of  Ullin  roll  in  light.  The 
green  hills  are  covered  with  day.  Trees  shake  their 
dusky  heads  in  the  breeze.  Gray  torrents  pour  their 
noisy  streams.  Two  green  hills  with  aged  oaks  sur-  | 
round  a narrow  plain.  The  blue  course  of  a stream  is  ! 
there.  On  its  banks  stood  Cairbar  of  Atha.  Ilis  spear 
supports  the  king;  the  red  eyes  of  his  fear  are  sad. 
Cormac  rises  on  his  soul  with  all  his  ghastly  wounds.” 
Precious  memorandums  fiom  the  pocket-book  of  the 
blind  Ossian  ! 

If  it  be  unbecoming,  as  I acknowledge  that  for  the 
most  part  it  is,  to  speak  disrespectfully  of  Works  that 
have  enjoyed  for  a length  of  time  a widely-spread  repu- 
tation, without  at  the  same  time  producing  irrefraga- 
ble proofs  of  their  unworthiness,  let  me  be  forgiven 
upon  this  occasion.  — Having  had  the  good  fortune  to 
be  born  and  reared  in  a mountainous  Country,  from  my 
very  childhood  I have  felt  the  falsehood  that  pervades 
the  volumes  imposed  upon  the  World  under  the  name 
of  Ossian.  From  what  I saw  with  my  own  eyes,  I 
knew  that  the  imagery  was  spurious.  In  nature  every 
thing  is  distinct,  yet  nothing  defined  into  absolute  in- 
dependent singleness.  In  Macpherson’s  work  it  is  ex- 
actly the  reverse  ; every  thing  (that  is  not  stolen)  is  in 
this  manner  defined,  insulated,  dislocated,  deadened, — 
yet  nothing  distinct.  It  will  always  be  so  when  words 
are  substituted  for  things.  To  say  that  the  characters 
never  could  exist,  that  the  manners  are  impossible,  and 
that  a dream  has  more  substance  than  the  w'hole  state 
of  society,  as  there  depicted,  is  doing  nothing  more 
than  pronouncing  a censure  which  Macpherson  defied ; 
when,  with  the  steeps  of  Morven  before  his  eyes,  he 
could  talk  so  familiarly  of  his  car-borne  heroes; — of 
Morven,  which,  if  one  may  judge  from  its  appearance 
at  the  distance  of  a few  miles,  contains  scarcely  an 
acre  of  ground  sufficiently  accommodating  for  a sledge 
to  be  trailed  along  its  surface.  — Mr.  Malcolm  Laing 
has  ably  shown  that  the  diction  of  this  pretended  trans- 
lation is  a motley  assemblage  from  all  quarters  ; but  he 
is  so  fond  of  making  out  parallel  passages  as  to  call 
poor  Macpherson  to  account  for  his  very  “ ands"  and 
his  and  he  has  weakened  his  argument  by 

conducting  it  as  if  he  thought  that  every  striking  re- 
semblance was  a conscious  plagiarism.  It  is  enough 
that  the  coincidences  are  too  remarkable  for  its  being 
probable  or  possible  that  they  could  arise  in  different 
minds  without  communication  between  them.  Now  as 
the  Translators  of  the  Bible,  Shakspeare,  Milton,  and 
Pope,  could  not  be  indebted  to  Macpherson,  it  follows 
that  he  must  have  owed  his  fine  feathers  to  them ; un- 
less we  are  prepared  gravely  to  assert,  with  Madame 
de  Stael,  that  many  of  the  characteristic  beauties  of 
our  most  celebrated  English  Poets  are  derived  from  the 
ancient  Fingallian ; in  which  case  the  modern  transla- 


tor would  have  been  but  giving  back  to  Ossian  his  own. 
— It  is  consistent  that  Lucien  Buonaparte,  who  would 
censure  Milton  for  having  surrounded  Satan  in  the  in- 
fernal regions  with  courtly  and  regal  splendour,  should 
pronounce  the  modern  Ossian  to  be  the  glory  of  Scot- 
land ; — a Country  that  has  produced  a Dunbar,  a Bu- 
chanan, a Thomson,  and  a Burns!  These  opinions 
are  of  ill  omen  for  the  Epic  ambition  of  him  who  has 
given  them  to  the  world. 

Yet,  much  as  these  pretended  treasures  of  antiquity 
have  been  admired,  they  have  been  wholly  uninfluentiai 
upon  the  literature  of  the  country.  No  succeeding 
Writer  appears  to  have  caught  from  them  a ray  of  in- 
j spiration;  no  Author,  in  the  least  distinguished,  has 
ventured  formally  to  imitate  them  — except  the  Boy, 
Chatterton,  on  their  first  appearance.  He  had  perceiv  ■ 
j ed,  from  the  successful  trials  which  he  himself  had 
! made  in  literary  forgery,  how  few  critics  were  able  to 
distinguish  between  a real  ancient  medal  and  a coun- 
terfeit of  modern  manufacture;  and  he  set  himself  to 
the  work  of  filling  a Magazine  with  Saxon  poems, — 
counterparts  of  those  of  Ossian,  as  like  his  as  one  of 
his  misty  stars  is  to  another.  This  incapability  to  amal- 
gamate with  the  literature  of  the  Island,  is,  in  my  es- 
timation, a decisive  proof  that  the  book  is  essentially 
I unnatural ; nor  should  I require  any  other  to  demon- 
strate it  to  be  a forgery,  audacious  as  worthless. — Con- 
trast, in  this  respect,  the  effect  of  Macpherson’s  publi- 
cation with  the  Reliques  of  Percy,  so  unassuming,  so 
modest  in  their  pretensions ! — I have  already  stated 
how  much  Germany  is  indebted  to  this  latter  work ; 
and  for  our  own  Country,  its  Poetry  has  been  abso- 
lutely redeemed  by  it.  I do  not  think  that  there  is  an 
able  Writer  in  verse  of  the  present  day  who  would  not 
be  proud  to  acknowledge  his  obligations  to  the  Reliques ; 
I know  that  is  so  with  my  friends ; and,  for  myself,  I 
am  happy  in  this  occasion  to  make  a public  avowal  of 
my  own. 

Dr.  Johnson,  more  fortunate  in  his  contempt  of  the 
labours  of  Macpherson  than  those  of  his  modest  friend, 
was  solicited  not  long  after  to  furnish  Prefaces  bio- 
graphical and  critical  for  the  works  of  some  of  the  most 
eminent  English  Poets.  The  Booksellers  took  upon 
themselves  to  make  the  collection  ; they  referred  proba- 
bly to  the  most  popular  miscellanies,  and  unquestion- 
ably, to  their  Books  of  accounts;  and  decided  upon  the 
claim  of  Authors  to  be  admitted  into  a body  of  the  most 
Eminent,  from  the  familiarity  of  their  names  with  the 
readers  of  that  day,  and  by  the  profits,  which,  from  the 
sale  of  his  works,  each  had  brought  and  was  bringing 
I to  the  Trade.  The  Editor  was  allowed  a limited  ex- 
ercise of  discretion,  and  the  Authors  whom  he  recom- 
mended are  scarcely  to  be  mentioned  without  a smile. 
We  open  the  volume  of  Prefatory  Lives,  and  to  our 
astonishment  the  first  name  we  find  is  that  of  Cowley  ! 
— What  is  become  of  the  Morning-star  of  English  Po- 
etry ! Where  is  the  bright  Elizabethan  Constellation* 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


G57 


Or,  if  Names  be  more  acceptable  than  images,  where 
isthe  ever-to-be-honoured  Chaucer  1 where  is  Spenser? 
where  Sidney  ? and,  lastly,  where  he,  whose  rights  as 
a Poet,  contradistinguished  from  those  which  he  is  uni- 
versally allowed  to  possess  as  a Dramatist,  we  have 
vindicated, — where  Shakspeare? — These,  and  a multi- 
tude of  others  not  unworthy  to  he  placed  near  them, 
their  contemporaries  and  successors,  we  have  not.  But 
in  their  stead,  we  have  (could  better  be  expected  when 
precedence  was  to  be  settled  by  an  abstract  of  reputa- 
tion at  any  given  period  made,  as  in  this  case  before 
us?)  Roscommon,  and  Stepney,  and  Phillips,  and 
Walsh,  and  Smith,  and  Duke,  and  King,  and  Spratt — 
Halifax,  Granville,  Sheffield,  Congreve,  Broome,  and 
other  reputed  Magnates : Writers  in  metre  utterly 

worthless  and  useless,  except  for  occasions  like  the 
present,  when  their  productions  are  referred  to  as  evi- 
dence what  a small  quantity  of  brain  is  necessary  to 
procure  a considerable  stock  of  admiration,  provided 
the  aspirant  will  accommodate  himself  to  the  likings 
and  fashions  of  his  day. 

As  I do  not  mean  to  bring  dowm  this  retrospect  to  our 
own  times,  it  may  with  propriety  be  closed  at  the  era 
of  this  distinguished  event.  From  the  literature  of 
other  ages  and  countries,  proofs  equally  cogent  might 
have  been  adduced,  that  the  opinions  announced  in  the 
former  part  of  this  Essay  are  founded  upon  truth.  It 
was  not  an  agreeable  office,  nor  a prudent  undertaking, 
to  declare  them  ; but  their  importance  seemed  to  ren- 
der it  a duty.  It  may  still  be  asked,  where  lies  the 
particular  relation  of  what  has  been  said  to  these  Vol- 
umes?— The  question  will  be  easily  answered  by  the 
discerning  Reader  who  is  old  enough  to  remember  the 
taste  that  prevailed  when  some  of  these  Poems  were 
first  published,  17  years  ago;  who  has  also  observed  to 
what  degree  the  Poetry  of  this  Island  has  since  that 
period  been  coloured  by  them ; and  who  is  further 
aware  of  the  unremitting  hostility  with  which,  upon 
some  principle  or  other,  they  have  each  and  all  been 
opposed.  A sketch  of  my  own  notion  of  the  constitu- 
tion of  Fame  has  been  given;  and,  as  far  as  concerns 
myself,  I have  cause  to  be  satisfied.  The  love,  the  ad- 
miration, the  indifference,  the  slight,  the  aversion,  and 
even  the  contempt,  with  which  these  Poems  have  been 
received,  knowing,  as  I do,  the  source  within  my  own 
mind,j(rom  which  they  have  proceeded,  and  the  labour 
and  pains,  which,  when  labour  and  pains  appeared 
needful,  have  been  bestowed  upon  them,  must  all,  if  I 
think  consistently,  be  received  as  pledges  and  tokens, 
bearing  the  same  general  impression,  though  widely 
different  in  value ; — they  are  all  proofs  that  for  the  pre- 
sent time  I have  not  laboured  in  vain ; and  affijrd  assu- 
rances, more  or  less  authentic,  that  the  products  of  my 
industry  will  endure. 

If  there  be  one  conclusion  more  forcibly  pressed  up- 
on us  than  another  by  the  review  which  has  been  given 
of  the  fortunes  and  fate  of  Poetical  Works,  it  is  this, — 
4H 


that  every  Author,  as  far  as  he  is  great  and  at  the  same 
time  original,  has  had  the  task  of  creating  the  taste 
by  which  he  is  to  be  enjoyed : so  has  it  been,  so  will  it 
continue  to  be.  This  remark  was  long  since  made  to 
me  by  the  philosophical  Friend  for  the  separation  of 
whose  Poems  from  my  own  I have  previouslv  express- 
ed my  regret.  The  predecessors  of  an  original  Genius 
of  a high  order  will  have  smoothed  the  way  fir  all  that 
he  has  in  common  with  them; — and  much  he  will  have 
in  common  ; but,  for  what  is  peculiarly  his  own,  he 
will  be  called  upon  to  clear  and  often  to  shape  his  own 
road : — he  will  be  in  the  condition  of  Hannibal  among 
the  Alps. 

And  where  lies  the  real  difficulty  of  creating  that 
taste  by  which  a truly  original  Poet  is  to  be  relished? 
Is  it  in  breaking  the  bonds  of  custom,  in  overcoming 
the  prejudices  of  false  refinement,  and  displacing  the 
aversions  of  inexperience?  Or,  if  he  labour  for  an 
object  which  here  and  elsewhere  I have  proposed  to 
myself,  does  it  consist  in  divesting  the  Reader  of  the 
pride  that  induces  him  to  dwell  upon  those  points  where- 
in Men  differ  from  each  other,  to  the  exclusion  of  those 
in  which  all  Men  are  alike,  or  the  same;  and  in 
making  him  ashamed  of  the  vanity  that  rendei  s him  in- 
sensible of  the  appropriate  excellence  which  civil  ar- 
rangement.*, less  unjust  than  might  appear,  and  Nature 
illimitable  in  her  bounty,  have  conferred  on  Men  who 
stand  below  him  in  the  scale  of  society?  Finally,  does 
it  lie  in  establishing  that  dominion  over  the  spirits  of 
Readers  by  which  they  are  to  be  humbled  and  human- 
ised, in  order  that  they  may  be  purified  and  exalted  ? 

If  these  ends  are  to  be  attained  by  the  mere  com- 
munication of  knowledge,  it  does  not  lie  here. — T.\ste, 
I would  remind  the  Reader,  like  Im.vgination,  is  a 
word  which  has  been  forced  to  extend  its  services  far 
beyond  the  point  to  which  philosophy  would  have  con- 
fined them.  It  is  a metaphor,  taken  from  a passive 
sense  of  the  human  body,  and  transferred  to  things 
which  are  in  their  essence  not  passive, — to  intel- 
lectual acts  and  operations.  The  word,  Imagination, 
has  been  overstrained,  from  impulses  honourable  to 
mankind,  to  meet  the  demands  of  the  faculty  which  is 
perhaps  the  noblest  of  our  nature.  In  the  instance  of 
Taste,  the  process  has  been  reversed ; and  from  the 
prevalence  of  dispositions  at  once  injurious  and  discre- 
ditable,— being  no  other  than  that  selfishness  which 
is  the  child  of  apathy,  — which,  as  Nations  decline  in 
productive  and  creative  power,  makes  them  value 
themselves  upon  a presumed  refinement  of  judging. 
Poverty  of  language  is  the  primary  cause  of  the  use 
which  we  make  of  the  word.  Imagination ; but  the 
word.  Taste,  has  been  stretched  to  the  sense  which  it 
bears  in  modern  Europe  by  habits  of  self-conceit,  in- 
ducing that  inversion  in  the  order  of  things  whereby  a 
passive  faculty  is  made  paramount  among  the  faculties 
conversant  with  the  fine  arts.  Proportion  and  con- 
gruity,  the  requisite  knowledge  being  supposed,  are 


658 


APPENDIX. 


subjects  upon  which  taste  may  be  trusted ; it  is  compe- 
tent to  this  office;  — for  in  its  intercourse  with  these 
the  mind  is  passive,  and  is  affected  painfully  or 
pleasurably  as  by  an  instinct.  But  the  profound  and 
the  exquisite  in  feeling,  tlie  lofty  and  universal  in 
thought  and  imagination ; or,  in  ordinary  language,  the 
pathetic  and  the  sublime;  — ate  neither  of  them,  ac- 
curately speaking,  objects  of  a faculty  which  could 
ever  without  a sinking  in  the  spirit  of  Nations  have 
been  designated  by  the  metaphor  — Taste.  And  why? 
Because  without  the  exertion  of  a co-operating  power 
in  the  mind  of  the  Reader,  there  can  be  no  adequate 
sympathy  with  either  of  these  emotions : without  this 
auxiliary  impulse,  elevated  or  profound  passion  cannot 
exist. 

Passion,  it  must  be  observed,  is  derived  from  a word 
which  signifies  suffering ; but  the  connection  which 
suffering  has  with  effort,  with  exertion,  and  action,  is 
immediate  and  inseparable.  How  strikingly  is  this 
property  of  human  nature  exhibited  by  the  fact,  that, 
in  popular  language,  to  be  in  a passion,  is  to  be  angry  ! 
— But, 

“ Anger  in  hasty  words  or  blows 
Itself  discharges  on  its  foes.” 

To  be  moved,  then,  by  a passion,  is  to  be  excited,  often 
to  external,  and  always  to  internal,  effort ; whether  for 
the  continuance  and  strengthening  of  the  passion,  or 
for  its  suppression,  accordingly  as  the  course  w'hich  it 
takes  may  be  painful  or  pleasurable.  If  the  latter,  the 
soul  must  contribute  to  its  support,  or  it  never  becomes 
vivid,  — and  soon  languishes,  and  dies.  And  this 
brings  us  to  the  point.  If  every  great  Poet  with  whose 
writings  men  are  familiar,  in  the  highest  exercise  of 
his  geniu.s,  before  he  can  be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  has 
to  call  forth  and  to  communicate  power,  this  service,  in 
a still  greater  degree,  falls  upon  an  original  Writer,  at 
his  first  appearance  in  the  world.  — Of  genius  the 
only  proof  is,  the  act  of  doing  well  what  is  worthy  to 
be  done,  and  what  was  never  done  before  : Of  genius, 
in  the  fine  arts,  the  only  infallible  sign  is  the  widening 
the  spheres  of  human  sensibility,  for  the  delight, 
honour,  and  benefit  of  human  nature.  Genius  is  the 
introduction  of  a new  element  into  the  intellectual 
universe:  or,  if  that  be  not  allowed,  it  is  the  applica- 
tion of  powers  to  objects  on  which  they  had  not  before 
been  exercised,  or  the  employment  of  them  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  produce  effects  hitherto  unknown.  What 
is  all  this  but  an  advance,  or  a conquest,  made  by  the 
soul  of  the  Poet?  Is  it  to  be  supposed  that  the  Reader 
can  make  progress  of  this  kind,  like  an  Indian  Prince 
or  General  — stretched  on  his  Palanquin,  and  borne  by 
his  Slaves  ? No,  he  is  invigorated  and  inspirited  hy 
his  Leader,  in  order  that  he  may  exert  himself;  for  he 
cannot  proceed  in  quiescence,  he  cannot  be  carried 
like  a dead  weight.  Therefore  to  create  taste  is  to 
call  forth  and  bestow  power,  of  which  knowledge 
the  effect;  and  there  lies  the  true  difficulty. 


As  the  pathetic  participates  of  an  animal  sensation, 
it  might  seem  — that,  if  the  springs  of  this  emotion 
W'ere  genuine,  all  men,  possessed  of  competent  know- 
ledge of  the  facts  and  circumstances,  would  be  instan- 
taneously affected.  And,  doubtless,  in  the  works  of 
every  true  Poet  will  be  found  passages  of  that  sj)ecies 
of  excellence,  which  is  proved  by  effects  immediate 
and  universal.  But  there  are  emotions  of  the  pathetic 
that  are  simple  and  direct,  and  others — that  are  com- 
plex and  revolutionary;  some  — to  which  the  heart 
yields  with  gentleness,  others — against  which  it  strug- 
gles with  pride  : these  varieties  are  infinite  as  the  com- 
binations of  circumstance  and  the  constitutions  of 
character.  Remember,  also,  that  the  medium  through 
which,  in  poetry,  the  heart  is  to  be  affected  — is  lan- 
guage; a thing  subject  to  endless  fluctuations  and  ar- 
bitrary associations.  The  genius  of  the  Poet  melts 
these  down  for  his  purpose  ; but  they  retain  their  shape 
and  quality  to  him  who  is  not  capable  of  exerting, 
within  his  own  mind,  a corresponding  energy.  There 
is  also  a meditative,  as  well  as  a human,  pathos ; an 
enthusiastic,  as  well  as  an  ordinary,  sorrow;  a sadness 
that  has  its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason,  to  which  the 
mind  cannot  sink  gently  of  itself — but  to  which  it 
must  descend  by  treading  the  steps  of  thought.  And 
for  the  sublime,  — if  we  consider  what  are  the  cares 
that  occupy  the  passing  day,  and  how  remote  is  the 
practice  and  the  course  of  life  from  the  sources  of  sub- 
limity, in  the  soul  of  Man,  can  it  be  wondered  that 
there  is  little  existing  preparation  for  a Poet  charged 
with  a new  mission  to  extend  its  kingdom,  and  to  aug- 
ment and  spread  its  enjoyments? 

Away,  then,  with  the  senseless  iteration  of  the  word, 
popular,  applied  to  new  works  in  Poetry,  as  if  there 
were  no  test  of  excellence  in  this  first  of  the  fine  arts 
but  that  all  Men  should  run  after  its  productions,  as  if 
urged  by  an  appetite,  or  constrained  by  a spell ! — The 
qualities  of  writing  best  fitted  for  eager  reception  are 
either  such  as  startle  the  world  into  attention  by  their 
audacity  and  extravagance;  or  they  are  chiefly  of  a 
superficial  kind,  lying  upon  the  surfaces  of  manners ; 
or  arising  out  of  a selection  and  arrangement  of  inci- 
dents, by  which  the  mind  is  kept  upon  the  stretch  of 
curiosity,  and  the  fancy  amused  without  the  trouble 
of  thought.  But  in  every  thing  which  is  to  send  the 
soul  into  herself,  to  be  admonished  of  her  weak»ess,  or 
to  he  made  conscious  of  her  power ; — wherever  life 
and  nature  are  described  as  operated  upon  by  the  crea- 
tive or  abstracting  virtue  of  the  imagination  ; wherever 
the  instinctive  wisdom  of  antiquity  and  her  heroic  pas- 
sions uniting,  in  the  heart  of  the  Poet,  with  the  medi- 
tative wisdom  of  later  ages,  have  produced  that  accord 
of  sublimated  humanity,  which  is  at  once  a history  of 
the  remote  past  and  a prophetic  annunciation  of  the 
remotest  future,  there,  the  Poet  must  reconcile  himself 
for  a season  to  few  and  scattered  hearers.  — Grand 


ESSAY  SUPPLEMENTARY  TO  THE  PREFACE. 


C.'iO 


thoughts  (and  Shakspeare  must  often  have  sighed  over 
this  truth),  as  they  are  most  naturally  and  most  fitly 
conceived  in  solitude,  so  can  they  not  be  brought  forth 
in  the  midst  of  plaudits,  without  some  violation  of 
their  sanctity.  Go  to  a silent  exhibition  of  the  pro- 
ductions of  the  Sister  Art,  and  be  convinced  that  the 
qualities  which  dazzle  at  first  sight,  and  kindle  the 
admiration  of  the  multitude,  are  essentially  different 
from  those  by  wliich  permanent  influence  is  secured. 
Let  us  not  shrink  from  following  up  these  principles  as 
far  as  they  will  carry  us,  and  conclude  with  observing 
— that  there  never  has  been  a period,  and  perhaps 
never  will  be,  in  which  vicious  poetry,  of  some  kind 
or  other,  has  not  excited  more  zealous  admiration,  and 
been  far  more  generally  read,  than  good  ; but  this  ad- 
vantage attends  the  good,  that  the  individual,  as  well 
as  the  species,  survives  from  age  to  age;  whereas,  of 
the  depraved,  though  the  species  be  immortal,  the  in- 
dividual quickly  perishes ; the  object  of  present  ad- 
miration vanishes,  being  supplanted  by  some  other  as 
easily  produced;  which,  though  no  better,  brings  with 
it  at  least  the  irritation  of  novelty,  — with  adaptation, 
more  or  less  skilful,  to  the  changing  humours  of  the 
majority  of  those  who  are  most  at  leisure  to  regard 
poetical  works  when  they  first  solicit  their  attention. 

Is  it  the  result  of  the  whole,  that,  in  the  opinion  of 
the  Writer,  the  judgment  of  the  People  is  not  to  be 
respected  1 The  thought  is  most  injurious ; and,  could 
the  charge  be  brought  against  him,  he  would  repel  it 
with  indignation.  The  People  have  already  been  jus- 
tified, and  their  eulogium  pronounced  by  implication, 
when  it  was  said,  above  — that,  of  good  Poetry,  the 
individual,  as  well  as  the  species,  survives.  And  how 
does  it  survive  but  through  the  People  1 what  pre- 
serves it  but  their  intellect  and  their  wisdom  ? 


“ Past  and  future,  are  the  wings 

On  whose  support,  harmoniously  conjoined. 

Moves  the  great  Spirit  of  human  knowledge ” 

MS. 

The  voice  that  issues  from  this  Spirit,  is  that  Vox 
Populi  whicli  the  Deity  inspires.  Foolish  must  lie  be 
wlio  can  mistake  for  this  a local  acclamation,  or  a 
transitory  outcry  — transitory  though  it  be  for  years, 
local  though  from  a Nation.  Still  more  lamentable  is 
his  error  who  can  believe  that  there  is  any  thing  of 
divine  infallibility  in  the  clamonr  of  that  small  though 
loud  portion  of  the  community,  ever  governed  by  fac- 
titious influence,  which,  under  the  name  of  the  Pub- 
lic, passes  itself,  upon  the  unthinking,  for  the  People. 
Towards  the  Public,  the  Writer  hopes  that  he  feels  as 
much  deference  as  it  is  entitled  to : but  to  the  People, 
philosophically  characterised,  and  to  the  embodied 
spirit  of  their  knowledge,  so  far  as  it  exists  and  moves, 
at  the  present,  faithfully  supported  by  its  two  wings, 
the  past  and  the  future,  his  devout  respect,  his 
reverence,  is  due.  He  offers  it  willingly  and  readily  ; 
and,  this  done,  takes  leave  of  his  Readers,  by  assuring 
them  — that,  if  he  were  not  persuaded  that  the  Con- 
tents of  this  Volume,  and  the  Work  to  which  they 
are  subsidiary,  evinced  something  of  the  “ Vision  and 
the  Faculty  divine ;”  and  that,  both  in  words  and 
things,  they  will  operate  in  their  degree,  to  extend 
the  domain  of  sensibility  for  the  delight,  the  honour, 
and  the  benefit  of  human  nature,  notwithstanding  the 
many  happy  hours  which  he  has  employed  in  their 
composition,  and  the  manifold  comforts  and  enjoyments 
they  have  procured  to  him,  he  w’ould  not,  if  a wish 
could  do  it,  save  them  from  immediate  des' ruction;  — 
from  becoming  at  this  moment  to  the  world,  as  a thing 
that  had  never  been. 


APPENDIX  III 


OBSERVATIONS 

PREFIXED  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION  OF  SEVERAL  OF  THE  FOREGOING  POEMS,  PUBLISHED 
WITH  AN  ADDITIONAL  VOLUME,  UNDER  THE  TITLE  OF  “ LYRICAL  BALLADS,”*  AND  NOTE 
ON  POETIC  DICTION. 


A PORTION  of  these  Poems  has  already  been  sub- 
mitted to  general  perusal.  It  was  published,  as  an  ex- 
periment, which,  I hoped,  might  be  of  some  use  to 
ascertain,  how  far,  by  fitting  to  metrical  arrangement 
a selection  of  the  real  language  of  men  in  a state  of 
vivid  sensation,  that  sort  of  pleasure  and  that  quantity 
of  pleasure  may  be  imparted,  which  a Poet  may  ra- 
tionally endeavour  to  impart.f 

* See  Appendix  L,  page  641. 

+ [The  occasion  of  the  “ Lyrical  Ballads”  is  thus  narrated  by 
Coleridge : — 

“ During  the  first  year  that  Mr.  Wordsworth  and  I were  neigh- 
oours,  our  conversations  turned  frequently  on  the  two  cardinal 
points  of  poetry,  the  power  of  exciting  the  sympathy  of  the 
reader  by  a faithful  adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  the 
power  of  giving  the  interest  of  novelty,  by  the  modifying  co- 
lours of  imagination.  The  sudden  charm,  which  accidents  of 
light  and  shade,  which  moonlight  or  sun-set  diffused  over  a 
known  and  familiar  landscape,  appeared  to  represent  the  prac- 
ticability of  combining  both.  These  are  the  poetry  of  nature. 
The  thought  suggested  itself,  (to  which  of  us  1 do  not  recollect,) 
that  a series  of  poems  might  be  composed  of  two  sorts.  In  the 
one,  the  incidents  and  agents  were  to  be,  in  part  at  least,  super- 
natural ; and  the  excellence  aimed  at,  was  to  consist  in  the  in- 
teresting of  the  affections  by  the  dramatic  truth  of  such  emotions, 
as  would  naturally  accompany  such  situations,  supposing  them 
real.  And  real  in  this  sense  they  have  been  to  every  human 
being  who.  from  whatever  source  of  delusion,  has  at  any  time 
believed  himself  under  supernatural  agency.  For  the  second 
class,  subjects  xvere  to  be  chosen  from  ordinary  life ; the  char- 
acters and  incidents  were  to  be  such  as  will  be  found  in  every 
village  and  its  vicinity,  where  there  is  a meditative  and  feeling 
mind  to  seek  after  them,  or  to  notice  them,  when  they  present 
themselves. 

“ In  this  idea  originated  the  plan  of  the  ‘ Lyrical  Ballads 
in  which  it  was  agreed  that  my  endeavours  should  bo  directed 
to  persons  and  characters  supernatural,  or  at  least  romantic;  yet 
so  as  to  transfer  from  our  inward  nature  a human  interest,  and 
a semblance  of  truth  sufficient  to  procure  for  these  shadows  of 
imagination  that  willing  suspension  of  disbelief  for  the  moment, 
which  constitutes  poetic  faith.  Mr.  Wordsworth,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  to  propose  to  himself,  as  his  object,  to  give  the  charm 
of  novelty  to  things  of  every  day,  and  to  excite  a feeling  analo- 
gous to  the  supernatural,  by  awakening  the  mind's  attention 


I bad  formed  no  very  inaccurate  estimate  of  tbe  pro- 
bable effect  of  those  Poems : I flattered  myself  that  they 
who  should  be  pleased  with  them  would  read  them 
with  more  than  common  pleasure:  and,  on  the  other 
hand,  I was  well  aware,  that  by  those  who  should  dis- 
like them,  they  would  be  read  with  more  than  com- 
mon dislike.  The  result  has  differed  from  my  expect- 
ation in  this  only,  that  I have  pleased  a greater  num- 
ber than  I ventured  to  hope  I should  please. 

*♦*%***% 
Several  of  my  Friends  are  anxious  for  the  success 
of  these  Poems,  from  a belief,  that,  if  the  views  with 
which  they  were  composed  W'ere  indeed  realised,  a 
class  of  Poetry  would  be  produced,  well  adapted  to 
interest  mankind  permanently,  and  not  unimportant  in 
the  multiplicity,  and  in  the  quality  of  its  moral  rela- 
tions: and  on  this  account  they  have  advised  me  to 
prefix  a systematic  defence  of  the  theory  upon  which 
the  poems  were  written.  But  I was  unwilling  to  un- 
dertake the  task,  because  I knew  that  on  this  occasion 
the  Reader  would  look  coldly  upon  my  arguments, 
since  I might  be  suspected  of  having  been  principally 
influenced  by  the  selfish  and  foolish  hope  of  reasoning 
him  into  an  approbation  of  these  particular  Poems: 
and  I was  still  more  unwilling  to  undertake  the  task, 
because,  adequately  to  display  my  opinions,  and  fully 
to  enforce  my  arguments,  would  require  a space  wholly 
disproportionate  to  the  nature  of  a preface.  For  to 
treat  the  subject  with  the  clearness  and  coherence  of 
which  I believe  it  susceptible,  it  would  be  necessary 

from  the  lethargy  of  custom,  and  directing  it  to  the  loveliness 
and  the  wonders  of  the  world  before  us;  an  inexhaustible  trea- 
sure, but  for  which,  in  consequence  of  the  film  of  familiarity 
and  selfish  solicitude,  we  have  eyes,  yet  see  not,  ears  that  hear 
I not,  and  hearts  that  neither  feel  nor  understand.” 

‘ liiographia  Lilcraria' : — Ch.  liv. 

In  several  Chapters  of  the  same  work,  the  subject  of  these 
“Observations,  &c.,”  forming  Appendix  HI.  of  this  Edition,  is 
fully  discussed. II.  R.]  ^ 


OBSERVATIONS,  &c. 


GGl 


tc  give  a full  account  of  the  present  state  of  the  public 
taste  in  this  country,  and  to  determine  how  far  this 
taste  is  healthy  or  depraved  ; which,  again,  could  not 
bo  determined,  without  pointing  out,  in  what  manner 
language  and  the  human  mind  act  and  re-act  on  each 
other,  and  without  retracing  the  revolutions,  not  of  ^ 
literature  alone,  but  likewise  of  society  itself.  I have  ^ 
therefore  altogether  declined  to  enter  regularly  upon 
this  defence ; yet  I am  sensible,  that  there  would  be  ^ 
some  impropriety  in  abruptly  obtruding  upon  the  Pub- 
lic, without  a few  words  of  introduction,  Poems  so  1 
materially  different  from  those  upon  which  general 
approbation  is  at  present  bestowed. 

It  is  supposed,  that  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse  an 
Author  makes  a formal  engagement  that  he  will  gra- 
tify certain  known  habits  of  association;  that  he  not 
silly  thus  apprises  the  Reader  that  certain  classes  of  | 
ideas  and  e.^pressions  will  be  found  in  his  book,  but  , 
that  others  will  be  carefully  excluded.  This  exponent 
>r  symbol  held  forth  by  metrical  language  must  in  dif- 
ferent eras  of  literature  have  excited  very  different 
expectations:  for  example,  in  the  age  of  Catullus, 
Terence,  and  Lucretius,  and  that  of  Statius  or  Clau- 
dian;  and  in  our  own  country,  in  the  age  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  that  of  Donne 
and  Cowley,  or  Dryden,  or  Pope.  I will  not  take  upon 
me  to  determine  tlie  exact  import  of  the  promise 
which  by  the  act  of  writing  in  verse  an  Author,  in  the 
present  day,  makes  to  his  reader:  but  I am  certain  it 
will  appear  to  many  persons  that  I have  not  fulfilled 
the  terms  of  an  engagement  thus  voluntarily  con- 
tracted. They  who  have  been  accustomed  to  tlie 
gaudiness  and  inane  phraseology  of  many  modern 
writers,  if  they  persist  in  reading  this  book  to  its  con- 
clusion, will,  no  doubt,  frequently  have  to  struggle 
with  feelings  of  strangeness  and  awkwardness ; they 
will  look  round  for  poetry,  and  will  be  induced  to  en- 
quire by  what  species  of  courtesy  these  attempts  can 
be  permitted  to  assume  that  title.  I hope  therefore 
the  reader  will  not  censure  me,  if  I attempt  to  state 
what  I have  proposed  to  myself  to  perform;  and  also, 
(as  far  as  the  limits  of  a preface  will  permit)  to  explain 
some  of  the  chief  reasons  which  have  determined  me 
in  the  choice  of  my  purpose;  that  at  least  he  may  be 
spared  any  unpleasant  feeling  of  disappointment,  and 
that  I myself  may  be  protected  from  the  most  dis- 
honourable accusation  which  can  be  brought  against  an 
Author,  namely,  that  of  an  indolence  which  prevents 
him  from  endeavouring  to  ascertain  what  is  his  duty, 
or,  when  his  duty  is  ascertained,  prevents  him  from 
performing  it. 

The  principal  object,  then,  which  I proposed  to  my- 
self in  these  Poems  was  to  choose  incidents  and  situa- 
tions from  common  life,  and  to  relate  or  describe  them, 
throughout,  as  far  as  was  possible  in  a selection  of 
language  really  used  by  men,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
to  throw  over  them  a certain  colouring  of  imagination, 


whereby  ordinary  things  should  be  presented  to  the 
mind  in  an  unusual  way ; and,  further,  and  above  all, 
to  make  these  incidents  and  situations  interesting  by 
tracing  in  them,  truly,  though  not  ostentatiously,  the 
primary  laws  of  our  nature:  chiefly,  as  far  as  regaids 
the  manner  in  which  we  associate  ideas  in  a state  of 
excitement.  Humble  and  rustic  life  was  generally 
chosen,  because,  in  that  condition,  the  essential  passions 
of  the  heart  find  a belter  soil  in  which  they  can  attain 
their  maturity,  are  less  under  restraint,  and  speak  a 
plainer  and  more  emphatic  language  : because  in  that 
condition  of  life  our  elementary  feelings  co-exist  in  a 
state  of  greater  simplicity,  and,  consequently,  may  be 
more  accurately  contemplated,  and  more  forcibly  com- 
municated; because  the  manners  of  rural  life  germi- 
nate from  those  elementary  feelings ; and,  from  the 
necessary  character  of  rural  occupations,  are  more 
easily  comprehended,  and  are  more  durable ; and,  last- 
ly, because  in  that  condition  the  passions  of  men  are 
incorporated  with  the  beautiful  and  permanent  forms 
of  nature.  The  language,  too,  of  these  men  is  adopted 
(purified  indeed  from  what  appear  to  be  its  real  defects, 
from  all  lasting  and  rational  causes  of  dislike  or  dis- 
gust) because  such  men  hourly  communicate  with  the 
best  objects  from  which  the  best  part  of  language  is 
originally  derived ; and  because,  from  their  rank  in 
society  and  the  sameness  and  narrow  circle  of  their 
intercourse,  being  less  under  the  influence  of  social 
vanity,  they  convey  their  feelings  and  notions  in  siin- 
ple  and  unelahorated  expressions.  Accordingly,  such  a 
language,  arising  out  of  repeated  experience  and  regu- 
lar feelings,  is  a more  permanent,  and  a far  more  phi- 
losophical language,  than  that  which  is  frequently 
substituted  for  it  by  Poets,  who  think  that  they  are 
conferring  honour  upon  themselves  and  their  art,  in 
proportion  as  they  separate  themselves  from  the  sym- 
pathies of  men,  and  indulge  in  arbitrary  and  capricious 
habits  of  expression,  in  order  to  furnish  food  for  fickle 
tastes,  and  fickle  appetites  of  their  own  creation.* 

I cannot,  however,  be  insensible  of  the  present  out- 
cry against  the  triviality  and  meanness,  both  of  thought 
and  language,  which  some  of  my  contemporaries  have 
occasionally  introduced  into  their  metrical  compositions  ; 
and  I acknowledge  that  this  defect,  where  it  exists,  is 
more  dishonourable  to  the  Writer’s  own  character  than 
false  refinement  or  arbitrary  innovation,  though  I should 
contend,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  is  far  less  pernicious 
in  the  sum  of  its  consequences.  From  such  verses  the 
Poems  in  this  collection  will  be  found  distinguished  at 
least  by  one  mark  of  difference,  that  each  has  a worthy 
purpose.  Not  that  I mean  to  say,  I always  began  to 
write  with  a distinct  purpose  formally  conceived  ; but 
my  habits  of  meditation  have  so  formed  my  feelings, 


* It  is  worth  while  here  to  observe,  that  the  affecting  parts  of 
Chaucer  are  almost  always  expressed  in  language  pure  and  uni- 
versally intelligible  even  to  this  day. 


60 


6G-2 


APPENDIX. 


as  that  my  descriptions  of  such  objects  as  strongly  ex- 
cite those  feelings,  will  be  found  to  carry  along  with 
them  a purpose.  If  in  this  opinion  I am  mistaken,  I 
can  have  little  right  to  the  name  of  a Poet.  For  all 
good  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow  of  powerful 
feelings:  and  though  this  be  true.  Poems  to  which  any 
value  can  be  attached  were  never  produced  on  any  va- 
riety of  subjects  but  by  a man  who,  being  possessed 
of  more  than  usual  organic  sensibility,  had  also  thought 
long  and  deeply.  For  our  continued  influxes  of  feeling 
are  modified  and  directed  by  our  thoughts,  which  are 
indeed  the  representatives  of  all  our  past  feelings;  and, 
as  by  contemplating  the  relation  of  these  general  re- 
presentatives to  each  other,  we  discover  what  is  really 
important  to  men,  so,  by  the  repetition  and  continuance 
of  this  act,  our  feelings  will  be  connected  with  impor- 
tant subjects,  till  at  length,  if  we  be  originally  pos- 
sessed of  much  sensibility,  such  habits  of  mind  will  be 
produced,  that,  by  obeying  blindly  and  mechanically 
the  impulses  of  those  habits,  we  shall  describe  objects, 
and  utter  sentiments,  of  such  a nature,  and  in  such 
connection  with  each  other,  that  the  understanding  of 
the  being  to  whom  we  address  ourselves,  if  he  be  in  a 
healthful  state  of  association,  must  necessarily  be  in 
some  degree  enlightened,  and  his  affections  ameliorated. 

I have  said  that  each  of  these  jx>ems  has  a purpose. 
1 have  also  informed  my  Reader  what  this  purpose 
will  be  found  principally  to  be : namely,  to  illustrate 
the  manner  in  which  our  feelings  and  ideas  are  asso- 
ciated in  a state  of  excitement.  But,  speaking  in  lan- 
guage somewhat  more  appropriate,  it  is  to  follow  the 
fluxes  and  refluxes  of  the  mind  when  agitated  by  the 
great  and  simple  affections  of  our  nature.  This  object 
I have  endeavoured  in  these  short  essays  to  attain  by 
various  means ; by  tracing  the  maternal  passion  througn 
many  of  its  more  subtile  windings,  as  in  the  poems  of 
the  Idiot  Boy  and  the  Mad  1\Iother  ; by  accompany- 
ing the  last  struggles  of  a human  being  at  the  ap- 
proach of  death,  cleaving  in  solitude  to  life  and  society, 
as  in  the  Poem  of  the  Forsaken  Indian  ; by  showing, 
as  in  the  Stanzas  entitled  We  are  Seven,  the  per- 
plexity and  obscurity  which  in  childhood  attend  our 
notion  of  death,  or  rather  our  utter  inability  to  admit 
that  notion ; or  by  displaying  the  strength  of  fraternal, 
or,  to  speak  more  philosophically,  of  moral  attachment 
when  early  associated  with  the  great  and  beautiful  ob- 
jects of  nature,  as  in  The  Brothers;  or,  as  in  the 
Incident  of  Simon  Lee,  by  placing  my  Reader  in  the 
way  of  receiving  from  ordinary  moral  sensations 
another  and  more  salutary  impression  than  we  are  ac- 
customed to  receive  from  them.  It  has  also  been  part 
of  my  general  purpose  to  attempt  to  sketch  characters 
under  the  influence  of  less  impassioned  feelings,  as  in 
the  Two  April  Mornings,  The  Fountain,  The  Old 
]\Ian  travelling.  The  Two  Thieves,  &c.,  characters 
of  which  the  elements  are  simple,  belonging  rather  to 
nature  than  to  manners,  such  as  exist  now,  and  will  pro- 


bably always  exist,  and  which  from  their  constitution 
may  be  distinctly  and  profitably  contemplated.  I will  not 
abuse  the  indulgence  of  my  Reader  by  dwelling  longer 
upon  this  subject ; but  it  is  proper  that  I should  mention 
one  other  circumstance  which  distinguishes  these 
Poems  from  the  popular  Poetry  of  the  day  ; it  is  this, 
that  the  feeling  therein  developed  gives  importance  to 
the  action  and  situation,  and  not  the  action  and  situa- 
tion to  the  feeling.  My  meaning  will  be  rendered 
perfectly  intelligible  by  referring  my  Reader  to  the 
Poems  entitled  Poor  Susan  and  the  Childles.s  Fa- 
ther, particularly  to  the  last  Stanza  of  the  latter 
Poem. 

I will  not  suffer  a sense  of  false  modesty  to  prevent 
me  from  asserting,  that  I point  my  Reader’s  attention 
to  this  mark  of  distinction,  far  less  for  the  sake  of 
these  particular  Poems  than  from  the  general  import- 
ance of  the  subject.  The  subject  is  indeed  important ! 
For  the  human  mind  is  capable  of  being  excited  with- 
out the  application  of  gross  and  violent  sti.mulants ; 
and  ne  must  have  a very  faint  perception  of  its  beauty 
and  dignity  who  does  not  know  this,  and  who  does  not 
further  know,  that  one  being  is  elevated  above  another, 
in  proportion  as  he  possesses  this  capability.  It  has 
therefore  appeared  to  me,  that  to  endeavour  to  pnxluce 
or  enlarge  this  capability  is  one  of  the  best  services  in 
which,  at  any  period,  a Writer  can  be  engaged ; but 
this  service,  excellent  at  all  times,  is  especially  so  at 
the  present  day.  For  a multitude  of  causes,  unknown 
to  former  times,  are  now  acting  with  a combined  force 
to  blunt  the  discriminating  powers  of  the  mind,  and  un- 
fitting it  for  all  voluntary  exertion,  to  reduce  it  to  a 
state  of  almost  savage  torpor.  The  most  effective  of 
these  causes  are  the  great  national  events  which  are 
daily  taking  place,  and  the  increasing  accumulation  of 
men  in  cities,  where  the  uniformity  of  their  occupa- 
tions produces  a craving  for  extraordinary  incident, 
which  the  rapid  communication  of  intelligence  hourly 
gratifies.  To  this  tendency  of  life  and  manners  the 
literature  and  theatrical  e.xhibitions  of  the  country  have 
conformed  themselves.  The  invaluable  works  of  our 
elder  writers,  I had  almost  said  the  works  of  Shak- 
speare  and  Milton,  are  driven  into  neglect  by  frantic 
novels,  sickly  and  stupid  German  Tragedies,  and  delu- 
ges of  idle  and  extravagant  stories  in  verse. — When  S 
think  upon  this  degrading  thirst  after  outrageous  stim- 
ulation, I am  almost  ashamed  to  have  spoken  of  the 
feeble  effort  with  which  I have  endeavonreil  to  coun- 
teract it ; and,  reflecting  upon  the  magnitude  of  the 
general  evil,  I should  be  oppressed  with  no  dishonour- 
able melancholy,  bad  I not  a deep  impression  of  certain 
inherent  and  indestructible  qualities  of  the  human 
mind,  and  likewise  of  certain  powers  in  the  great  and 
permanent  objeots  that  act  upon  it,  which  are  equally 
inherent  and  indestructible ; and  did  1 not  further  add 
to  this  impression  a belief,  that  the  time  is  approaching 
when  the  evil  will  be  systematically  opposed,  by  men 


OBSERVATIONS,  &c. 


GG3 


of  g;reater  powers,  and  with  far  more  distinguished 
success. 

Having  dwelt  thus  long  on  the  subjects  and  aim  of 
these  Poems,  I shall  request  the  Reader’s  permission 
to  apprise  him  of  a few  circumstances  relating  to  their 
style,  in  order,  among  other  reasons,  that  I may  not  be 
censured  for  not  having  performed  what  I never  at- 
tempted. The  Reader  will  find  that  personifications 
of  abstract  ideas  rarely  occur  in  these  volumes;  and,  I 
hope,  are  utterly  rejected,  as  an  ordinary  device  to  ele- 
rate  the  style,  and  to  raise  it  above  prose.  I have  pro- 
posed to  myself  to  imitate,  and,  as  far  as  is  possible,  to 
adopt  the  very  language  of  men ; and  assuredly  such 
personifications  do  not  make  any  natural  or  regular 
part  of  that  language.  They  are,  indeed,  a figure  of 
speech  occasionally  prompted  by  passion,  and  I have 
made  use  of  them  as  such;  but  I have  endeavoured 
utterly  to  reject  them  as  a mechanical  device  of  style, 
or  as  a family  language  w'hich  Writers  in  metre  seem 
to  lay  claim  to  by  prescription.  I have  wished  to  keep 
my  Reader  in  the  company  of  desh  and  blood,  persua- 
ded that  by  doing  so  1 shall  interest  him.  I am,  how- 
ever, well  aware  that  others  who  pursue  a different 
track  may  interest  him  likewise;  I do  not  interfere 
with  their  claim,  I only  wish  to  prefer  a claim  of  my 
own.  There  will  also  be  found  in  this  collection  little 
of  what  is  usually  called  poetic  diction  ; I have  taken 
as  much  pains  to  avoid  it  as  others  ordinarily  take  to 
produce  it ; this  I have  done  for  the  reason  already 
alleged,  to  bring  my  language  near  to  the  language 
of  men,  and  further,  because  the  pleasure  which  I 
have  proposed  to  myself  to  impart,  is  of  a kind  very 
different  from  that  which  is  supposed  by  many  persons 
to  be  the  proper  object  of  poetry.  I do  not  know  how, 
without  being  culpably  particular,  I can  give  my  Read- 
er a more  exact  notion  of  the  style  in  which  I wished 
these  poems  to  be  written,  than  by  informing  him  that 
I have  at  all  times  endeavoured  to  look  steadily  at  my 
subject,  consequently,  I hope  that  there  is  in  these 
Poems  little  falsehood  of  description,  and  that  my  ideas 
are  expressed  in  language  fitted  to  their  respective  im- 
portance. Something  I must  have  gained  by  this  prac- 
tice, as  it  is  friendly  to  one  property  of  all  good  poetry, 
namely,  good  sense : but  it  has  necessarily  cut  me  off 
from  a large  portion  of  phrases  and  figures  of  speech 
which  from  father  to  son  have  long  been  regarded  as 
the  common  inheritance  of  Poets.  I have  also  thought 
it  expedient  to  restrict  myself  still  further,  having  ab- 
stained from  the  use  of  many  expressions,  in  themselves 
proper  and  beautiful,  but  which  have  been  foolishly  re- 
peated by  bad  Poets,  till  such  feelings  of  disgust  are 
connected  with  them  as  it  is  scarcely  possible  by  any 
art  of  association  to  overpower. 

If  in  a poem  there  should  be  found  a series  of  lines, 
or  even  a single  line,  in  which  tlie  language,  though 
naturally  arranged,  and  according  to  the  strict  laws  of 
metre,  does  not  differ  from  that  of  prose,  there  is  a nu- 


merous class  of  critics,  who,  when  they  stumble  upon 
these  prosaisms,  as  they  call  them,  imagine  that  they 
have  made  a notable  discovery,  and  exult  over  the  Poet 
as  over  a man  ignorant  of  his  own  profession.  Now 
these  men  would  establish  a canon  of  criticism  whicli 
the  Reader  will  conclude  he  must  utterly  reject,  if  ho 
wishes  to  be  pleased  with  these  Poems.  And  it 
would  be  a most  easy  task  to  prove  to  him,  tliat  not 
only  the  language  of  a large  portion  of  every  gtwd 
poem,  even  of  the  most  elevated  character,  must  ne- 
cessarily, except  with  reference  to  the  metre,  in  no  re- 
spect differ  from  that  of  good  prose,  but  likewise  that 
some  of  the  most  interesting  parts  of  the  best  poems 
will  be  found  to  be  strictly  the  language  of  prose,  whe  ; 
prose  is  well  written.  The  truth  of  this  assertion  might 
he  demonstrated  by  innumerable  passages  from  almost 
all  the  poetical  writings,  even  of  Milton  himself.  1 
have  not  space  for  much  quotation;  but,  to  illustrate 
the  subject  in  a general  manner,  I will  here  adduce  a 
short  composition  of  Gray,  who  was  at  the  head  of 
those  who,  by  their  reasonings,  have  attempted  to  widen 
the  space  of  separation  betwixt  Prose  and  Metrical 
composition,  and  was  more  than  any  other  man  curi- 
ously elaborate  in  the  structure  of  his  own  poetic  dic- 
tion. 


“ In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine. 

And  reddening  Phtebus  lifts  his  golden  fire  : 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join. 
Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  attire. 
Tliese  ears,  alas ! for  other  notes  repine ; 

A different  object  do  these  eyes  require ; 

My  lonely  anguish  rrtelts  no  heart  but  mine; 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire ; 

Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 
And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men; 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear ; 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain. 

/ fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear. 

And  weep  the  more  bemuse  I weep  in  min." 


It  will  easily  be  perceived,  that  the  only  part  of  this 
Sonnet  which  is  of  any  value  is  the  lines  printed  in 
Italics  ; it  is  equally  obvious,  that,  except  in  the  rhyme, 
and  in  the  use  of  the  single  word  “fruitless”  for  fruit- 
lessly, W'hich  is  so  far  a defect,  the  language  of  these 
lines  does  in  no  respect  differ  from  that  of  prose. 

By  the  foregoing  quotation  I have  shown  that  the 
language  of  Prose  may  yet  be  well  adapted  to  Poetry  ; 
and  I have  previously  asserted,  that  a large  portion  of 
the  language  of  every  good  poem  can  in  no  respect  dif- 
fer from  that  of  good  Prose.  I will  go  further.  I do 
not  doubt  that  it  may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  there 
neither  is,  nor  can  be,  any  essential  difference  between 
the  language  of  prose  and  metrical  composition.  We 
are  fond  of  tracing  the  resemblance  between  Poetry 
and  Painting,  and,  accordingly,  we  call  them  Sisters: 
but  where  shall  we  find  bonds  of  connection  sufficiently 
strict  to  typify  the  affinity  betwixt  metrical  and  prose 
composition  I They  both  speak  by  and  to  the  same 


664 


APPENDIX 


organs ; the  bodies  in  which  both  of  them  are  clothed 
may  be  said  to  be  of  the  same  substance,  their  affections 
are  kindred,  and  almost  identical,  not  necessarily  dif- 
fering even  in  degree ; Poetry^  sheds  no  tears  “ such 
as  Angels  weep,”  but  natural  and  human  tears;  she 
can  boast  of  no  celestial  Ichor  that  distinguishes  her 
vital  juices  from  those  of  prose;  the  same  human  blood 
circulates  through  the  veins  of  them  botli. 

If  it  be  affirmed  that  rhyme  and  metrical  arrange- 
ment of  themselves  constitute  a distinction  which  over- 
turns what  I have  been  saying  on  the  strict  affinity  of 
metrical  language  with  that  of  prose,  and  paves  the 
way  for  other  artificial  distinctions  which  the  mind  vol- 
untarily admits,  I answer  that  the  language  of  such  Po- 
etry as  I am  recommending  is,  as  far  as  is  possible,  a 
selection  of  the  language  really  spoken  by  men  ; that 
this  selection,  wherever  it  is  made  with  true  taste  and 
feeling,  will  of  itself  form  a distinction  far  greater  than 
would  at  first  be  imagined,  and  will  entirely  separate 
the  composition  from  the  vulgarity  and  meanness  of 
ordinary  life;  and,  if  metre  be  superadded  thereto,  I 
believe  that  a dissimilitude  will  be  produced  altogether 
sufficient  for  the  gratification  of  a rational  mind.  What 
other  distinction  would  we  havel  Whence  is  it  to 
come?  And  where  is  it  to  exist?  Not,  surely,  where 
the  Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters: 
it  cannot  be  necessary  here,  either  for  elevation  of 
style,  or  any  of  its  supposed  ornaments : for,  if  the  Po- 
et’s subject  be  judiciously  chosen,  it  will  naturally,  and 
upon  fit  occasion,  lead  him  to  passions  the  langaiace  of 
which,  if  selected  truly  and  judiciously,  must  necessa- 
rily be  dignified  and  variegated,  and  alive  with  meta- 
phors and  figures.  I forbear  to  speak  of  an  incongrui- 
ty which  would  shock  the  intelligent  Reader,  should 
the  Poet  interweave  any  foreign  splendour  of  his  own 
with  that  which  the  passion  naturally  suggests : it  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  such  addition  is  unnecessary. 
And,  surely,  it  is  more  probable  that  those  passages, 
which  with  propriety  abound  with  metaphors  and  fig- 
ures, will  have  their  due  effect,  if,  upon  other  occa- 
sions where  the  passions  are  of  a milder  character,  the 
style  also  be  subdued  and  temperate. 

But,  as  the  pleasure  which  I hope  to  give  by  the 
Poems  I now  present  to  the  Reader  must  depend  en- 
tirely on  just  notions  ujjon  this  subject,  and,  as  it  is  in 
itself  of  the  highest  importance  to  our  taste  and  moral 
feelings,  I cannot  content  myself  with  these  detached 
remarks.  And  if,  in  what  I am  about  to  say,  it  shall 


* I Iiere  use  the  word  “ Poetry”  (though  against  my  own  judg- 
ment) as  opposed  to  the  won!  Pntse,  and  synonymous  vvitli  metri- 
cal composition.  But  much  confusion  has  been  introduced  into 
criticism  by  this  contradistinction  of  Poetry  and  Prose,  instead 
of  the  more  pliilosopliical  one  of  Poetry  and  Matter  of  Fact,  or 
Science.  Tlie  only  strict  antithesis  to  Prose  is  Metre ; nor  is 
this,  in  truth,  a sfrirl  antithesis  ; because  lines  and  passages  of 
metre  so  naturally  occur  in  writing  pntse,  that  it  would  be  scarce- 
ly possible  h'  avoid  them,  even  were  it  desirable. 


appear  to  some  that  my  labour  is  unnecessary,  and  that 
I am  like  a man  fighting  a battle  without  enemies,  1 
would  remind  such  persons,  that,  whatever  may  be  the 
language  outwardly  holden  by  men,  a practical  faith  in 
the  opinions  which  I am  wishing  to  establish  is  almost 
unknown.  If  my  conclusions  are  admitted,  and  carried 
as  far  as  they  must  be  carried  if  admitted  at  all,  our 
judgments  concerning  the  works  of  the  greatest  Poets 
both  ancient  and  modern  will  be  far  different  from 
what  they  are  at  present,  both  when  we  praise,  and 
when  we  censure;  and  our  moral  feelings  influencing 
and  influenced  by  these  judgments  will,  I believe,  be 
corrected  and  purified. 

Taking  up  the  subject,  then,  upon  general  grounds, 
I ask,  what  is  meant  by  the  word  Poet?  What  is  a 
Poet?  To  whom  does  he  address  himself?  And  what 
language  is  to  be  expected  from  him?  He  is  a man 
speaking  to  men : a man,  it  is  true,  endued  with  more 
lively  sensibility,  more  enthusiasm  and  tenderness, 
who  has  a greater  knowled£re  of  human  nature,  and  a 
more  comprehensive  soul,  than  are  supposed  to  be  conv- 
mon  among  mankind ; a man  pleased  vvith  his  own 
passions  and  volitions,  and  who  rejoices  more  than  other 
men  in  the  spirit  of  life  that  is  in  hin>;  delighting  to 
contemplate  similar  volitions  and  passions  as  manifested 
in  the  goings-on  of  the  Universe,  and  habitually  im- 
pelled to  create  them  where  he  does  not  find  them. 
To  these  qualities  he  has  added  a disposition  to  be  af- 
fected more  than  other  men  by  absent  things  as  if  they 
were  present;  an  ability  of  conjuring  up  in  himself 
passions,  which  are  indeed  far  from  being  the  same  as 
those  produced  by  real  events,  yet  (especially  in  those 
parts  of  the  general  sympathy  which  are  pleasing  and 
delightful)  do  more  nearly  resemble  the  passions  pro- 
duced by  real  events,  than  any  thing  which,  from  the 
motions  of  their  own  mind  merely,  other  men  are  ac- 
customed to  feel  in  themselves;  whence,  and  from 
practice,  he  has  acquired  a greater  readiness  and  pow- 
er in  expressing  what  he  thinks  and  feels,  and  espe- 
cially those  thoughts  and  feelings  which,  by  his  own 
choice,  or  from  the  structure  of  his  own  mind,  arise  in 
him  without  immediate  external  e.xcitement. 

But  whatever  portion  of  this  faculty  we  may  suppose 
even  the  greatest  Poet  to  possess,  there  cannot  be  a 
doubt  but  that  the  language  which  it  will  .suggest  to 
him,  must,  in  liveliness  and  truth,  fall  far  short  of  that 
which  is  uttered  by  men  in  real  life,  under  the  actual 
pressure  of  those  passions,  certain  shadows  of  which 
the  Poet  thus  produces,  or  feels  to  be  produced,  in 
himself. 

However  exalted  a notion  we  would  wish  to  cherish 
of  the  character  of  a Poet,  it  is  obvious,  that  while 
he  describes  and  imitates  passions,  his  situation  is  alto- 
gether slavish  and  mechanical,  compared  with  the 
freedom  and  power  of  real  and  substantial  action  and 
suffering.  So  that  it  will  be  the  wish  of  the  Poet  to 
bring  his  feelings  near  to  those  of  the  persons  whose 


OBSERVATIONS,  &c. 


G(!5 


feelings  he  describes,  nay,  for  short  spaces  of  time, 
perhaps,  to  let  himself  slip  into  an  entire  delusion,  and 
even  confound  and  identify  his  own  feelings  with 
theirs;  modifying  only  the  language  which  is  thus 
suggested  to  him  by  a consideration  that  he  describes 
for  a particular  purpose,  that  of  giving  pleasure.  Here, 
then,  he  will  apply  the  principle  on  which  I have  so 
much  insisted,  namely,  that  of  selection : on  this  he 
will  depend  for  removing  what  would  otherwise  be 
painful  or  disgusting  in  the  passion  ; ho  will  feel  that 
there  is  no  necessity  to  trick  out  or  to  elevate  nature: 
and,  the  more  industriously  he  applies  this  principle, 
the  deeper  will  be  his  faith  that  no  words,  which  his 
fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest,  will  be  to  be  com- 
pared with  those  which  are  the  emanations  of  reality 
and  truth. 

But  it  may  he  said  by  those  who  do  not  object  to  the 
general  spirit  of  these  remarks,  that,  as  it  is  impossible 
for  the  Poet  to  produce  upon  all  occasions  language  as 
exquisitely  fitted  for  the  passion  as  that  which  the 
real  passion  itself  suggests,  it  is  proper  that  he  should 
consider  himself  as  in  the  situation  of  a translator, 
who  deems  himself  justified  when  he  substitutes  ex- 
cellencies of  another  kind  for  those  which  are  unat- 
tainable by  him.;  and  endeavours  occasionally  to  sur- 
pass his  original,  in  order  to  make  .some  amends  for 
the  general  inferiority  to  which  he  feels  that  he  must 
submit.  But  this  would  be  to  encourage  idleness  and 
unmanly  despair.  Further,  it  is  the  language  of  men 
who  speak  of  what  they  do  not  understand;  who  talk 
of  Poetry  as  of  a matter  of  amusement  and  idle  plea- 
sure ; who  will  converse  with  us  as  gravely  about  a 
taste  for  Poetry,  as  they  express  it,  as  if  it  were  a 
thing  as  indifferent  as  a taste  for  Rope-dancing,  or 
Frontiniac  or  Sherry.  Aristotle,  I have  been  told,  hath 
said,  that  Poetry  is  the  most  philosophic  of  all  writing: 
it  is  so:  its  object  is  truth,  not  individual  and  local,  but 
general,  and  operative;  not  standing  upon  external 
testimony,  but  carried  alive  into  the  heart  by  passion  ; 
truth  which  is  its  own  testimony,  which  gives  strength 
and  divinity  to  the  tribunal  to  which  it  appeals,  and 
receives  them  from  the  same  tribunal.  Poetry  is  the 
image  of  man  and  nature.  The  obstacles  which  stand 
in  the  way  of  the  fidelity  of  the  Biographer  and  His- 
torian, and  of  their  consequent  utility,  are  incalculably 
greater  than  those  which  are  to  be  encountered  by  the 
Poet  who  has  an  adequate  notion  of  the  dignity  of  his 
art.  The  Poet  writes  under  one  restriction  only, 
namely,  that  of  the  necessity  of  giving  immediate 
pleasure  to  a human  Being  possessed  of  that  informa- 
tion which  may  be  expected  from  him,  not  as  a lawyer, 
a physician,  a mariner,  an  astronomer,  or  a natural 
philosopher,  but  as  a Man.  Except  this  one  restriction, 
there  is  no  object  standing  between  the  Poet  and  the 
image  of  things;  between  this,  and  the  Biographer 
and  Historian,  there  are  a thousand. 

Nor  let  this  necessity  of  producing  immediate  plea- 
4 I 


sure  be  considered  as  a degradation  of  the  Poet’s  art. 
It  is  far  otherwise.  It  is  an  acknowledgment  of  the 
beauty  of  the  universe,  an  acknowledgment  the  more 
sincere,  because  it  is  not  formal,  but  indirect;  it  is  a 
task  light  and  easy  to  him  who  looks  at  the  world  in 
the  spirit  of  love:  further,  it  is  a homage  paid  to  the 
native  and  naked  dignity  of  man,  to  the  grand  ele- 
mentary principle  of  pleasure,  by  which  he  knows,  and 
feels,  and  lives,  and  moves.  We  have  no  sympathy 
but  what  is  propagated  by  pleasure  : I would  not  be 
misunderstood;  but  wherever  we  sympathise  with 
pain,  it  will  be  found  that  the  sympathy  is  produced 
and  carried  on  by  subtle  combinations  with  pleasure. 
We  have  no  knowledge,  that  is,  no  general  principles 
drawn  from  the  contemplation  of  particular  facts,  but 
what  has  been  built  up  by  pleasure,  and  exists  in  us 
by  pleasure  alone.  The  Man  of  Science,  the  Chemist 
and  Mathematician,  whatever  difficulties  and  disgusts 
they  may  have  had  to  struggle  w'ith,  know  and  feel 
this.  How’ever  painful  may  be  the  objects  with  which 
the  Anatomist’s  knowledge  is  connected,  he  feels  that 
his  knowledge  is  pleasure;  and  where  he  has  no  plea- 
sure he  has  no  knowledge.  What  then  does  tlie 
Poetl  He  considers  man  and  the  objects  that  sur- 
round him  as  acting  and  re-acting  upon  each  other,  so 
I as  to  produce  an  infinite  complexity  of  pain  and  plea- 
j sure;  he  considers  man  in  his  own  nature  and  in  his 
ordinary  life  as  contemplating  this  with  a certain  quan- 
tity of  immediate  knowledge,  w'ith  certain  convictions, 
intuitions,  and  deductions,  which  by  habit  become  of 
the  nature  of  intuitions;  he  considers  him  as  looking 
upon  this  complex  scene  of*deas  and  sensations,  and 
finding  every  where  objects  that  immediately  excite  in 
him  sympathies  which,  from  the  necessities  of  his  na- 
ture, are  accompanied  by  an  overbalance  of  enjoyment. 

To  this  knowledge  which  all  men  carry  about  with 
them,  and  to  these  sympathies  in  w'hich,  without  any 
other  discipline  than  that  of  our  daily  life,  we  are  fit- 
ted to  take  delight,  the  Poet  principally  directs  his  at- 
tention. He  considers  man  and  nature  as  essentially 
adapted  to  each  other,  and  the  mind  of  man  as  naturally 
the  mirror  of  the  fairest  and  most  interesting  qualities 
of  nature.  And  thus  the  Poet,  prompted  by  this  feel- 
ing of  pleasure,  which  accompanies  him  through  the 
whole  course  of  his  studies,  converses  with  general 
nature  with  affections  akin  to  those,  which,  through 
labour  and  length  of  time,  the  Man  of  Science  has 
raised  up  in  himself,  by  conversing  with  those  particu- 
lar parts  of  nature  which  are  the  objects  of  his  studies. 
The  knowledge  both  of  the  Poet  and  the  Man  of  Sci- 
ence is  pleasure  ; but  the  knowledge  of  the  one  cleaves 
to  us  as  a necessary  part  of  our  existence,  our  natural 
and  unalienable  inheritance;  the  other  is  a personal 
and  individual  acquisition,  slow  to  come  to  us,  and  by 
no  habitual  and  direct  sympathy  connecting  us  with 
our  fellow-beings.  The  Man  of  Science  seeks  truth 
as  a remote  and  unknown  benefactor ; he  cherishes  and 


APPENDIX. 


6GG 


loves  it  in  his  solitude : the  Poet,  singing  a song  in 
which  all  human  beings  join  with  him,  rejoices  in  the 
presence  of  truth  as  our  visible  friend  and  hourly  com- 
panion. Poetry  is  the  breath  and  finer  spirit  of  all 
knowledge ; it  is  the  impassioned  expression  which  is 
in  the  countenance  of  all  Science.*  Emphatically  may 
it  be  said  of  the  Poet,  as  Shakspeare  hath  said  of  man, 
“ that  he  looks  before  and  after.”  He  is  the  rock  of 
defence  of  human  nature  ; an  upholder  and  preserver, 
carrying  every  where  with  him  relationship  and  love. 
In  spite  of  difference  of  soil  and  climate,  of  language 
and  manners,  of  laws  and  customs,  in  spite  of  things 
silently  gone  out  of  mind,  and  things  violently  destroy- 
ed, the  Poet  binds  together  by  passion  and  knowledge 
the  vast  empire  of  human  society,  as  it  is  spread  over 
the  whole  earth,  and  over  all  time.  The  objects  of  the 
Poet’s  thoughts  are  every  where ; though  the  eyes  and 
senses  of  man  are,  it  is  true,  his  favourite  guides,  yet 
he  will  follow  wheresoever  he  can  find  an  atmosphere 
of  sensation  in  which  to  move  his  wings.  Poetry  is  the 
first  and  last  of  all  knowledge  — it  is  as  immortal  as 
the  heart  of  man.  If  the  labours  of  Men  of  Science 
should  ever  create  any  material  revolution,  direct  or 
indirect,  in  our  condition,  and  in  tlio  impressions  which 
we  habitually  receive,  the  Poet  will  sleep  then  no  more 
than  at  present,  but  he  will  be  ready  to  follow  the  steps 
of  the  Man  of  Science,  not  only  in  those  general  indi- 
rect effects,  but  he  will  be  at  his  side,  carrying  sensa- 
tion into  the  midst  of  the  objects  of  the  Science  itself. 
The  remotest  discoveries  of  the  Chemist,  the  Botanist, 
or  Mineralogist,  will  be  as  proper  objects  of  the  Poet’s 
art  as  any  upon  which  it  ^an  be  employed,  if  the  time 
should  ever  come  when  these  things  shall  be  familiar 
to  us,  and  the  relations  under  which  they  are  contem- 
plated by  the  followers  of  these  respective  sciences 
shall  be  manifestly  and  palpably  material  to  us  as  en- 
joying  and  suffering  beings.  If  the  time  should  ever 
come  when  what  is  now  called  Science,  thus  familiar- 
ised to  men,  shall  be  ready  to  put  on,  as  it  were,  a form 
of  flesh  and  blood,  the  Poet  will  lend  his  divine  spirit 
to  aid  the  transfiguration,  and  will  welcome  the  Being 
thus  produced,  as  a dear  and  genuine  inmate  of  the 
household  of  man. — It  is  not,  then,  to  be  supposed  that 
any  one,  who  holds  that  sublime  notion  of  Poetry  which 
1 have  attempted  to  convey,  will  break  in  upon  the 
sanctity  and  truth  of  his  pictures  by  transitory  and 
accidental  ornaments,  and  endeavour  to  excite  admi- 
ration of  himself  by  arts,  the  necessity  of  which  must 
manifestly  depend  upon  the  assumed  meanness  of  his 
subject. 

What  I have  thus  far  said  applies  to  Poetry  in  gene- 
ral ; but  especially  to  those  parts  of  composition  where 


* [“  jVo  man  was  ever  yet  a great  Poet,  without  being  at  the 
e.ame  time  a profound  Pliilosophor.  Por  Poetry  is  the  blossom 
and  the  fragrance  of  all  human  knowledge,  human  Ihoughu, 
human  passions,  emotions,  language.” 

Co;.EBii)GE ! ‘ Biographia  Literaria’ : Ch.  xv II.  R ] 


the  Poet  speaks  through  the  mouths  of  his  characters  , 
and  upon  this  point  it  appears  to  have  such  weight, 
that  I will  conclude,  there  are  few  persons  of  good 
sense,  who  would  not  allow  that  the  dramatic  parts  of 
composition  are  defective,  in  proportion  as  they  de- 
viate from  the  real  language  of  nature,  and  are 
coloured  by  a diction  of  the  Poet’s  owm,  either  pecu- 
liar to  him  as  an  individual  Poet  or  belonging  simply 
to  Poets  in  general,  to  a body  of  men  who,  from  the 
circumstance  of  their  compositions  being  in  metre,  it 
is  expected  will  employ  a particular  language. 

It  is  not,  then,  in  the  dramatic  parts  of  composition 
that  we  look  for  this  distinction  of  language  ; but  still 
it  may  be  proper  and  necessary  where  the  Poet  speaks 
to  us  in  his  own  person  and  character.  To  this  I an- 
swer by  referring  my  Reader  to  the  description  which 
I have  before  given  of  a Poet.  Among  the  qualities 
which  I have  enumerated  as  principally  conducing  to 
form  a Poet,  is  implied  nothing  differing  in  kind  from 
other  men,  but  only  in  degree.  The  sum  of  what  I 
have  there  said  is,  that  the  Poet  is  chiefly  distinguished 
from  other  men  by  a greater  promptness  to  think  and 
feel  without  immediate  external  excitement,  and  a 
greater  pow’er  in  expressing  such  thoughts  and  feel- 
ings as  are  produced  in  him  in  that  manner.  But 
these  passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  are  the  gene- 
ral passions  and  thoughts  and  feelings  of  men.  And 
with  what  are  they  connected  1 Undoubtedly  with 
our  moral  sentiments  and  animal  sensations,  and  with 
the  causes  which  excite  these ; with  the  operations  of 
the  elements,  and  the  appearances  of  the  visible  uni- 
verse ; with  storm  and  sunshine,  w’ith  the  revolutions 
of  the  seasons,  with  cold  and  heat,  with  loss  of  friends 
and  kindred,  with  injuries  and  resentments,  gratitude 
and  hope,  with  fear  and  sorrow.  These,  and  the  like, 
are  the  sensations  and  objects  which  the  Poet  describes, 
as  they  are  the  sensations  of  other  men,  and  the  objects 
which  interest  them.  The  Poet  thinks  and  feels  in 
the  spirit  of  the  passions  of  men.  How,  then,  can  his 
language  differ  in  any  material  degree  from  that  of  all 
other  men  who  feel  vividly  and  see  clearly  1 It  might 
be  proved  that  it  is  impossible.  But  supposing  that 
this  w'ere  not  the  case,  the  Poet  might  then  be  allow- 
ed to  use  a peculiar  language  when  expressing  his 
feelings  for  his  own  gratification,  or  that  of  men  like 
himself.  But  Poets  do  not  write  for  Poets  alone,  but 
for  men.  Unless  therefore  we  are  advocates  for  that 
admiration  which  depends  upon  ignorance,  and  that 
pleasure  which  arises  from  hearing  what  we  do  not 
understand,  the  Poet  must  descend  from  this  supposed 
height,  and,  in  order  to  excite  rational  sympathy,  he 
must  express  himself  as  other  men  express  themselves. 
To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  while  he  is  only  select- 
ing from  the  real  language  of  men,  or,  which  amounts 
to  the  same  thing,  composing  accurately  in  the  spirit 
of  such  selection,  ho  is  treading  upon  safe  ground,  and 
we  know  what  we  are  to  expect  from  him.  Our  feel- 


OBSERVATIONS,  &c. 


GG7 


ings  are  the  same  with  respect  to  metre  ; for,  as  it  may 
be  proper  to  remind  the  Reader,  the  distinction  of  metre 
is  regular  and  uniform,  and  not,  like  that  which  is  pro- 
duced by  what  is  usually  called  poetic  diction,*  arbitra- 
ry, and  subject  to  infinite  caprices  upon  which  no  cal- 
culation whatever  can  be  made.  In  the  one  case,  the 
Reader  is  utterly  at  the  mercy  of  the  Poet  respecting 
what  imagery  or  diction  he  may  choose  to  connect 
with  the  passion ; whereas,  in  the  other,  the  metre 
obeys  certain  laws,  to  which  the  Poet  and  Reader  both 
willingly  submit  because  they  are  certain,  and  because 
no  interference  is  made  by  them  with  the  passion  but 
such  as  the  concurring  testimony  of  ages  has  shown 
to  heighten  and  improve  the  pleasure  which  co-exists 
with  it. 

It  will  now  be  proper  to  answer  an  obvious  question, 
namely.  Why,  professing  these  opinions,  have  I written 
in  verse  1 To  this,  in  addition  to  such  answer  as  is 
included  in  what  I have  already  said,  I reply,  in  the 
first  place.  Because,  however  I may  have  restricted 
myself,  there  is  still  left  open  to  me  what  confessedly 
constitutes  the  most  valuable  object  of  all  writing, 
whether  in  prose  or  verse,  the  great  and  universal 
passions  of  men,  the  most  general  and  interesting  of 
their  occupations,  and  the  entire  world  of  nature, 
from  which  I am  at  liberty  to  supply  myself  with 
endless  combinations  of  forms  and  imagery.  Now,  sup- 
posing for  a moment  that  whatever  is  interesting  in 
these  objects  may  be  as  vividly  described  in  prose,  why 
am  I to  be  condemned,  if  to  such  description  I have 
endeavoured  to  superadd  the  charm  which,  by  the  con- 
sent of  all  nations,  is  acknowledged  to  exist  in  metri- 
cal language?  To  this,  by  such  as  are  unconvinced 
by  what  I have  already  said,  it  may  be  answered  that 
a very  small  part  of  the  pleasure  given  by  Poetry  de- 
pends upon  the  metre,  and  that  it  is  injudicious  to  write 
in  metre,  unless  it  be  accompanied  with  the  other  arti- 
ficial distinctions  of  style  with  which  metre  is  usually 
accompanied,  and  that,  by  such  deviation,  more  will  be 
lost  from  the  shock  which  will  thereby  be  given  to  the 
Reader’s  associations  than  will  be  counterbalanced  by 
any  pleasure  which  he  can  derive  from  the  general 
power  of  numbers.  In  answer  to  those  who  still  con- 
tend for  the  necessity  of  accompanying  metre  with  cer- 
tain appropriate  colours  of  style  in  order  to  the  accom- 
plishment of  its  appropriate  end,  and  who  also,  in  my 
opinion,  greatly  under-rate  the  power  of  metre  in  itself, 
it  might,  perhaps,  as  far  as  relates  to  these  Poems, 
have  been  almost  sufficient  to  observe,  that  poems  are 
extant,  written  upon  more  humble  subjects,  and  in  a 
more  naked  and  simple  style  than  I have  aimed  at, 
which  poems  have  continued  to  give  pleasure  from 
generation  to  generation.  Now,  if  nakedness  and  sim- 
plicity be  a defect,  the  fact  here  mentioned  affords  a 
strong  presumption  that  poems  somewhat  less  naked 


♦ See  Note  p.  670. 


and  simple  are  capable  of  affording  pleasure  at  the 
present  day  ; and,  what  I wished  chujly  to  attempt,  at 
present,  was  to  justify  myself  for  having  written  under 
the  impression  of  this  belief. 

But  I might  point  out  various  causes  why,  when  the 
style  is  manly,  and  the  subject  of  some  importance, 
words  metrically  arranged  will  long  continue  to  impart 
such  a pleasure  to  mankind,  as  he  who  is  sensible  of 
the  extent  of  that  jdeasure  will  be  desirous  to  impart. 
The  end  of  Poetry  is  to  produce  excitement  in  co-ex- 
istence with  an  overbalance  of  pleasure.  Now,  by  the 
supposition,  excitement  is  an  unusual  and  irregular 
state  of  the  mind  ; ideas  and  feelings  do  not,  in  that 
state,  succeed  each  other  in  accustomed  order.  But, 
if  the  words  by  which  this  excitement  is  produced  are 
in  themselves  powerful,  or  the  images  and  feelings 
have  an  undue  proportion  of  pain  connected  with  them, 
there  is  some  danger  that  the  excitement  may  be  car- 
ried beyond  its  proper  bounds.  Now  the  co-presence 
of  something  regular,  something  to  which  the  mind 
has  been  accustomed  in  various  moods  and  in  a less 
excited  state,  cannot  but  have  great  efficacy  in  temper- 
ing and  restraining  the  passion  by  an  intertexture  of 
ordinary  feeling,  and  of  feeling  not  strictly  and  neces- 
sarily connected  with  the  passion.  This  is  unquestion- 
ably true,  and  hence,  though  the  opinion  will  at  first 
appear  paradoxical,  from  the  tendency  of  metre  to  di- 
vest language,  in  a certain  degree,  of  its  reality,  and 
thus  to  throw  a sort  of  half-consciousness  of  unsubstan- 
tial existence  over  the  whole  composition,  there  can 
be  little  doubt  but  that  more  pathetic  situations  and 
sentiments,  that  is,  those  rvhich  have  a greater  propor- 
tion of  pain  connected  with  them,  may  be  endured  in 
metrical  composition,  especially  in  rhyme,  than  in 
prose.  The  metre  of  the  old  ballads  is  very  artless ; 
yet  they  contain  many  passages  which  would  illustrate 
this  opinion,  and,  I hope,  if  the  following  Poems  be  at- 
tentively perused,  similar  instances  will  be  found  in 

them.  This  opinion  may  be  further  illustrated  by  ap- 
pealing to  the  Reader’s  own  experience  of  the  reluc- 
tance with  which  he  comes  to  the  re-perusal  of  the  dis- 
tressful parts  of  Clarissa  Ilarlowe,  or  the  Gamester  ; 
while  Shakspeare’s  writings,  in  the  most  pathetic 
scenes,  never  act  upon  us,  as  pathetic,  beyond  the 
bounds  of  pleasure — an  effect  which,  in  a much  greater 
degree  than  might  at  first  be  imagined,  is  to  be  ascri- 
bed to  small,  but  continual  and  regular  impulses  of 
pleasurable  surprise  from  the  metrical  arrangement. — 
On  the  other  hand,  (what  it  must  be  allowed  will  much 
more  frequently  happen,)  if  the  Poet’s  words  should 
be  incommensurate  with  the  passion,  and  inadequate  to 
raise  the  Reader  to  a height  of  desirable  excitement, 

then,  (unless  the  Poet’s  choice  of  his  metre  has  been 
grossly  injudicious,)  in  the  feelings  of  pleasure  w'hicti 
the  Reader  has  been  accustomed  to  connect  with  me- 
tre in  general,  and  in  the  feeling,  whether  cheerful  or 
raelanoholv,  which  he  has  been  accustomed  tc  connect 


G68 


APPENDIX. 


with  that  particular  movement  of  metre,  there  will  be 
found  something  which  will  greatly  contribute  to  im- 
part passion  to  the  words,  and  to  effect  the  complex 
end  which  the  Poet  proposes  to  himself. 

If  I had  undertaken  a systematic  defence  of  the 
theory  upon  which  these  poems  are  written,  it  would 
have  been  my  duty  to  develope  the  various  causes  up- 
on which  the  pleasure  received  from  metrical  language 
depends.  Among  the  chief  of  these  causes  is  to  be 
reckoned  a principle  which  must  be  well  known  to 
those  who  have  made  any  of  the  Arts  the  object  of  accu- 
rate reflection ; I mean  the  pleasure  which  the  mind 
derives  from  the  perception  of  similitude  in  dissimili-  j 
tude.  This  principle  is  tlie  great  spring  of  the  activity 
of  our  minds,  and  their  chief  feeder.  From  this  princi- 
ple the  direction  of  the  se.xual  appetite,  and  all  the  pas- 
sions connected  with  it,  take  their  origin:  it  is  the  life 
of  our  ordinary  conversation;  and  upon  the  accuracy 
with  which  similitude  in  dissimilitude,  and  dissimilitude 
in  similitude  are  perceived,  depend  our  taste  and 
our  moral  feelings.  It  would  not  have  been  a useless 
employment  to  have  applied  this  principle  to  the  con- 
sideration of  metre,  and  to  have  shown  that  metre  is 
hence  enabled  to  afford  much  pleasure,  and  to  have 
pointed  out  in  what  manner  that  pleasure  is  produced. 
But  my  limits  will  not  permit  me  to  enter  upon  this 
subject,  and  I must  content  myself  with  a general 
summary. 

I have  said  that  poetry  is  the  spontaneous  overflow 
o'*  powerful  feelings;  it  takes  its  origin  from  emotion 
^collected  in  tranquillity  : the  emotion  is  contemplated 
till,  by  aspeeies  of  re-action,  the  tranquillity  gradually 
disappears,  and  an  emotion,  kindred  to  that  which  was 
before  the  subject  of  contemplation,  is  gradually  pro- 
duced, and  does  itself  actually  exist  in  the  mind.  In 
this  mood  successful  composition  generally  begins,  and 
in  a mood  similar  to  this  it  is  carried  on;  but  the  emo- 
tion, of  whatever  kind,  and  in  whatever  degree,  from 
various  causes,  is  qualified  by  various  pleasures,  so  that 
in  describing  any  passions  whatsoever,  which  are  vol- 
untarily described,  the  mind  will,  upon  the  whole, .be 
in  a state  of  enjoyment.  Now%  if  Nature  be  tlius  eau- 
tious  in  preserving  in  a state  of  enjoyment  a being  thus 
employed,  the  Poet  ought  to  profit  by  the  lesson  thus 
held  forth  to  him,  and  ought  especially  to  take  care, 
that,  wliatever  passions  lie  communicates  to  his  Read- 
er, those  passions,  if  his  Reader’s  mind  be  sound  and 
vigorous,  should  always  be  accompanied  with  an  over- 
balance of  pleasure.  Now  the  music  of  harmonious 
metrical  language,  the  sense  of  difficulty  overcome, 
and  the  blind  association  of  pleasure  which  has  been 
previously  received  from  works  of  rhyme  or  metre  of 
the  same  or  similar  construction,  an  indistinct  percep- 
tion perpetually  renewed  of  language  closely  resem- 
bling that  of  real  life,  and  yet,  in  the  circumstance  of 
metre,  differing  from  it  so  widely — all  these  impercept- 
ibly make  up  a complex  feeling  of  delight,  which  is  j 


of  the  most  important  use  in  tempering  the  painful 
feeling  which  will  always  be  found  intermingled  with 
powerful  descriptions  of  the  deeper  passions.  This 
effect  is  always  produced  in  pathetic  and  impassioned 
poetry;  while,  in  lighter  compositions,  the  ease  and 
gracefulness  with  which  the  Poet  manages  his  num- 
bers are  themselves  confessedly  a principal  source  of 
the  gratification  of  the  Reader.  I might,  perh?ips,  in- 
clude all  which  it  is  necessary  to  say  upon  this  subject, 
by  affirming,  what  few  persons  will  deny,  that,  of  two 
descriptions,  either  of  passions,  manners,  or  characters,- 
each  of  them  equally  well  executed,  the  one  in  prose 
j and  the  other  in  verse,  the  verse  will  be  read  a hundred 
times  where  the  prose  is  read  once.  We  see  that  Pope, 
by  the  power  of  verse  alone,  has  contrived  to  render 
the  plainest  common  sense  interesting,  and  even  fre- 
quently to  invest  it  with  the  appearance  of  passion.  In 
consequence  of  these  convictions  I related  in  metre 
the  Tale  of  Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  which  is 
one  of  the  rudest  of  this  collection.  I wished  to  draw 
attention  to  the  truth,  that  the  power  of  the  human 
imagination  is  sufficient  to  produce  such  changes  even 
in  our  physical  nature  as  might  almost  appear  miracu- 
lous. The  truth  is  an  important  one ; the  fact  (for  it 
is  a/«ct)  is  a valuable  illustration  of  it;  and  I have 
the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  it  has  been  communi- 
cated to  many  hundreds  of  people  who  would  never 
have  heard  of  it,  had  it  not  been  narrated  as  a Ballad, 
and  in  a more  impressive  metre  than  is  usual  in  Ballads. 

Having  thus  explained  a few  of  the  reasons  why  I 
have  written  in  verse,  and  w'hy  I have  chosen  subjects 
from  common  life,  and  endeavoured  to  bring  my  lan- 
guage near  to  the  real  language  of  men,  if  I have  been 
too  minute  in  pleading  my  own  cause,  I have  at  the 
same  time  been  treating  a subject  of  general  interest  ; 
and  it  is  for  this  reason  that  I request  the  Reader’s  per- 
mission to  add  a few  words  with  reference  solely  to 
these  particular  poems,  and  to  some  defects  which  will 
probably  be  found  in  them.  I am  sensible  that  my  as- 
sociations must  have  sometimes  been  particular  instead 
of  general,  and  that,  consequently,  giving  to  things  a 
false  importance,  sometimes  from  diseased  impulses,  I 
may  have  written  upon  unworthy  subjects;  but  I am 
less  apprehensive  on  this  account,  than  that  my  language 
may  frequently  have  suffered  from  those  arbitrary  con- 
nections of  feelings  and  ideas  with  particular  words 
and  phrases,  from -which  no  man  can  altogether  protect 
himself.  Hence  I have  no  doubt,  that,  in  some  instan- 
ces, feelings,  even  of  the  ludicrous,  may  be  given  to 
my  Readers  by  expressions  which  appeared  to  me  ten- 
der and  pathetic.  Such  faulty  expressions,  were  I con- 
vinced they  were  faulty  at  present,  and  that  they  must 
necessarily  continue  to  be  so,  I would  willingly  take 
all  reasonable  pains  to  correct.  But  it  is  dangerous  to 
make  these  alterations  on  the  simple  authority  of  a few 
individuals,  or  even  of  certain  classes  of  men;  for  where 
J the  understanding  of  an  Author  is  not  convinced,  or  his 


OBSERVATIONS,  <Vc. 


G69 


feelings  altered,  this  cannot  be  done  without  great  in- 
jury to  himself:  for  his  own  feelings  are  his  stay  and 
support ; and,  if  he  sets  them  aside  in  one  instance,  he 
may  be  induced  to  repeat  this  act  till  his  mind  lose 
all  confidence  in  itself,  and  become  utterly  debilitated. 
To  this  it  may  be  added,  that  the  Reader  ought  never 
to  forget  that  he  is  himself  exposed  to  the  same  errors 
as  the  Poet,  and,  perhaps,  in  a much  greater  degree : 
for  there  can  be  no  presumption  in  saying,  that  it  is  not 
probable  he  will  be  so  well  acquainted  with  the  various 
stages  of  meaning  through  which  words  have  passed, 
or  with  the  fickleness  or  stability  of  the  relations  of 
particular  ideas  to  each  other;  and,  above  all,  since  he 
is  so  much  less  interested  in  the  subject,  he  may  decide 
lightly  and  carelessly. 

Long  as  I have  detained  my  Reader,  I hope  he  will 
permit  me  to  caution  him  against  a mode  of  false  criti- 
cism which  has  been  applied  to  Poetry,  in  which  the 
language  closely  resembles  that  of  life  and  nature. 
Such  verses  have  been  triumphed  over  in  parodies,  of 
which  Dr.  Johnson’s  stanza  is  a fair  specimen : — 


“ I put  my  hat  upon  my  head 
And  walked  into  the  Strand, 
And  there  I met  another  man 
Whose  hat  was  in  his  hand.” 


immediately  under  these  lines  I will  place  one  of 
the  most  justly-admired  stanzas  of  the  “ Babes  in  the 
Wood.” 

“These  pretty  Babes  with  hand  in  hand 
Went  wandering  up  and  down  ; 

But  never  more  they  saw  the  Man 
Approaching  from  the  Town.” 

In  both  these  stanzas  the  words,  and  the  order  of  the 
words,  in  no  respect  differ  from  the  most  unimpassion- 
ed conversation.  There  are  words  in  both,  for  example, 

“ the  Strand,”  and  “ the  Town,”  connected  with  none 
but  the  most  familiar  ideas;  yet  the  one  stanza  we 
admit  as  admirable,  and  the  other  as  a fair  example  of 
the  superlatively  contemptible.  Whence  arises  this 
difference  1 Not  from  the  metre,  not  from  the  language, 
not  from  the  order  of  the  words ; but  the  matter  ex- 
pressed in  Dr.  Johnson’s  stanza  is  contemptible.  The 
proper  method  of  treating  trivial  and  simple  verses,  to 
which  Dr.  Johnson’s  stanza  would  be  a fair  parallelism, 
is  not  to  say.  This  is  a bad  kind  of  poetry,  or.  This  is 
not  poetry  ; but.  This  wants  sense ; it  is  neither  inter- 
esting in  itself,  nor  can  lead  to  any  thing  interesting; 
the  images  neither  originate  in  that  sane  state  of  feel- 
ing which  arises  out  of  thought,  nor  can  excite  thought  j 
or  feeling  in  the  Reader.  This  is  the  only  sensible 
manner  of  dealing  with  such  verses.  Why  trouble  j 
yourself  about  the  species  till  you  have  previously  de-  j 
cided  upon  the  genus!  Why  take  pains  to  prove  that  j 
an  ape  is  not  a Newton,  when  it  is  self-evident  that  he 
IS  not  a man  1 

I have  one  request  to  make  of  my  reader,  which  is,  | 


that  in  judging  these  Poems  he  would  decide  by  his 
own  feelings  genuinely,  and  not  by  reflection  upon  what 
will  probably  be  the  judgment  of  others.  How  common 
is  it  to  hear  a person  say,  “ I myself  do  not  object  to 
this  style  of  composition,  or  this  or  that  expression,  but, 
to  such  and  such  classes  of  people,  it  will  appear  mean 
or  ludicrous !”  This  mode  of  criticism,  so  destructive 
of  all  sound  unadulterated  judgment,  is  almost  univer- 
sal : I have  therefore  to  request,  that  the  Reader  would 
abide,  independently,  by  his  own  feelings,  and  that,  if 
he  finds  himself  affected,  he  would  not  sutler  such  con- 
jectures to  interfere  with  his  pleasure. 

If  an  Author,  by  any  single  composition,  has  impress- 
ed us  with  respect  for  his  talents,  it  is  useful  to  consider 
this  as  affording  a presumption,  that  on  otlier  occasions 
where  we  have  been  displeased,  he,  nevertheless,  may 
not  have  written  ill  or  absurdly ; and,  further,  to  give 
him  so  much  credit  for  this  one  composition  as  may  in- 
duce us  to  review  what  has  displeased  us,  with  more 
care  than  we  should  otherwise  have  bestowed  upon  it. 
This  is  not  only  an  act  of  justice,  but,  in  our  decisions 
upon  poetry  especially,  may  conduce,  in  a high  degree, 
to  the  improvement  of  our  own  taste:  for  an  accurate 
taste  in  poetry,  and  in  all  the  other  arts,  as  Sir  Joshua 
Reynolds  has  observed,  is  an  acquired  talent,  which 
can  only  be  produced  by  thought  and  a long-continued 
intercourse  with  the  best  models  of  composition.  This* 
is  mentioned,  not  with  so  ridiculous  a purpose  as  to 
prevent  the  most  inexperienced  Reader  from  judging 
for  himself,  (I  have  already  said  that  I wish  him  to 
judge  for  himself;)  but  merely  to  temper  the  rashness 
of  decision,  and  to  suggest,  that,  if  Poetry  be  a subject 
on  which  much  time  has  not  been  bestowed,  the  judg- 
ment may  be  erroneous;  and  that,  in  many  cases,  it 
necessarily  will  be  so. 

I know  that  nothing  w’ould  have  so  effectually  con- 
tributed to  further  the  end  which  I have  in  view’,  as  to 
have  shown  of  what  kind  the  pleasure  is,  and  how  that 
pleasure  is  produced,  which  is  confessedly  produced  by 
metrical  composition  essentially  different  from  that 
which  I have  here  endeavoured  to  recommend : for  the 
Reader  will  say  that  he  has  been  pleased  by  such  com- 
position ; and  what  can  I do  more  for  him!  The  power 
of  any  art  is  limited ; and  he  will  suspect,  that  if  I 
propose  to  furnish  him  with  new  friends,  it  is  only  upon 
condition  of  his  abandoning  his  old  friends.  Besides, 
as  I have  said,  the  Reader  is  himself  conscious  of  the 
pleasure  which  he  has  received  from  such  composition, 
composition  to  which  he  has.  peculiarly  attached  the 
endearing  name  of  Poetry  ; and  all  men  feel  an  habit 
ual  gratitude,  and  something  of  an  honourahle  bigotry 
for  the  objects  which  have  long  continued  to  please 
them  : we  not  only  wish  to  be  pleased,  but  to  be  pleased 
in  that  particular  way  in  which  we  have  been  ac- 
customed to  be  pleased.  There  is  a host  of  arguments 
in  these  feelings;  and  I should  be  the  less  able  to  com- 
bat them  successfully,  as  I am  willing  to  allow,  that. 


670 


APPENDIX. 


in  order  entirely  to  enjoy  the  Poetry  which  I am  re- 
commending, it  would  be  necessary  to  give  up  much  of 
what  is  ordinarily  enjoyed.  But,  would  my  limits 
nave  permitted  me  to  point  out  how  this  pleasure  is 
produced,  I might  have  removed  many  obstacles,  and 
assisted  my  Reader  in  perceiving  that  the  powers  of 
language  are  not  so  limited  as  he  may  suppose;  and 
that  it  is  possible  for  poetry  to  give  other  enjoyments, 
of  a purer,  more  lasting,  and  more  exquisite  nature. 
This  part  of  my  subject  I have  not  altogether  neglect- 
ed ; but  it  has  been  less  my  present  aim  to  prove,  that 
the  interest  excited  by  some  other  kinds  of  poetry  is 
'ess  vivid,  and  less  worthy  of  the  nobler  powers  of  the 
mind,  than  to  offer  reasons  for  presuming,  that,  if  the 
object  which  I have  proposed  to  myself  were  adequate- 
ly attained,  a species  of  poetry  would  be  produced, 
which  is  genuine  poetry;  in  its  nature  well  adapted 
to  interest  mankind  permanently,  and  likewise  impor- 
tant in  the  multiplicity  and  quality  of  its  moral  rela- 
tions. 

From  what  has  been  said,  and  from  a perusal  of  the 
Poems,  the  Reader  will  be  able  clearly  to  perceive  the 
object  which  I have  proposed  to  myself : he  will  deter- 
mine how  far  1 have  attained  this  object;  and,  what  is 
a much  more  important  question,  whether  it  be  worth 
attaining : and  upon  the  decision  of  these  two  questions 
will  rest  my  claim  to  the  approbation  of  the  Public. 


NOTE. 


See  page  6G~, — “ by  what  is  usually  called  Poetic  Diction.” 


As,  perhaps,  I have  no  right  to  expect  from  a Reader 
of  an  Introduction  to  a volume  of  Poems  that  attentive 
perusal  without  which  it  is  impossible,  imperfectly  as 
I have  been  compelled  to  express  my  meaning,  that 
what  is  contained  therein  should,  throughout,  be  fully 
understood,  I am  the  more  anxious  to  give  an  exact 
notion  of  the  sense  in  wffiich  I use  the  phrase  poetic 
diction;  and  for  this  purpose  I will  here  add  a few 
words  concerning  the  origin  of  the  phraseology  which 

I have  condemned  under  that  name. The  earliest 

poets  of  all  nations  generally  wrote  from  passion  exci- 
ted by  real  events;  they  wrote  naturally,  and  as  men: 
feeling  powerfully  as  they  did,  their  language  w’as  da- 
ring, and  figurative.  In  succeeding  times.  Poets,  and 
Men  ambitious  of  the  fame  of  Poets,  perceiving  the 
influence  of  such  language,  and  desirous  of  producing 
the  same  effect  without  having  the  same  animating 
passion,  set  themselves  to  a mechanical  adoption  of 
tliese  figures  of  speech,  and  made  use  of  them,  some- 
times with  propriety,  but  much  more  frequently  applied 
them  to  feelings  and  ideas  with  which  they  had  no 
natural  connection  whatsoever.  A language  w»as  thus 
insensibly  produced,  differing  materially  from  the  real  j 


language  of  men  in  any  situation.  The  Reader  or 
Hearer  of  this  distorted  language  found  himself  in  a 
perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind ; when  affected 
by  the  genuine  language  of  passion,  he  had  been  in  a 
perturbed  and  unusual  state  of  mind  also:  in  both  cases 
he  was  willing  that  his  common  judgment  and  under- 
standing should  be  laid  asleep,  and  he  had  no  instinct- 
ive and  infallible  perception  of  the  true,  to  make  him 
reject  the  false ; the  one  served  as  a passport  for  the 
other.  The  agitation  and  confusion  of  mind  were  in 
both  cases  delightful,  and  no  wonder  if  he  confounded 
the  one  with  the  other,  and  believed  them  both  to  be 
produced  by  the  same,  or  similar  causes.  Besides,  the 
Poet  spake  to  him  in  the  character  of  a man  to  be  Ioo'k- 
ed  up  to,  a man  of  genius  and  authority.  Thus,  and 
from  a variety  of  other  causes,  this  distorted  language 
was  received  with  admiration ; and  Poets,  it  is  probable, 
who  had  before  contented  themselves  for  the  most  part 
with  misapplying  only  expressions  which  at  first  had 
been  dictated  by  real  passion,  carried  the  abuse  still 
further,  and  introduced  phrases  composed  apparently 
in  the  spirit  of  the  original  figurative  language  of 
passion,  yet  altogether  of  their  own  invention,  and 
distinguished  by  various  degrees  of  wanton  deviation 
from  good  sense  and  nature. 

It  is  indeed  true,  that  the  language  of  the  earliest 
Poets  was  felt  to  differ  materially  from  ordinary  lan- 
guage, because  it  was  the  language  of  extraordinary 
occasions;  but  it  was  really  spoken  by  men,  language 
which  the  Poet  himself  had  uttered  when  he  had  been 
affected  by  the  events  which  he  described,  or  which 
he  had  heard  uttered  by  those  around  him.  To  this 
language  it  is  probable  that  metre  of  some  sort  or 
other  was  early  superadded.  This  separated  the  genu- 
ine language  of  Poetry  still  further  from  common  life, 
so  that  whoever  read  or  heard  the  poems  of  these 
earliest  Poets  felt  himself  moved  in  a way  in  which 
he  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  moved  in  real  life, 
and  by  causes  manifestly  different  from  those  which 
acted  upon  him  in  real  life.  This  was  the  great  tempt- 
ation to  all  the  corruptions  which  liave  followed:  under 
the  protection  of  this  feeling  succeeding  Poets  con- 
structed a phraseology  which  had  one  thing,  it  is  true, 
in  common  with  the  genuine  language  of  poetry, 
namely,  that  it  was  not  heard  in  ordinary  conversation  ; 
that  it  was  unusual.  But  the  first  Poets,  as  I have  said, 
spake  a language  which,  though  unusual,  was  still  the 
language  of  men.  This  circumstance,  however,  was 
disregarded  by  their  successors;  they  found  that  they 
could  please  by  easier  means:  they  became  proud  of  a 
language  wdiich  they  themselves  had  invented,  and 
which  was  uttered  only  by  themselves;  and,  w'ith  the 
spirit  of  a fraternity,  they  arrogated  it  to  themselves 
as  their  own.  In  process  of  time  metro  became  a 
symbol  of  promise  of  this  unusual  language,  and  who- 
ever took  upon  him  to  write  in  metre,  according  as  he 
possessed  more  or  less  of  true  poetic  genius,  introduced 


671 


OBSERVATIONS,  &c. 


less  or  more  of  this  adulterated  phraseology  into  his 
compositions,  and  the  true  and  the  false  became  so  in- 
separably interwoven  that  the  taste  of  men  was  gradu- 
ally perverted ; and  this  language  was  received  as  a 
natural  language:  and  at  length,  by  the  influence  of 
books  upon  men,  did  to  a certain  degree  really  become 
so.  Abuses  of  this  kind  were  imported  from  one  na- 
tion to  another,  and  with  the  progress  of  refinement 
this  diction  became  daily  more  and  more  corrupt, 
thrusting  out  of  sight  the  plain  humanities  of  nature  i 
by  a motley  masquerade  of  tricks,  quaintnesses,  hiero- 
glyphics, and  enigmas. 

It  would  be  highly  interesting  to  point  out  the  causes 
of  the  pleasure  given  by  this  extravagant  and  absurd 
language ; but  this  is  not  the  place  ; it  depends  upon  a 
great  variety  of  causes,  but  upon  none,  perhaps,  more 
than  its  influence  in  impressing  a notion  of  the  peculi- 
arity and  exaltation  of  the  Poet’s  character,  and  in  flat- 
tering the  Reader’s  self-love  by  bringing  him  nearer  to 
a sympathy  with  that  character;  an  effect  which  is 
accomplished  by  unsettling  ordinary  habits  of  thinking, 
and  thus  assisting  the  Reader  to  approach  to  that  per- 
turbed and  dizzy  state  of  mind  in  which  if  he  does  not 
find  himself,  he  imagines  that  he  is  balked  of  a peculiar 
enjoyment  which  poetry  can  and  ought  to  bestow. 

The  sonnet  which  I have  quoted  from  Gray,  in  the 
Preface,  except  the  lines  printed  in  Italics,  consists  of 
little  else  but  this  diction,  though  not  of  the  worst  kind  ; 
and  indeed,  if  I may  be  permitted  to  say  so,  it  is  far 
too  common  in  the  best  writers  both  ancient  and  mod- 
ern. Perhaps  I can  in  no  way,  by  positive  example, 
more  easily  give  my  Reader  a notion  of  what  I mean 
by  the  phrase  poetic  diction  than  by  referring  him  to  a 
comparison  between  the  metrical  paraphrase  which  we 
have  of  passages  in  the  Old  and  New  Testament,  and 
those  passages  as  they  exist  in  our  common  Translation. 
See  Pope’s  “ Messiah”  throughout ; Prior’s  “ Did  sweet- 
er sounds  adorn  my  flowing  tongue,”&c.  &c.  “ Though 
I speak  with  the  tongues  of  men  and  of  angels, ”<tc.  &c.  ^ 
See  1st  Corinthians,  chapter  xiiith.  By  way  of  imme-  j 
diate  example,  take  the  following  of  Dr.  Johnson  : — 

“Turn  on  the  prudent  Ant  thy  heedless  eyes. 

Observe  her  labours,  Sluggard,  and  be  wise  ; 

No  stem  command,  no  monitory  voice. 

Prescribes  her  duties,  or  directs  her  choice ; 

Yet,  timely  provident,  she  hastes  away 
To  snatch  the  blessings  of  a plenteous  day  ; 

When  fruitful  Summer  loads  the  teeming  plain. 

She  crops  the  harvest  and  she  stores  the  grain. 

How  long  shall  sloth  usurp  thy  useless  hours, 

Unnerve  thy  vigour,  and  enchain  thy  powers  'I 
While  artful  shades  thy  downy  couch  enclose, 

And  soft  solicitation  courts  repose. 

Amidst  the  drowsy  charms  of  dull  delight, 

Year  chases  year  with  unremilted  flight. 

Till  Want  now  following,  fratidulent  and  slow. 

Shall  spring  to  seize  thee,  like  an  ambushed  foe.” 

From  this  hubbub  of  words  pass  to  the  original. 
“Go  to  the  Ant,  thou  Sluggard,  consider  her  ways, 


and  be  wise:  which  having  no  guide,  overseer,  or  ru- 
ler, provideth  her  meat  in  thy  summer,  and  gatheretli 
her  food  in  the  harvest.  How  long  wilt  thou  sleep,  O 
Sluggard  1 when  wilt  thou  arise  out  of  the  sleep?  Yet 
a little  sleep,  a little  slumbcr,»a  little  folding  of  the 
hands  to  sleep.  So  shall  thy  poverty  come  as  one 
that  travelleth,  and  thy  want  as  an  armed  man.”  Pro- 
verbs, chap.  vi. 

One  more  quotation,  and  I have  done.  It  is  from 
Cowper’s  Verses  supposed  to  be  written  by  Alexander 
Selkirk:  — 

“ Keligion ! w hat  treasure  untold 
Resides  in  that  heaveidy  word .' 

More  precious  llian  silver  and  gold. 

Or  all  that  this  earth  can  aflcjrd. 

But  the  sound  of  the  church-going  bell 
These  valleys  and  rocks  never  heard. 

Ne’er  sighed  at  the  sound  of  a knell. 

Or  smiled  when  a sabbath  appeared. 

Ye  winds,  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 
Some  cordial  endearing  report 
Of  a land  I must  visit  no  more. 

My  Friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 
A wish  or  a thought  after  me  ? 

O tell  me  I yet  have  a friend, 

Though  a friend  1 am  never  to  see.” 

I have  quoted  this  passage  as  an  instance  of  three 
different  styles  of  composition.  The  first  four  lines  are 
poorly  expressed ; some  Critics  would  call  the  language 
prosaic  ; the  fact  is,  it  would  be  bad  prose,  so  bad  that 
it  is  scarcely  worse  in  metre.  The  epithet  “ church- 
going” applied  to  a bell,  and  that  by  so  chaste  a writer 
as  Cowper,  is  an  instance  of  the  strange  abuses  which 
Poets  have  introduced  into  their  language,  till  they  and 
their  Readers  take  them  as  matters  of  course,  if  they 
do  not  single  them  out  expressly  as  objects  of  admira- 
tion. The  two  lines  “ Ne’er  sighed  at  the  sound,”  &c. 
are,  in  my  opinion,  an  instance  of  the  language  of  pas- 
sion wrested  from  its  proper  use,  and,  from  the  mere 
circumstance  of  the  composition  being  in  metre,  ap- 
! plied  upon  an  occasion  that  does  not  justify  such  violent 
j expressions ; and  I should  condemn  the  passage,  though 
* perhaps  few  Readers  will  agree  with  me,  as  vicious 
^ poetic  diction.  The  last  stanza  is  throughout  admira- 
bly expressed : it  would  be  equally  good  whether  in 
prose  or  verse,  except  that  the  reader  has  an  exquisite 
pleasure  in  seeing  such  natural  language  so  naturally 
connected  with  metre.  The  beauty  of  this  stanza 
tempts  me  to  conclude  with  a principle  which  ought 
never  to  be  lost  sight  of, — namely,  that  in  works  of 
imagination  and  sentiment,  in  proportion  as  ideas  and 
feelings  are  valuable,  whether  the  composition  be  in 
prose  or  in  verse,  they  require  and  exact  one  and  the 
same  language.  Metre  is  but  adventitious  to  compo- 
sition, and  the  phraseology  for  which  that  passport  is 
necessary,  even  where  it  is  graceful  at  all,  will  be  little 
valued  by  the  judicious. 


APPENDIX  IV 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  ROBERT  WALKER.* 


In  the  year  1709,  Robert  Walker  was  born  at  Under- 
Crajj,  in  Seatliwaite;  he  was  the  youngest  of  twelve 
children-  His  eldest  brother,  who  inherited  the  small 
family  estate,  died  at  Under-Crag,  aged  ninety-four, 
being  twenty-four  years  older  than  the  subject  of  this 
Memoir,  who  was  born  of  tlie  same  mother.  Robert 
was  a sickly  infant;  and,  through  his  boyliood  and  youth 
continuing  to  be  of  delicate  frame  and  tender  health, 
it  was  deemed  best,  according  to  the  country  phrase,  to 
breed  him  a scholar;  for  it  was  not  likely  that  he 
would  be  able  to  earn  a livelihood  by  bodily  labour.  At 
that  period  few  of  these  Dales  were  furnished  with 
schoolhouses;  the  children  being  taught  to  read  and 
write  in  the  chapel ; and  in  the  same  consecrated 
building,  where  he  officiated  for  so  many  years  both  as 
preacher  and  schoolmaster,  he  himself  received  the 
rudiments  of  his  education.  In  his  youth  he  became 
schoolmaster  at  Lowes-water;  not  being  called  upon, 
probably,  in  that  situation,  to  teach  more  than  reading, 
writing,  and  arithmetic.  But,  by  the  assistance  of  a 
“ Gentleman”  in  the  neighbourhood,  he  acquired,  at 
leisure  hours,  a knowledge  of  the  classics,  and  became 
qualified  for  taking  holy  orders.  Upon  his  ordination, 
he  had  the  offer  of  two  curacies ; the  one,  Torver,  in 
the  vale  of  Coniston, — the  other,  Seathwaite,  in  his  na- 
tive vale.  The  value  of  each  was  the  same,  viz.  five 
pounds  per  annum  ; but  the  cure  of  Seathwaite  having 
a cottage  attached  to  it  as  he  wished  to  marry,  he  chose 
it  in  preference.  The  young  person  on  whom  his  affec- 
tions were  fi.xed,  though  in  the  condition  of  a domestic 
servant,  had  given  promise,  by  her  serious  and  modest 
deportment,  and  by  her  virtuous  dispositions,  that  she 
was  worthy  to  become  the  helpmate  of  a man  entering 
upon  a plan  of  life  such  as  he  had  marked  out  for  him- 
self. By  her  frugality  she  had  stored  up  a small  sum 
of  money,  with  which  they  began  housekeeping.  In 
173-'3  or  1736,  he  entered  upon  his  curacy ; and  nine- 
teen years  afterwards,  his  situation  is  thus  described,  in 
some  letters  to  be  found  in  the  Annual  Register  for 
1760,  from  which  the  following  is  extracted : — 


I 


* See  Note  9,  to  “ Poems  of  the  Imagination.” 


To  Mr.  

Coniston,  July  26,  1754. 

“ Sir, 

“ I was  the  other  day  upon  a party  of  pleasure,  about 
five  or  six  miles  from  this  place,  where  I met  'with  a 
very  striking  object,  and  of  a nature  not  very  common. 
Going  into  a clergyman’s  house  (of  whom  I had  fre- 
quently heard)  I found  him  sitting  at  the  head  of  a 
long  square  table,  such  as  is  commonly  used  in  this 
country  by  the  lower  class  of  people,  dressed  in  a 
coarse  blue  frock,  trimmed  with  black  horn  buttons;  a 
checked  shirt,  a leathern  strap  about  his  neck  for  a 
stock,  a coarse  apron,  and  a pair  of  great  wooden-soled 
shoes,  plated  with  iron  to  preserve  them,  (what  we  call 
clogs  in  these  parts,)  with  a child  upon  his  knee,  eating 
his  breakfast:  his  wife,  and  the  remainder  of  his  chil- 
dren, were  some  of  them  employed  in  waiting  upon 
each  other,  the  rest  in  teazing  and  spinning  wool,  at 
which  trade  he  is  a great  proficient;  and  moreover, 
when  it  is  made  ready  for  sale,  will  lay  it,  by  sixteen 
or  thirty-two  pounds  weight,  upon  his  back,  and  on  foot, 
seven  or  eight  miles  will  carry  it  to  the  market,  even 
in  the  depth  of  winter.  I was  not  much  .surprised  at 
! all  this,  as  you  may  possibly  be,  having  heard  a great 
deal  of  it  related  before.  But  I must  confess  myself 
astonished  with  the  alacrity  and  the  good-humour  that 
appeared  both  in  the  clergyman  and  his  wife,  and 
more  so,  at  the  sense  and  ingenuity  of  the  clergyman 
himself.”  * * 

Then  follows  a letter  from  another  person,  dated 
1755,  from  which  an  extract  shall  be  given. 

“ By  his  frugality  and  good  management,  he  keeps 
the  wolf  from  the  door,  as  we  say ; and  if  he  advances 
a little  in  the  world,  it  is  owing  more  to  his  own  care, 
than  to  any  thing  else  he  has  to  rely  upon.  I don’t  find 
his  inclination  is  running  after  further  preferment.  He 
is  settled  among  the  people,  that  are  happy  among  them- 
selves; and  lives  in  the  greatest  unanimity  and  riend- 
ship  with  them ; and,  I believe,  the  minister  and  peo- 
ple are  exceedingly  satisfied  with  each  other;  and  in- 
deed how  should  they  be  dissatisfied,  when  they  have 
a person  of  so  much  worth  and  probity  for  thsir  pastor  1 

672 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  ROBERT  WALKER. 


G73 


A man,  who,  for  his  candour  and  meekness,  his  sober, 
chaste,  and  virtuous  conversation,  his  soundness  in  prin- 
ciple and  practice,  is  an  ornament  to  his  profession,  and 
an  honour  to  the  country  he  is  in ; and  bear  with  me  if  I 
say,  the  plainness  of  his  dress,  the  sanctity  of  his  man- 
ners, the  simplicity  of  his  doctrine,  and  the  vehemence 
of  his  expression,  have  a sort  of  resemblance  to  the 
pare  practice  of  primitive  Christianity.” 

We  will  now  give  his  own  account  of  himself,  to  be 
found  in  the  same  place. 

From  the  Rev.  Robert  Walker. 

“ Sir, 

“Yours  of  the  26th  instant  was  communicated  to  me 
by  Mr.  C , and  I should  have  returned  an  imme- 

diate answer,  but  the  hand  of  Providence  then  lying 
heavy  upon  an  amiable  pledge  of  conjugal  endearment, 
hath  since  taken  from  me  a promising  girl,  which  the 
disconsolate  mother  too  pensively  laments  the  loss  of; 
tliough  we  have  yet  eight  living,  all  healthful,  hopeful 
children,  whose  names  and  ages  are  as  follows: — Zac- 
cheus,  aged  almost  eighteen  years;  Elizabeth,  sixteen 
years  and  ten  months;  Mary,  fifteen;  Moses,  thirteen 
years  and  three  months ; Sarah,  ten  years  and  three 
months  ; Mabel,  eight  years  and  three  months ; VV' illiam 
Tyson,  three  years  and  eight  months ; and  Anne  Esther, 
one  year  and  three  months : besides  Anne,  who  died 
two  years  and  six  months  ago,  and  was  then  aged 
between  nine  and  ten ; and  Eleanor,  who  died  the  23d 
inst.,  January,  aged  six  years  and  ten  months.  Zac- 
cheus,  the  eldest  child,  is  now  learning  the  trade  of 
tanner,  and  has  two  years  and  a half  of  liis  apprentice- 
ship to  serve.  The  annual  income  of  my  chapel  at 
present,  as  near  as  I can  compute  it,  may  amount  to 
about  VII.  10s.,  of  which  is  paid  in  cash  viz.  51.  from 
the  bounty  of  Queen  Anne,  and  51.  from  W.  P.  Esq. 

of  P , out  of  the  annual  rents,  he  being  lord  of  the 

manor,  and  3Z.  from  the  several  inhabitants  of  L , 

settled  upon  the  tenements  as  a rent-charge;  the  house 
and  gardens  I value  at  il.  yearly,  and  not  worth  more  ; 
and  I believe  the  surplice  fees  and  voluntary  contribu- 
tions, one  year  with  another,  may  be  worth  SI.  ; but,  as 
the  inhabitants  are  few  in  number,  and  the  fees  very 
low,  this  last-mentioned  sum  consists  merely  in  free- 
will offerings. 

“ I am  situated  greatly  to  my  satisfaction  with  regard 
to  the  conduct  and  behaviour  of  my  auditory,  who  not 
only  live  in  the  happy  ignorance  of  the  follies  and  vices 
of  the  age,  but  in  mutual  peace  and  good-will  with  one 
another,  and  are  seemingly  (I  hope  really  too)  sincere 
Christians,  and  sound  members  of  the  established 
church,  not  one  dissenter  of  any  denomination  being 
amongst  them  all.  I got  to  the  value  of  40Z.  for  my 
wife’s  fortune,  but  had  no  real  estate  of  my  own,  being 
the  youngest  son  of  twelve  children,  born  of  obscure 
parents;  and,  though  my  income  has  been  but  small, 
and  my  family  large,  yet  by  a providential  blessing  upon 


my  own  diligent  endeavours,  the  kindness  of  friends, 
and  a cheap  country  to  live  in,  we  have  always  had 
the  necessaries  of  life.  By  what  I have  written  (which 
is  a true  and  e.xact  account,  to  the  best  of  my  know- 
ledge) I hope  you  will  not  think  your  favour  to  me,  out 
of  the  late  worthy  Dr.  Stratford’s  effects,  quite  misbe 
stowed,  for  which  I must  ever  gratefully  own  myself, 

“ Sir, 

“ Your  much  obliged  and  most  obedient  humble  Servant, 

“ R.  W.,  Curate  of  S . 

“To  Mr.  C.,  of  Lancaster.” 

About  the  time  when  this  letter  was  written,  the 
Bishop  of  Chester  recommended  the  scheme  of  joining 
the  curacy  of  Ulpha  to  the  contiguous  one  of  Seathwaite, 
and  the  nomination  W'as  offered  to  Mr.  Walker;  but 
an  unexpected  difficulty  arising,  Mr.  W.,  in  a letter  to 
the  Bishop,  (a  copy  of  which,  in  his  own  beautiful 
handwriting,  now  lies  before  me,)  thus  expresses  him- 
self: “ If  he,”  meaning  the  person  in  whom  the  difficulty 
originated,  “ had  suggested  any  such  objection  before, 
1 should  utterly  have  declined  any  attempt  to  the  cu- 
racy of  Ulpha:  indeed,  I was  always  apprehensive  it 
might  be  disagreeable  to  my  auditory  at  Seathwaite,  as 
they  have  been  alw'ays  accustomed  to  double  duty,  and 
the  inhabitants  of  Ulpha  despair  of  being  able  to  sup- 
port a schoolmaster  who  is  not  curate  there  also;  which 
suppressed  all  thoughts  in  me  of  serving  them  both.” 
And  in  a second  letter  to  the  Bishop  he  writes : — 

“My  Lord, 

“ I have  the  favour  of  yours  of  the  1st  instant,  and 
am  exceedingly  obliged  on  account  of  the  Ulpha  affair: 
if  that  curacy  should  lapse  into  your  Lordship’s  hands, 
I would  beg  leave  rather  to  decline  than  embrace 
it;  for  the  chapels  of  Seathwaite  and  Ulpha,  annexed 
together,  would  be  apt  to  cause  a general  discontent 
among  the  inhabitants  of  both  places;  by  either  think- 
ing themselves  slighted,  being  only  served  alternately, 
or  neglected  in  the  duty,  or  attributing  it  to  covetous- 
ness in  me;  all  which  occasions  of  murmuring  1 would 
willingly  avoid.”  And,  in  concluding  his  former  let- 
ter, he  expresses  a similar  sentiment  upon  the  same 
occasion,  “ desiring,  if  it  be  possible,  however,  as  much 
as  in  me  lieth,  to  live  peaceably  w’itli  all  men.” 

The  year  following,  the  curacy  of  Seathwaite  w’as 
again  augmented ; and,  to  effect  this  augmentation, 
fifty  pounds  had  been  advanced  by  himself;  and,  in 
1760,  lands  were  purchased  with  eight  hundred  pounds. 
Scanty  as  was  his  income,  the  frequent  offer  of  much 
better  benefices  could  not  tempt  Mr.  W.  to  quit  a situ- 
ation where  he  had  been  so  long  happy,  with  a con- 
sciousness of  being  useful.  Among  his  papers  I fino 
the  following  copy  of  a letter,  dated  177.'3,  twenty 
years  after  his  refusal  of  the  curacy  of  Ulpha,  which 
will  show  what  exertions  had  been  made  for  one  of 
his  sons. 


57 


674 


APPENDIX. 


“ Mav  it  please  your  Grace,  j 

“ Our  remote  situation  here  makes  it  difficult  to  get 
tlie  necessary  information  for  transacting  business  | 
regularly  ; such  is  the  reason  of  my  giving  your  Grace 
the  present  trouble. 

“ The  bearer  (my  son)  is  desirous  of  offering  himself 
candidate  for  deacon’s  orders  at  your  Grace’s  ensuing 
ordination ; the  first  on  the  25th  instant,  so  that  his 
papers  could  not  be  transmitted  in  due  time.  As  he  is 
now  fully  at  age,  and  I have  afforded  him  education  to 
the  utmost  of  my  ability,  it  would  give  me  great  satis- 
faction (if  your  Grace  would  take  him,  and  find  him 
qualified)  to  have  him  ordained.  His  constitution  has 
been  tender  for  some  years ; he  entered  the  college  of 
Dublin,  but  his  health  would  not  permit  him  to  con- 
tinue there,  or  I would  have  supported  him  much  lon- 
ger. He  has  been  with  me  at  home  above  a year,  in 
which  time  he  has  gained  great  strength  of  body,  suffi- 
cient, I hope,  to  enable  him  for  performing  the  function. 
Divine  Providence,  assisted  by  liberal  benefactors,  has 
blest  my  endeavours,  from  a small  income,  to  rear  a 
numerous  family ; and  as  my  time  of  life  renders  me 
now  unfit  for  much  future  expectancy  from  this  world, 
I should  be  glad  to  see  my  son  settled  in  a promising 
way  to  acquire  an  honest  livelihood  for  himself.  His 
behaviour,  so  far  in  life,  has  been  irreproachable ; and 
I hope  he  will  not  degenerate,  in  principles  or  practice, 
from  the  precepts  and  pattern  of  an  indulgent  parent. 
Your  Grace’s  favourable  reception  of  this,  from  a dis- 
tant corner  of  the  diocese,  and  an  obscure  hand,  will 
excite  filial  gratitude,  and  a due  use  shall  be  made  of 
the  obligation  vouchsafed  thereby  to 

“ Your  Grace’s  very  dutiful  and  most  obedient 
“ Son  and  Servant, 

“ Robert  Walker.” 

The  same  man,  who  was  thus  liberal  in  the  education 
of  his  numerous  family,  was  even  munificent  in  hospi- 
tality as  a parish  priest.  Every  Sunday,  were  served, 
upon  the  long  table,  at  which  he  has  been  described 
sitting  with  a child  upon  his  knee,  messes  of  broth,  for 
the  refreshment  of  those  of  his  congregation  who  came 
from  a distance,  and  usually  took  their  seats  as  parts  of 
his  own  household.  It  seems  scarcely  possible  that  this 
custom  could  have  commenced  before  the  augmenta- 
tion of  his  cure ; and  what  would  to  many  have  been 
a high  price  of  self-denial,  was  paid,  by  the  pastor  and 
his  family,  for  this  gratification  ; as  the  treat  could  only 
be  provided  by  dressing  at  one  time  the  whole,  perhaps, 
of  their  weekly  allowance  of  fresh  animal  food;  con- 
sequently, for  a succession  of  days,  the  table  was  cover- 
ed with  cold  victuals  only.  His  generosity  in  old  age 
may  be  still  further  illustrated  by  a little  circumstance 
relating  to  an  orphan  grandson,  then  ten  years  of  age, 
which  I find  in  a copy  of  a letter  to  one  of  his  sons; 
he  requests  that  half-a-guinea  may  be  left  for  “little 
Robert’s  pocket-money,”  who  was  then  at  school ; in- 


trusting it  to  the  care  of  a lady,  who,  as  he  says,  “ may 
sometimes  frustrate  his  squandering  it  away  foolishly,” 
and  promising  to  send  him  an  equal  allowance  annually 
for  the  same  purpose.  The  conclusion  of  the  same  let- 
ter is  so  characteristic,  that  I cannot  forbear  to  trans- 
cribe it.  “ We,”  meaning  his  wife  and  himself,  “ are 
in  our  wonted  state  of  health,  allowing  for  the  hasty 
strides  of  old  age  knocking  daily  at  our  door,  and 
threateningly  telling  us,  we  are  not  only  mortal,  but 
must  expect  ere  long  to  take  our  leave  of  our  ancient 
^ cottage,  and  lie  down  in  our  last  dormitory.  Pray  par- 
don my  neglect  to  answer  yours:  let  us  hear  sooner 
from  you,  to  augment  the  mirth  of  the  Christmas  holi- 
days. Wishing  you  all  the  pleasures  of  the  approach- 
ing season,  I am,  dear  Son,  with  lasting  sincerity, 
yours  affectionately. 

“ Robert  Walker.” 


I 


He  loved  old  customs  and  usages,  and  in  some  in- 
stances stuck  to  them  to  his  own  loss;  for,  having  had 
a sum  of  money  lodged  in  the  hands  of  a neighbouring 
tradesman,  when  long  course  of  time  had  raised  the 
rate  of  interest,  and  more  was  offered,  he  refused  to 
accept  it ; an  act  not  difficult  to  one,  who,  while  he 
was  drawing  seventeen  pounds  a year  from  his  curacy, 
declined,  as  we  have  seen,  to  add  the  profits  of  another 
small  benefice  to  his  own,  lest  he  should  be  suspected  of 
cupidity. — From  this  vice  he  was  utterly  free ; he  made 
no  charge  for  teaching  school ; such  as  could  afford  to 
pay,  gave  him  what  they  pleased.  When  very  young, 
having  kept  a diary  of  his  expenses,  however  trifling,  the 
large  amount,  at  the  end  of  the  year,  surprised  him ; 
and  from  that  time  the  rule  of  his  life  was  to  be  eco- 
nomical, not  avaricious.  At  his  decease  he  left  behind 
him  no  less  a sum  than  2000Z. ; and  such  a sense  of 
his  various  excellencies  was  prevalent  in  the  country, 
that  the  epithet  of  wonderful  is  to  this  day  attached 
to  his  name. 

There  is  in  the  above  sketch  something  so  extraordi- 
nary as  to  require  further  explanatory  details. — And  to 
begin  with  his  industry ; eight  hours  in  each  day,  during 
five  days  in  the  week,  and  half  of  Saturday,  except 
when  the  labours  of  husbandry  were  urgent,  he  was 
occupied  in  teaching.  His  seat  was  within  the  rails 
of  the  altar;  the  communion-table  was  his  desk  ; and, 
like  Shenstone’s  schoolmistress,  the  master  employed 
himself  at  the  spinning-wheel,  while  the  children  were 
repeating  their  lessons  by  his  side.  Every  evening, 
after  school  hours,  if  not  more  profitably  engaged,  he 
continued  the  same  kind  of  labour,  exchanging,  for  the 
benefit  of  exercise,  the  small  wheel,  at  which  he  had 
sate,  for  the  large  one  on  which  wool  is  spun,  the  spin- 
ner stepping  to  and  fro.  Thus,  was  the  wheel  con- 
stantly in  readiness  to  prevent  the  waste  of  a moment’s 
time.  Nor  was  his  industry  with  the  pen,  when  occa- 
sion called  for  it,  less  eager.  Intrusted  with  extensive 
management  of  public  and  private  affairs,  he  acted,  in 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  ROBERT  WALKER. 


675 


his  rustic  neighbourhood,  as  scrivener,  writing  out  pe- 
titions, deeds  of  conveyance,  wills,  covenants,  «fcc. 
with  pecuniary  gain  to  himself,  and  to  the  great  benefit 
of  his  employers.  These  labours  (at  all  times  consider- 
able) at  one  period  of  the  year,  viz.  between  Christmas 
and  Candlemas,  when  money  transactions  are  settled 
in  this  country,  were  often  so  intense,  that  he  passed 
great  part  of  the  night,  and  sometimes  whole  nights, 
at  his  desk.  His  garden  also  was  tilled  by  his  own 
hand ; he  had  a right  of  pasturage  upon  the  mountains 
for  a few  sheep  and  a couple  of  cows,  which  required 
his  attendance;  with  this  pastoral  occupation,  he  joined 
ne  labours  of  husbandry  upon  a small  scale,  renting 
•.wo  or  three  acres  in  addition  to  his  own  less  than 
one  acre  of  glebe;  and  the  humblest  drudgery  which 
the  cultivation  of  these  fields  required  was  performed 
by  himself. 

He  also  assisted  his  neighbours  in  haymaking  and 
shearing  their  flocks,  and  in  the  performance  of  this 
latter  service  he  was  eminently  dexterous.  They,  in 
their  turn,  complimented  him  with  the  present  of  a 
haycock,  or  a fleece;  less  as  a recompense  for  this 
particular  service  than  as  a general  acknowledgment. 
The  Sabbath  was  in  a strict  sense  kept  holy ; the 
Sunday  evenings  being  devoted  to  reading  the  Scrip- 
ture and  family  prayer.  The  principal  festivals  ap- 
pointed by  the  Church  were  also  duly  observed ; but 
through  every  other  day  in  the  week,  through  every 
week  in  the  year,  he  was  incessantly  occupied  in 
work  of  hand  or  mind  ; not  allowing  a moment  for  re- 
creation, except  upon  a Saturday  afternoon,  when  he 
indulged  himself  with  a Newspaper,  or  sometimes  with 
a Magazine.  The  frugality  and  temperance  established 
in  his  house,  were  as  admirable  as  the  industry.  No- 
thing to  which  the  name  of  luxury  could  be  given  was 
there  known;  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life,  indeed, 
when  tea  had  been  brought  into  almost  general  use, 
it  was  provided  for  visiters,  and  for  such  of  his  own 
family  as  returned  occasionally  to  his  roof  and  had 
been  accustomed  to  this  refreshment  elsewhere;  but 
neither  he  nor  his  wife  ever  partook  of  it.  The  rai- 
ment worn  by  his  family  was  comely  and  decent,  but 
as  simple  as  their  diet ; the  home-spun  materials  were 
made  up  into  apparel  by  their  own  hands.  At  the  time 
of  the  decease  of  this  thrifty  pair,  their  cottage  con- 
tained a large  store  of  webs  of  woollen  and  linen  cloth, 
woven  from  thread  of  their  own  spinning.  And  it  is  re- 
markable that  the  pew  in  the  chapel  in  which  the  family 
used  to  sit,  remained  a few  years  ago  neatly  lined  with 
woollen  cloth  spun  by  the  pastor’s  own  hands.  It  is  the 
only  pew  in  the  chapel  so  distinguished  ; and  I know  of 
no  other  instance  of  his  conformity  to  the  delicate  accom- 
modations of  modern  times.  The  fuel  of  the  house, 
like  that  of  their  neighbours,  consisted  of  peat,  pro- 
cured from  the  mosses  by  their  own  labour.  The  lights 
by  which,  in  the  winter  evenings,  their  work  was  per- 
formed, were  of  their  own  manufacture,  such  as  still 


continue  to  be  u.sed  in  these  cottages ; they  are  made 
of  the  pith  of  rushes  dipped  in  any  unctuous  substance 
that  the  house  affords.  While  candles,  as  tallow  can- 
dles are  here  called,  were  reserved  to  honour  the 
Christmas  festivals,  and  were  perhaps  produced  upon  no 
other  occasions.  Once  a month,  during  the  proper  sea- 
son, a sheep  was  drawn  from  their  small  mountain  flock 
and  killed  for  the  use  of  the  family;  and  a cow,  towards 
the  close  of  the  year,  was  salted  and  dried,  for  win- 
ter provision  : the  hide  was  tanned  to  furnish  them  witli 
shoes.  — By  these  various  resources,  this  venerable 
clergyman  reared  a numerous  family,  not  only  pre- 
serving them,  as  he  affectingly  says,  “ from  wanting 
the  necessaries  of  life;”  but  afforded  them  an  un- 
stinted education,  and  the  means  of  raising  themselves 
in  society. 

It  might  have  been  concluded  that  no  one  could  thus, 
as  it  were,  have  converted  his  body  into  a machine  of 
industry  for  the  humblest  uses,  and  kept  his  thoughts 
so  frequently  bent  upon  secular  concerns,  without  griev- 
ous injury  to  tire  more  precious  parts  of  liis  nature. 
How  could  the  powers  of  intellect  thrive,  or  its  graces 
be  displayed,  in  the  midst  of  circumstances  apparently 
so  unfavourable,  and  where  to  tlie  direct  cultivation  of 
the  mind,  so  small  a portion  of  time  was  allotted  1 But, 
in  this  extraordinary  man,  things  in  their  nature  ad- 
verse were  reconciled  ; his  conversation  was  remarka- 
ble, not  only  for  being  chaste  and  pure,  but  for  the  de- 
gree in  which  it  was  fervent  and  eloquent ; his  written 
style  was  correct,  simple,  and  animated.  Nor  did  his 
(iffecAions  suffer  more  than  his  intellect ; he  was  ten- 
derly alive  to  all  the  duties  of  his  pastoral  office  : the 
poor  and  needy  “ he  never  sent  empty  away,” — the 
stranger  was  fed  and  refreshed  in  passing  that  unfre- 
quented vale — the  sick  were  visited  ; and  the  feelings 
of  humanity  found  further  exercise  among  the  distress- 
es and  embarrassments  in  the  worldly  estate  of  his 
neighbours,  with  which  his  talents  for  business  made 
him  acquainted  ; and  the  disinterestedness,  impartiality, 
and  uprightness  which  he  maintained  in  the  manage- 
ment of  all  affairs  confided  to  him,  were  virtues  seldom 
separated  in  his  own  conscience  from  religious  obliga- 
tions. Nor  could  such  conduct  fail  to  remind  those 
who  witnessed  it  of  a spirit  nobler  than  law  or  custom  : 
they  felt  convictions  which,  but  for  such  intercourse, 
could  not  have  been  afforded,  that,  as  in  the  practice  of 
their  pastor,  there  was  no  guile,  so  in  his  faith  there 
was  nothing  hollow  ; and  we  are  warranted  in  believing', 
that  upon  these  occasions,  selfishness,  obstinacy,  and 
discord  would  often  give  way  before  the  breathings  of 
his  good-will  and  saintly  integrity.  It  may  be  presu- 
med also,  wliile  his  humble  congregation  were  listen- 
ing to  the  moral  precepts  which  he  delivered  from  the 
pulpit,  and  to  the  Christian  exhortations  that  they 
should  love  their  neighbour  as  themselves,  and  do  a.s 
they  would  be  done  unto,  that  peculiar  efficacy  was 
given  to  the  preacher’s  labours  by  recollections  in  iJie 


G76 


APPENDIX. 


minds  of  his  congregation,  that  they  were  called  upon 
to  do  no  more  than  his  own  actions  were  daily  setting 
before  their  eyes. 

The  afternoon  service  in  the  chapel  was  less  numer- 
ously attended  than  that  of  the  morning,  but  by  a more 
serious  auditory  ; the  lesson  from  the  New  Testament, 
on  those  occasions,  was  accompanied  by  Birkett’s  Com- 
mentaries. These  lessons  he  read  with  impassioned 
emphasis,  frequently  drawing  tears  from  his  hearers, 
and  leaving  a lasting  impression  upon  tlieir  minds.  Ilis 
devotional  feelings  and  the  powers  of  his  own  mind 
were  further  exercised,  along  with  those  of  his  family, 
in  perusing  the  Scriptures;  not  only  on  the  Sunday 
evenings,  but  on  every  other  evening,  while  the  rest 
of  the  household  were  at  work,  some  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, and  in  her  turn  the  servant,  for  the  sake  of  practice 
in  reading,  or  for  instruction,  read  the  Bible  aloud;  and 
in  this  manner  the  whole  was  repeatedly  gone  through. 
That  no  common  importance  was  attached  to  the  ob- 
servance of  religious  ordinances  by  his  family,  appears 
from  the  following  memorandum  by  one  of  his  descend- 
ants, which  I am  tempted  to  insert  at  length,  as  it  is 
characteristic,  and  somewhat  curious.  “ There  is  a 
small  chapel  in  the  county  palatine  of  Lancaster,  where 
a certain  clergyman  has  regularly  officiated  above  sixty 
years,  and  a few  months  ago  administered  the  sacra- 
ment of  the  Lord’s  Supper  in  the  same,  to  a decent 
number  of  devout  communicants.  After  the  clergyman 
had  received  himself,  the  first  company  out  of  the 
assembly  who  approached  the  altar,  and  kneeled  down 
to  be  partakers  of  the  sacred  elements,  consisted  of  the 
parson’s  wife,  to  whom  he  had  been  married  upwards 
of  sixty  years:  one  son  and  his  wife;  four  daughters, 
each  with  her  husband  ; whose  ages,  all  added  together, 
amount  to  above  714  years.  The  several  and  respec- 
tive distances  from  the  place  of  each  of  their  abodes  to 
the  chapel  where  they  all  communicated,  will  measure 
more  than  1000  English  miles.  Though  the  narration 
will  appear  surprising,  it  is  without  doubt  a fact  that 
the  same  persons,  exactly  four  years  before,  met  at  the 
same  place,  and  all  joined  in  performance  of  the  same 
venerable  duty.” 

lie  was  indeed  most  zealously  attached  to  the  doc- 
trine and  frame  of  the  Established  Church.  We  have 
seen  him  congratulating  himself  that  he  had  no  dis- 
senters in  his  cure  of  any  denomination.  Some  allow- 
ance must  be  made  for  the  state  of  opinion  when  his 
first  religious  impressions  were  received,  before  the 
reader  will  acquit  him  of  bigotry,  when  I mention,  that 
at  the  time  of  the  augmentation  of  the  cure,  he  refused 
to  invest  part  of  the  money  in  the  purchase  of  an  estate 
ofiered  to  him  upon  advantageous  terms,  because  the 
proprietor  was  a Quaker ; — whethej  from  scrupulous 
apprehension  that  a blessing  would  not  attend  a contract 
framed  for  the  benefit  of  the  Church  between  persons 
not  in  religious  sympathy  with  each  other;  or,  as  a 
seeker  of  peace,  he  was  afraid  of  the  uncomplying  dis- 


position which  at  one  time  was  too  frequently  conspicu- 
ous in  that  sect.  Of  this  an  instance  had  fallen  under 
his  own  notice ; for,  while  he  taught  school  at  Lowes 
water,  certain  persons  of  that  denomination  had  re- 
fused to  pay  annual  interest  due  under  the  title  cf 
Church-stock*;  a great  hardship  upon  the  incumbent, 
for  the  curacy  of  Loweswater  was  then  scarcely  less 
poor  than  that  of  Seathwaite.  To  what  degree  this 
prejudice  of  his  was  blameable  need  not  be  determined  ; 
— certain  it  is,  that  he  was  not  only  desirous,  as  he 
himself  says,  to  live  in  peace,  but  in  love,  with  all  men. 
lie  was  placable,  and  charitable  in  his  judgments ; and, 
however  correct  in  conduct  and  rigorous  to  himself,  he 
was  ever  ready  to  forgive  the  trespasses  of  others,  and 
to  soften  the  censure  that  was  cast  upon  their  frailties. 
— It  would  be  unpardonable  to  omit  that,  in  the  main- 
tenance of  his  virtues,  he  received  due  support  from 
the  Partner  of  his  long  life.  She  was  equally  strict  in 
attending  to  her  share  of  their  joint  cares,  nor  less  dili- 
gent in  her  appropriate  occupations.  A person  who 
had  been  some  time  their  servant  in  the  latter  part  of 
their  lives,  concluded  the  panegyric  of  her  mistress  by 
saying  to  me,  “ she  was  no  less  excellent  than  her  hus- 
band ; she  was  good  to  the  poor,  she  was  good  to  every 
thing !”  He  survived  for  a short  time  this  virtuous 
companion.  When  she  died,  he  ordered  that  her  body 
should  be  borne  to  the  grave  by  three  of  her  daugh- 
ters and  one  grand-daughter ; and,  when  the  corpse 
was  lifted  from  the  threshold,  he  insisted  upon  lending 
his  aid,  and  feeling  about,  for  he  was  then  almost  blind, 
took  hold  of  a napkin  fixed  to  the  coffin;  and,  as  a 
bearer  of  the  body,  entered  the  Chapel,  a few  steps 
from  the  lowly  parsonage. 

What  a contrast  does  the  life  of  this  obscurel}'-seat- 
ed,  and,  in  point  of  worldly  wealth,  poorly-repaid 
Churchman,  present  to  that  of  a Cardinal  Wolsey  ! 

“ O 'tis  a burthen,  Cromwell,  ’t  is  a burthen 
Too  heavy  for  a man  who  liopes  for  heaven !” 

We  have  been  dwelling  upon  images  of  peace  in 
the  moral  world,  that  have  brought  us  again  to  the 
quiet  enclosure  of  consecrated  ground,  in  which  this 
venerable  pair  lie  interred.  The  sounding  brook,  that 
rolls  close  by  the  church-yard  without  disturbing  feeling 
or  meditation,  is  now  unfortunately  laid  bare;  but  not 
long  ago  it  participated,  with  the  chapel,  the  shade  of 
! some  stately  ash-trees,  which  will  not  spring  again. 
While  the  spectator  from  this  spot  is  looking  round 
I upon  the  girdle  of  stony  mountains  that  encompasses 
j the  vale, — masses  of  rock,  out  of  wliich  monuments 
for  all  men  that  ever  existed  might  liave  been  hewn,  it 
would  surprise  him  to  be  told,  as  with  truth  he  might 


*Mr.  Walker’s  charity  being  of  that  kind  w hich  “seckelh  not 
her  own,"  he  would  rather  forego  his  rights  than  distrain  for 
dues  which  the  jmrties  liable  refused  to  pay  as  a point  of  con 
science. 


MEMOIR  OF  THE  REV.  ROBERT  WALKER. 


G77 


be,  that  the  plain  blue  slab  dedicated  to  the  memory 
of  this  aged  pair,  is  the  production  of  a quarry  in 
North  Wales.  It  was  sent  as  a mark  of  respect  by 
one  of  their  descendants  from  tlie  vale  of  Festiniog, 
a region  almost  as  beautiful  as  that  in  which  it  now 
lies ! 

Upon  the  Seathwaite  Brook,  at  a small  distance  from 
the  Parsonage,  has  been  erected  a mill  for  spinning 
yarn;  it  is  a mean  and  disagreeable  object,  though 
not  unimportant  to  the  spectator,  as  calling  to  mind  the 
momentous  changes  wrought  by  such  inventions  in  the 
frame  of  society — changes  wliich  have  proved  especial- 
ly unfavourable  to  these  mountain  solitudes.  So  much 
had  been  effected  by  those  new  powers,  before  the  sub- 
ject of  the  preceding  biographical  sketch  closed  his 
life,  that  their  operation  could  not  escape  his  notice, 
and  doubtless  excited  touching  reflections  upon  the 
comparatively  insignificant  results  of  his  own  manual 
industry.  But  Robert  Walker  was  not  a man  of  times 
and  circumstances : had  he  lived  at  a later  period,  the 
principle  of  duty  would  have  produced  application  as 
unremitting;  the  same  energy  of  character  would  have 
been  displayed,  though  in  many  instances  with  widely- 
different  effects. 

Having  mentioned  in  this  narrative  the  vale  of 
Loweswater  as  a place  where  Mr.  Walker  taught 
school,  I will  add  a few  memoranda  from  its  parish 
register,  respecting  a person  apparently  of  desires  as 
moderate,  with  whom  he  must  have  been  intimate  du- 
ring his  residence  there. 

“ Let  him  that  would,  ascend  the  tottering  seat 
Of  courtly  grandeur,  and  become  as  great 
As  are  his  mounting  wishes  ; but  for  me, 

Let  sweet  repose  and  rest  my  portion  be. 

Henrv  Forest,  Curate. 

Honour,  the  idol  which  the  most  adore. 

Receives  no  hora.age  from  my  knee ; 

Content  in  privacy  I value  more 
Than  all  uneasy  dignity. 

Henry  Forest  came  to  Loweswater,  1708,  being  25 
years  of  age.” 

“This  Curacy  was  twice  augmented  by  Queen 
Anne’s  bounty.  The  first  payment,  with  great  diffi- 
culty, was  paid  to  Mr.  John  Curwen  of  London,  on  the 
9th  of  May,  1724,  deposited  by  me,  Henry  Forest,  Cu- 
rate of  Loweswater.  Y'  said  9th  of  May,  y'  said  Mr. 
Curwen  went  to  the  office,  and  saw  my  name  register- 
ed there,  &c.  This,  by  the  Providence  of  God,  came 
by  lot  to  this  poor  place. 

HiEC  tester  H.  Forest.” 

In  another  place  he  records,  that  the  sycamore- trees 
were  planted  in  the  church-yard  in  1710. 

He  died  in  1741,  having  been  curate  thirty-four 
years.  It  is  not  improbable  that  II.  Forest  was  the 
gentleman  who  assisted  Robert  Walker  in  his  classical 
studies  at  Low'eswate- 


To  this  parish  register  is  prefixed  a motto,  of  which 
the  following  verses  are  a part : 

“ Invigilate  viri,  tacito  nam  tempora  gressu 

Diffugiunt,  nulloque  sono  convertitur  annus  ; 

Utendum  e.st  atlate,  cito  pede  prEcleril  a;tas.” 

With  pleasure  I annex,  as  illustrative  and  confirma- 
tory of  the  above  account.  Extracts  from  a Paper  in 
the  Christian  Remembrancer,  Vol.  I.  October,  1819:  it 
bears  an  assumed  signature,  but  is  known  to  bo  the 
work  of  the  Rev.  Robert  Bamford,  vicar  of  Bishopton, 
in  the  county  of  Durham;  a great-grandson  of  Mr. 
Walker,  whose  worth  it  commemorates,  by  a record 
not  the  less  valuable  for  being  written  in  very  early 
youth. 

“ His  house  was  a nursery  of  virtue.  All  the  inmates 
were  industrious,  and  cleanly,  and  happy.  Sobriety, 
neatness,  quietness,  characterised  the  whole  family. 
No  railings,  no  idleness,  no  indulgence  of  passion, 
were  permitted.  Every  child,  however  young,  had  its 
appointed  engagements ; every  hand  was  busy.  Knit- 
ting, spinning,  reading,  writing,  mending  clothes,  ma- 
king shoes,  were  by  the  different  children  constantly 
performing.  The  father  himself  sitting  amongst  them, 
and  guiding  their  thoughts,  was  engaged  in  the  same 
occupations. 

******** 

“ He  sate  up  late,  and  rose  early  ; when  the  family 
were  at  rest,  he  retired  to  a little  room  which  he  had 
built  on  the  roof  of  his  house.  He  had  slated  it,  and 
fitted  it  up  with  shelves  for  his  books,  his  stock  of  cloth, 
wearing  apparel,  and  his  utensils.  There  many  a cold 
winter’s  night,  without  fire,  while  the  roof  was  glazed 
with  ice,  did  he  remain  reading  or  writing,  till  the  day 
dawned.  He  taught  the  children  in  the  chapel,  for 
there  was  no  school-house.  Yet  in  that  cold,  damp 
place  he  never  had  a fire.  He  used  to  send  the  children 
in  parties  either  to  his  own  fire  at  home,  or  make  them 
run  up  the  mountain’s  side. 

******** 

“ It  may  be  further  mentioned,  that  he  was  a pas- 
sionate admirer  of  nature;  she  was  his  mother,  and  he 
was  a dutiful  child.  While  engaged  on  the  mountains, 
it  was  his  greatest  pleasure  to  view  the  rising  sun  ; and 
in  tranquil  evenings,  as  it  slided  behind  the  hills,  he 
blessed  its  departure.  He  was  skilled  in  fossils  and 
plants;  a constant  observer  of  the  stars  and  winds:  the 
atmosphere  was  his  delight.  He  made  many  experi- 
ments on  its  nature  and  properties.  In  summer  he  used 
to  gather  a multitude  of  flies  and  insects,  and,  by  his 
entertaining  description,  amuse  and  instruct  his  chil- 
dren. They  shared  all  his  daily  employments,  and  de- 
rived many  sentiments  of  love  and  benevolence  from 
his  observations  on  the  works  and  productions  of  nature. 
Whether  they  were  following  him  in  the  field,  or  sur- 
rounding him  in  school,  he  took  every  opportunity  of 
storing  their  minds  with  useful  information. — Nor  was 
the  circle  of  his  influence  confined  to  Seathwaite 


678 


APPENDIX. 


Many  a distant  mother  has  told  her  child  of  Mr,  Walk- 
er, and  begged  him  to  be  as  good  a man. 

***** 

“ Once,  when  I was  very  young,  I had  the  pleasure 
of  seeing  and  hearing  that  venerable  old  man  in  his 
90th  year,  and  even  then,  the  calmness,  the  force,  the 
perspicuity  of  his  sermon,  sanctified  and  adorned  by 
the  wisdom  of  grey  hairs,  and  the  authority  of  virtue, 
had  such  an  effect  upon  my  mind,  that  I never  see  a 
hoary-headed  clergyman,  without  thinking  of  Mr. 
Walker  * * * *.  He  allowed  no  dissenter  or  methodist 
to  interfere  in  the  instruction  of  the  souls  committed 
to  his  cure : and  so  successful  were  his  exertions,  that 
he  had  not  one  dissenter  of  any  denomination  whatever 
in  the  whole  parish. — Though  he  avoided  all  religious 
controversies,  yet  when  age  had  silvered  his  head,  and 
virtuous  piety  had  secured  to  his  appearance  reverence 
and  silent  honour,  no  one,  however  determined  in  his 
hatred  of  apostolic  descent,  could  have  listened  to  his 
discourse  on  ecclesiastical  history,  and  ancient  times, 
without  thinking,  that  one  of  the  beloved  apostles  had 
returned  to  mortality,  and  in  that  vale  of  peace  had 


come  to  exemplify  the  beauty  of  holiness  in  the  life 
and  character  of  Mr.  Walker. 

***** 

“Until  the  sickness  of  his  wife,  a few  months  pre- 
vious to  her  death,  his  health  and  spirits  and  faculties 
were  unimpaired.  But  this  misfortune  gave  him  such 
a shock,  that  his  constitution  gradually  decayed.  His 
senses,  except  sight,  still  preserved  their  powers.  He 
never  preached  with  steadiness  after  his  wife’s  death. 
His  voice  faltered : he  always  looked  at  the  seat  she 
had  used.  He  could  not  pass  her  tomb  without  tears. 
He  became,  when  alone,  sad  and  melancholy,  though 
still  among  his  friends  kind  and  good-humoured.  He 
went  to  bed  about  12  o’clock  the  night  before  his  death. 
As  his  custom  was,  he  went,  tottering  and  leaning 
upon  his  daughter’s  arm,  to  examine  the  heavens,  and 
meditate  a few  moments  in  the  open  air.  ‘ How  clear 
the  moon  shines  to-night!’  He  said  those  words, 
sighed,  and  laid  down.  At  six  next  morning  he  was 
found  a corpse.  Many  a tear,  and  many  a heavy 
heart,  and  many  a grateful  blessing  followed  him  le 
i the  grave.” 


APPENDIX  V. 


TOPOGRAPHICAL  DESCRIPTION 

OP 

THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES 

IN  THE  NORTH  OF  ENGLAND.* 


At  Lucerne  in  Switzerland,  there  existed,  some  years 
ago,  a model  of  the  Alpine  country  which  encompasses 
the  Lake  of  the  four  Cantons.  The  spectator  ascended 
a little  platform,  and  saw  mountains,  lakes,  glaciers, 
rivers,  woods,  waterfalls,  and  valleys  with  their  cottages 
and  every  other  object  contained  in  them,  lying  at  his 
feet;  all  things  being  represented  in  their  appropriate 
colours.  It  may  be  easily  conceived  that  this  exhibition 
afforded  an  exquisite  delight  to  the  imagination,  which 
was  thus  tempted  to  wander  at  will  from  valley  to  valley, 
from  mountain  to  mountain,  through  the  deepest  re- 
cesses of  the  Alps.  But  it  supplied  also  a more  sub- 
stantial pleasure;  for  the  sublime  and  leautiful  region, 
with  all  its  hidden  treasures,  and  their  bearings  and  re- 
lations to  each  other,  was  thereby  comprehended  and 
understood  at  once. 

Something  of  this  kind  (as  far  as  it  can  be  performed 
bywords,  which  must  needs  be  inadequately)  will  here 
be  attempted  in  respect  to  the  Lakes  in  the  north  of 
England,  and  the  vales  and  mountains  enclosing  and 
surrounding  them.  The  delineation  if  tolerably  exe- 
cuted will  in  some  instances  communicate  to  the  trav- 
eller, who  has  already  seen  the  objects,  new  informa- 
tion; and  will  assist  in  giving  to  his  recollections  a 

• This  Essay,  which  was  published  several  years  ago  as  an 
Introduction  to  some  Vb'ews  of  the  Lakes,  by  the  Rev.  Joseph 
Wilkinson,  (an  expensive  work,  and  necessarily  of  limited  cir- 
culation,) is  now,  with  emendations  and  additions,  attached  to 
this  volume ; from  a consciousness  of  its  having  been  written  in 
the  same  spirit  which  dictated  several  of  the  poems,  and  from  a 
belief  that  it  will  tend  materially  to  illustrate  them. 

[The  republication,  here  mentioned,  was  made  in  the  Volume 
containing  “Sonnets  to  the  River  Duddon  and  other  Poems  pub- 
lished in  1820.”  No  other  reason  than  that  stated  by  the  Author 
himself  need  be  given  for  introducing  into  the  present  Edition 
this  Essay  descriptive  of  the  Scenery  of  the  Lakes,  and  thus  re- 
storing its  appropriate  connection  with  the  Poems II.  R.] 


more  orderly  arrangement  than  his  own  opportunities 
of  observing  may  have  permitted  him  to  make  ; while 
it  will  be  still  more  useful  to  the  future  traveller,  by 
directing  his  attention  at  once  to  distinctions  in  things 
which,  without  such  previous  aid,  a length  of  time  only 
could  enable  him  to  discover.  It  is  hoped,  also,  that 
this  Essay  may  become  generally  serviceable  by  lead 
ing  to  habits  of  more  exact  and  considerate  observation 
than,  as  far  as  the  writer  knows,  have  hitherto  been 
applied  to  local  scenery. 

To  begin,  then,  with  the  main  outlines  of  the  conn 
try.  I know  not  how  to  give  the  reader  a distinct 
image  of  these  more  readily,  than  by  requesting  him 
to  place  himself  with  me,  in  imagination,  upon  some 
given  point;  let  it  be  the  top  of  either  of  the  moun- 
tains, Great  Gavel,  or  Scawfell;  or,  rather,  let  us  sup- 
pose our  station  to  be  a cloud  hanging  midway  betw  een 
these  two  mountains,  at  not  more  than  half  a mile’s 
distance  from  the  summit  of  each,  and  not  many  yards 
above  their  highest  elevation  ; we  shall  then  see  stretch- 
ed at  our  feet  a number  of  valleys,  not  fewer  than  nine, 

; diverging  from  the  point,  on  which  we  are  supposed  to 
j stand,  like  spokes  from  the  nave  of  a wheel.  First,  we 
note,  lying  to  the  south-east,  the  vale  of  I.angdale, 
which  will  conduct  the  eye  to  the  long  Lake  of  Winan- 
dermere,  stretched  nearly  to  the  sea ; or  rather  to  the 
sands  of  the  vast  bay  of  Morcamb,  serving  here  for  the 
rim  of  this  imaginary  wheel; — let  us  trace  it  in  a di- 
rection from  the  south-east  tow'ards  the  south,  and  we 
shall  next  fix  our  eyes  upon  the  vale  of  Coniston,  run- 
ning up  likewise  from  the  sea,  but  not  (as  all  the  other 
valleys  do)  to  the  nave  of  the  wheel,  and  therefore  it 
may  not  be  inaptly  represented  as  a broken  spoke 
sticking  in  the  rim.  Looking  forth  again,  with  an  in- 
clination towards  the  west,  immediately  at  our  feet 
lies  the  vale  of  Duddon,  in  which  is  no  lake,  but  a co 


G80 


APPENDIX. 


pious  stream  winding  among  fields,  rocks,  and  moun- 
tains, and  terminating  its  course  in  the  sands  of  Dud- 
don.  Tlie  fourth  valley  next  to  be  observed,  viz.  that 
of  Eskdale,  is  of  the  same  general  character  as  the  last, 
yet  beautifully  discriminated  from  it  by  peculiar  fea- 
tures. Next,  almost  due  west,  look  down  upon,  and 
into,  the  deep  valley  of  Wastdale,  with  its  little  chapel 
and  half  a dozen  neat  scattered  dwellings,  a plain  of 
meadow  and  corn-ground  intersected  with  stone  walls 
apparently  innumerable,  like  a large  piece  of  lawless 
patch-work,  or  an  array  of  mathematical  figures,  such 
as  in  tlie  ancient  schools  of  geometry  might  have  been 
sportively  and  fantastically  traced  out  upon  sand.  Be- 
yond this  little  fertile  plain  lies,  within  its  bed  of  steep 
mountains,  the  long,  narrow,  stern,  and  desolate  Lake 
of  Wastdale;  and  beyond  this  a dusky  tract  of  level 
ground  conducts  the  eye  to  the  Irish  Sea.  The  seve- 
ral vales  of  Ennerdale  and  Buttennere,  with  tlieir  lakes, 
ne.xt  present  themselves;  and  lastly,  the  vale  of  Bor- 
rowdale,  of  which  that  of  Keswick  is  only  a continua- 
tion, stretching  due  north,  brings  us  to  a point  nearly 
opposite  to  the  vale  of  Winandermere  with  wliich  we 
began.  From  this  it  will  appear,  that  the  image  of  a 
wheel  thus  far  exact,  is  little  more  than  one  half  com- 
plete ; but  the  deficiency  on  the  eastern  side  may  be 
supplied  by  the  vales  of  Wytheburn,  Ulswater,  Haws- 
water,  and  the  vale  of  Grasmere  and  Rydal ; none  of 
these,  liowever,  run  up  to  the  central  point  between 
Great  Gavel  and  Scawfell.  From  this,  hitherto  our 
central  point,  take  a flight  of  not  more  than  three  or 
four  miles  eastward  to  the  ridge  of  Helvellyn,  and  you 
will  look  down  upon  Wytheburn  and  St.  John’s  Vale, 
which  are  a branch  of  the  vale  of  Keswick;  upon  Uls- 
water, stretching  due  east,  and  not  far  beyond  to  the 
south-east,  (though  from  this  point  not  visible,)  lie  the 
vale  and  lake  of  Hawswater;  and  lastly,  the  vale  of 
Grasmere,  Rydal,  and  Ambleside,  brings  you  back  to 
Winandermere,  thus  completing,  though  on  the  eastern 
side  in  a somewhat  irregular  manner,  the  representa- 
tive figure  of  the  wheel. 

Such,  concisely  given,  is  the  general  topographical 
view  of  the  country  of  the  Lakes  in  the  north  of  En- 
gland ; and  it  may  be  observed,  that,  from  the  circum- 
ference to  tlie  centre,  that  is,  from  the  sea  or  plain 
country  to  the  mountain  stations  specified,  there  is — in 
the  several  ridges  that  enclose  these  vales  and  divide 
them  from  each  other,  I mean  in  the  forms  and  sur- 
faces, first  of  the  swelling  grounds,  next  of  the  hills 
and  rocks,  and  lastly  of  the  mountains — an  ascent  of 
almost  regular  gradation  from  elegance  and  richness  to 
the  highest  point  of  grandeur.  It  follows  tlierefore 
from  this,  first,  that  these  rocks,  hills,  and  mountains, 
must  present  themselves  to  view  in  stages  rising  above 
each  other,  the  mountains  clustering  together  towards 
the  central  point;  and,  next,  that  an  observer  familiar 
with  the  several  vales,  must,  from  their  various  position 
in  relation  to  the  sun,  have  had  before  his  eyes  every 


possible  embellishment  of  beauty,  dignity,  and  splen- 
dour, which  light  and  shadow  can  bestow  upon  objects 
so  diversified.  For  example,  in  the  vale  of  Winander- 
mere, if  the  spectator  looks  for  gentle  and  lovely  scenes, 
his  eye  is  turned  towards  the  south ; if  for  the  grand, 
towards  the  north  ; in  the  vale  of  Keswick,  which  (as 
hath  been  said)  lies  almost  due  north  of  this,  it  is  di- 
rectly the  reverse.  Hence,  when  the  sun  is  setting  in 
summer  far  to  the  north-west,  it  is  seen  by  tlie  specta- 
tor from  the  shores  or  breast  of  Winandermere,  resting 
amongst  the  summits  of  the  loftiest  mountains,  some  of 
which  will  perhaps  be  half  or  wholly  hid  by  clouds,  or 
by  the  blaze  of  light  which  the  orb  diffuses  around  it; 
and  the  surface  of  the  lake  will  reflect  before  tbe  eye 
correspondent  colours  through  every  variety  of  beauty, 
and  through  all  degrees  of  splendour.  In  the  vale  of 
Keswick,  at  the  same  period,  the  sun  sets  over  the 
humbler  regions  of  the  landscape,  and  showers  down 
upon  them  the  radiance  which  at  once  veils  and  glori- 
fies,— sending  forth,  meanwhile,  broad  streams  of  rosy, 
crimson  purple,  or  golden  light,  towards  the  grand 
mountains  in  the  south  and  south-east,  which,  thus  illu- 
minated, with  all  their  projections  and  cavities,  and 
with  an  intermixture  of  solemn  shadows,  are  seen  dis- 
tinctly through  a cool  and  clear  atmosphere.  Of  course, 
there  is  as  marked  a difference  between  the  noontide 
appearance  of  these  two  opposite  vales.  The  bedim- 
ming haze  that  overspreads  the  south,  and  the  clear 
atmosphere  and  determined  shadows  of  the  clouds  in 
the  north,  at  the  same  time  of  the  day,  are  each  seen 
in  these  several  vales,  witli  a contrast  as  striking.  The 
reader  will  easily  perceive  in  what  degree  the  inter- 
mediate vales  partake  of  the  same  variety. 

I do  not  indeed  know  any  tract  of  country  in  which, 
within  so  narrow  a compass,  may  be  found  an  equal 
variety  in  the  influences  of  light  and  shadow  upon  the 
sublime  or  beautiful  features  of  landscape;  and  it  is 
owing  to  the  combined  circumstances  to  which  I have 
directed  the  reader’s  attention.  From  a point  between 
Great  Gavel  and  Scawfell,  a shepherd  would  not  re- 
quire more  than  an  hour  to  descend  into  any  one  of 
eight  of  the  principal  vales  by  which  he  would  be  sur- 
rounded ; and  all  the  others  lie  (with  the  exception  of 
Hawswater)  at  but  a small  distance.  Yet,  though  clus- 
tered together,  every  valley  has  its  distinct  and  sepa- 
rate character ; in  some  instances,  as  if  they  had  been 
formed  in  studied  contrast  to  each  other,  and  in  others 
with  the  united  pleasing  differences  and  re.semblanccs 
of  a sisterly  rivalship.  This  concentration  of  interest 
gives  to  the  country  a decided  superiority  over  the 
most  attrertive  districts  of  Scotland  and  Wales,  espe- 
cially for  the  pedestrian  traveller.  In  Scotland  and 
Wales  are  found  undoubtedly  individual  scenes,  which, 
in  their  several  kinds,  cannot  be  excelled.  Rut,  in 
Scotland,  particularly,  what  desolate  and  unimpressive 
tracts  of  country  almost  nerpetually  intervene  ! so  that 
the  traveller,  when  he  reaches  a spot  deservedly  o| 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G81 


great  celebrity,  would  find  it  difficult  to  determine  how  ! 
much  of  his  pleasure  is  owing  to  excellence  inherent  j 
in  the  landscape  itself;  and  how  much  to  an  instanta- 
neous recovery  from  an  oppression  left  upon  his  spirits  ! 
by  the  barrenness  and  desolation  through  which  he  has  ^ 
passed. 

But,  to  proceed  with  our  survey : — and,  first,  of  the  | 
Mountains.  Their  forms  are  endlessly  diversified, 
sweeping  easily  or  boldly  in  simple  majesty,  abrupt  and 
precipitous,  or  soft  and  elegant.  In  magnitude  and  1 
grandeur  they  are  individually  inferior  to  the  most  cele- 
brated of  those  in  some  other  parts  of  this  island ; but,  ! 
in  the  combinations  which  they  make,  towering  above  j 
each  other,  or  lifting  themselves  in  ridges  like  the  j 
waves  of  a tumultuous  sea,  and  in  the  beauty  and  va-  | 
riety  of  their  surfaces  and  their  colours,  they  are  sur-  ' 
passed  by  none. 

Tlie  general  surface  of  the  mountains  is  turf,  ren-  j 
dered  rich  and  green  by  the  moisture  of  the  climate. 
Sometimes  the  turf,  as  in  the  neighbourhood  of  New- 
lands,  is  little  broken,  the  whole  covering  being  soft 
and  downy  pasturage.  In  other  places  rocks  predomi- 
nate: the  soil  is  laid  bare  by  torrents  and  burstings  of 
water  from  the  sides  of  the  mountains  in  heavy  rains; 
and  occasionally  their  perpendicular  sides  are  seamed 
by  ravines  (formed  also  by  rains  and  torrents)  which, 
meeting  in  angular  points,  entrench  and  scar  over 
the  surface  with  numerous  figures  like  the  letters 
W and  Y. 

The  Mountains  are  composed  of  the  stone  by  min- 
eralogists termed  schist,  wliich,  as  you  approach  the 
plain  country,  gives  place  to  lime-stone  and  free-stone ; 
but  schist  being  the  substance  of  the  mountains,  the 
predominant  colour  of  their  rocky  parts  is  bluish,  or 
hoary  gray — tbe  general  tint  of  tlie  lichens  with  which 
the  bare  stone  is  encrusted.  With  this  blue  or  gray 
colour  is  frequently  intermixed  a red  tinge,  proceeding 
from  the  iron  that  interveins  the  stone,  and  impregnates 
the  soil.  The  iron  is  the  principle  of  decomposition  in 
these  rocks ; and  hence,  when  they  become  pulverized, 
the  elementary  particles  crumbling  down  overspread  in 
many  places  the  steep  and  almost  precipitous  sides  of 
the  mountains  with  an  intermixture  of  colours,  like  the 
compound  hues  of  a dove’s  neck.  When,  in  the  heat 
of  advancing  summer,  the  fresh  green  tint  of  the  her- 
bage has  somewhat  faded,  it  is  again  revived  by  the 
appearance  of  the  fern  profusely  spread  every  where ; 
and,  upon  this  plant,  more  than  upon  any  thing  else, 
do  the  changes  which  the  seasons  make  in  the  colour- 
ing of  the  mountains  depend.  About  the  first  week  in 
October,  the  rich  green,  which  prevailed  through  the 
whole  summer,  is  usually  passed  away.  The  brilliant 
and  various  colours  of  the  fern  are  then  in  harmony 
with  the  autumnal  woods  ; bright  yellow  or  lemon  co- 
lour, at  the  base  of  the  mountains,  melting  gradually, 
.hrough  orange,  to  a dark  russet  brown  towards  the 
ummits,  where  the  plant  being  more  exposed  to  the 
4L 


weather,  is  in  a more  advanced  state  of  decay.  Neither 
heath  nor  furze  are  generally  found  upon  the  sides  of 
these  mountains,  though  in  some  places  they  are  richly 
adorned  by  them.  We  may  add,  that  the  mountains 
are  of  height  sufficient  to  have  the  surface  towards  the 
summits  softened  by  distance,  and  to  imbibe  the  finest 
aerial  hues.  In  common  also  with  other  mountains, 
their  apparent  forms  and  colours  are  perpetually 
changed  by  the  clouds  and  vapours  which  float  round 
them : the  effect  indeed  of  mist  or  haze,  in  a country 
of  this  character,  is  like  that  of  magic.  I have  seen 
six  or  seven  ridges  rising  above  each  other,  all  created 
in  a moment  by  the  vapours  upon  the  side  of  a moun- 
tain, which,  in  its  ordinary  appearance,  showed  not  a 
projecting  point  to  furnish  even  a hint  for  such  an 
operation. 

I will  take  this  opportunity  of  observing,  that  they, 
who  have  studied  the  appearances  of  nature,  feel  that 
the  superiority,  in  point  of  visual  interest,  of  mountain- 
ous over  other  countries — is  more  strikingly  displayed 
in  winter  than  in  summer.  This,  as  must  be  obvious, 
is  partly  owing  to  the  forms  of  the  mountains,  which, 
of  course,  are  not  affected  by  the  seasons ; but  also,  in 
no  small  degree,  to  the  greater  variety  that  exists  in 
their  winter  than  their  summer  colouring.  This  va- 
riety is  such,  and  so  harmoniously  preserved,  that  it 
leaves  little  cause  of  regret  when  the  splendour  of  au- 
tumn is  passed  away.  The  oak-coppices,  upon  tiie  sides 
of  the  mountains,  retain  russet  leaves;  the  birch  stands 
conspicuous  with  its  silver  stem  and  puce-coloured 
twigs;  the  hollies,  with  green  leaves  and  scarlet  ber- 
ries, have  come  forth  to  view  from  among  the  deciduous 
trees,  whose  summer  foliage  had  concealed  them  ; the 
ivy  is  now  plentifully  apparent  upon  the  stems*  and 
boughs  of  the  trees,  and  among  the  woody  rocks.  In 
place  of  the  uniform  summer-green  of  the  herbage  and 
fern,  many  rich  colours  play  into  each  other  over  the 
surface  of  the  mountains;  turf  (the  tints  of  which  are 
interchangeably  tawny-green,  olive,  and  brown,)  beds 
of  withered  fern,  and  gray  rocks,  being  harmoniously 
blended  together.  The  mosses  and  lichens  are  never 
so  fresh  and  flourishing  as  in  winter,  if  it  be  not  a sea- 
son of  frost;  and  their  minute  beauties  prodigally  adorn 
the  fore-ground.  Wlierever  we  turn,  we  find  these  pro- 
ductions of  nature,  to  which  winter  is  rather  favourable 
than  unkindly,  scattered  over  the  walls,  banks  of  earth, 
rocks,  and  stones,  and  upon  the  trunks  of  trees,  with 
the  intermixture  of  several  species  of  small  fern,  now 
green  and  fresh;  and,  to  the  observing  passenger, 
their  forms  and  colours  are  a source  of  inexhaustible 
admiration.  Add  to  this  the  hoar-frost  and  snow,  with 
all  the  varieties  they  create,  and  which  volumes  would 
not  be  sufficient  to  describe.  I will  content  myself 
with  one  instance  of  the  colouring  produced  by  snow, 
which  may  not  be  uninteresting  to  painters.  It  is  ex- 
tracted from  the  memorandum-book  of  a friend;  and 
for  its  accuracy  I can  speak,  having  been  an  eye- 


G82 


APPENDIX. 


witness  of  the  appearance.  “ I observed,”  says  he, 
“the  beautiful  effect  of  the  drilled  snow  upon  the 
mountains,  and  the  perfect  tone  of  colour.  From  the 
top  of  the  mountains  downwards  a rich  olive  was  pro- 
duced by  the  powdery  snow  and  tlie  grass,  which  olive 
was  warmed  with  a little  brown,  and  in  this  way  har- 
moniously combined,  by  insensible  gradations,  with  the 
white.  The  drifting  took  away  the  monotony  of  snow ; 
and  the  whole  vale  of  Grasmere,  seen  from  the  terrace 
walk  in  Easedale,  was  as  varied,  perhaps  more  so,  than 
even  in  the  pomp  of  autumn.  In  the  distance  w’as 
Loughrigg-Fell,  the  basin-wall  of  the  lake:  this,  from 
the  summit  downward,  was  a rich  orange-olive  j then 
the  lake  of  a bright  olive-green,  nearly  the  same  tint 
as  the  snow-powdered  mountain  tops  and  high  slopes 
in  Easedale;  and  lastly,  the  church  with  its  firs  form- 
ing the  centre  of  the  view.  Ne.xt  to  the  church  with 
its  firs,  came  nine  distinguishable  hills,  six  of  them 
with  woody  sides  turned  towards  us,  all  of  them  oak- 
copses  with  their  bright  red  leaves  and  snow-powdered 
twigs;  these  hills — so  variously  situated  to  each  other, 
and  to  the  view  in  general,  so  variously  powdered,  some 
only  enough  to  give  the  herbage  a rich  brown  tint,  one 
intensely  white  and  lighting  up  all  the  others — were 
yet  so  placed,  as  in  the  most  inobtrusive  manner  to 
harmonize  by  contrast  with  a perfect  naked,  snowless 
bleak  summit  in  the  far  distance.” 

Having  spoken  of  the  forms,  surface,  and  colour  of 
the  mountains,  let  us  descend  into  the  Valleys. 
Though  these  have  been  represented  under  the  general 
image  of  the  spokes  of  a wheel,  they  are,  for  the  most 
part,  winding;  the  windings  of  many  being  abrupt  and 
intricate.  And,  it  may  be  observed,  that,  in  one  cir- 
cumstance, the  general  shape  of  them  all  has  been  de- 
termined by  that  primitive  conformation  through  which 
so  many  became  receptacles  of  lakes.  For  they  are 
not  formed,  as  are  most  of  the  celebrated  Welsh  val- 
leys, by  an  approximation  of  the  sloping  bases  of  the  i 
opposite  mountains  towards  each  other,  leaving  little  ! 
more  between  than  a channel  for  the  passage  of  a hasty 
river;  but  the  bottom  of  these  valleys  is,  for  the  most 
part,  a spacious  and  gently  declining  area,  apparently 
level  as  the  floor  of  a temple,  or  the  surface  of  a lake, 
and  beautifully  broken,  in  many  cases,  by  rocks  and 
hills,  which  rise  up  like  islands  from  the  plain.  In 
such  of  the  valleys  as  make  many  windings,  these  level 
areas  open  upon  the  traveller  in  succession,  divided 
from  each  other  sometimes  by  a mutual  approximation 
of  the  hills,  leaving  only  passage  for  a river,  sometimes 
by  correspondent  windings,  without  such  approxima- 
tion ; and  sometimes  by  a bold  advance  of  one  moun- 
tain towards  that  which  is  opposite  to  it.  It  may  here 
be  observed  with  propriety,  that  the  several  rocks  and 
hills,  which  have  been  described  as  rising  up  like  islands 
from  the  level  area  of  the  vale,  have  regulated  the 
choice  of  the  inhabitants  in  the  situation  of  their  dwell- 
ings. Where  none  of  these  are  found,  and  the  incli- 


nation of  the  ground  is  not  sufficiently  rapid  easily  to 
carry  off  the  waters,  (as  in  the  higher  part  of  Langdale, 
for  instance,)  the  houses  are  not  sprinkled  over  the  mid- 
dle part  of  the  vales,  but  confined  to  their  sides,  being 
placed  merely  so  far  up  the  mountain  as  to  protect  them 
from  the  floods.  But  where  these  rocks  and  hills  have 
been  scattered  over  the  plain  of  the  vale,  (as  in  Gras^ 
mere,  Donnerdale,  Eskdale,  &.c.)  the  beauty  which 
they  give  to  the  scene  is  much  heightened  by  a single 
cottage,  or  cluster  of  cottages,  that  will  be  almost 
always  found  under  them  or  upon  their  sides;  dryness 
and  shelter  having  tempted  the  Dalesmen  to  fix  their 
habitations  there. 

I shall  now  speak  of  the  Lakes  of  this  country. 
The  form  of  the  lake  is  most  perfect  when,  like  Der- 
went-water  and  some  of  the  smaller  lakes,  it  least  re- 
sembles that  of  a river ; — I mean,  when  being  looked 
at  from  any  given  point  where  the  whole  may  be  seen 
at  once,  the  width  of  it  bears  such  proportion  to  the 
length,  that,  however  the  outline  may  be  diversified  by 
far-shooting  bays,  it  never  assumes  the  shape  of  a river, 
and  is  contemplated  with  that  placid  and  quiet  feeling 
which  belongs  peculiarly  to  the  lake — as  a body  of  still 
water  under  the  influence  of  no  current;  reflecting 
therefore  the  clouds,  the  light,  and  all  the  imagery  of 
the  sky  and  surrounding  hills;  expressing  also  and 
making  visible  the  changes  of  the  atmosphere,  and  mo- 
tions of  the  lightest  breeze,  and  .subject  to  agitation 
only  from  the  winds — 

The  visible  scene 

Would  enter  unawares  into  his  mind 
With  all  its  solemn  imagery,  its  rocks, 

Its  woods,  and  that  uncertain  heaven  received 
Into  the  bosom  of  the  steady  lake! 

It  must  be  noticed,  as  a favourable  characteristic  of 
the  lakes  of  this  country,  that,  though  several  of  the 
largest,  such  as  Winandermere,  Ulswater,  Hawswater, 
&,c.  do,  when  the  whole  length  of  them  is  commanded 
from  an  elevated  point,  lose  somewhat  of  the  peculiar 
form  of  the  lake,  and  assume  the  resemblance  of  a 
magnificent  river;  yet,  as  their  shape  is  winding,  (par- 
ticularly that  of  Ulswater  and  Hawswater)  when  the 
view  of  the  whole  is  obstructed  by  those  barriers  which 
determine  the  windings,  and  the  spectator  is  confined 
to  one  reach,  the  appropriate  feeling  is  revived ; and 
one  lake  may  thus  in  succession  present  to  the  eye  the 
essential  characteristic  of  many.  But,  though  the 
forms  of  the  large  lakes  have  this  advantage,  it  is 
nevertheless  a circumstance  favourable  to  tbe  beauty 
of  the  country,  that  the  large.st  of  them  are  compara- 
tively small ; and  that  the  same  valley  generally  fur- 
nishes a succession  of  lakes,  instead  of  being  filled 
with  one.  The  valleys  in  North  Wales,  as  hath  been 
observed,  are  not  formed  for  the  reception  of  lakes ; 
those  of  Switzerland,  Scotland,  and  this  part  of  the 
north  of  England,  are  so  formed  ; but,  in  Switzerland 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G83 


and  Scotland,  the  proportion  of  diffused  water  is  often 
too  great,  as  at  the  lake  of  Geneva  for  instance,  and  in 
most  of  the  Scotch  lakes.  No  doubt  it  sounds  magnifi- 
cent and  flatters  the  imagination  to  hear  at  a distance 
of  expanses  of  water  so  many  leagues  in  length  and 
miles  in  width;  and  such  ample  room  may  be  delight- 
ful to  the  fresh-water  sailor  scudding  with  a lively 
breeze  amid  the  rapidly-shifling  scenery.  But,  who 
ever  travelled  along  the  banks  of  Loch-Lomond,  varie- 
gated as  the  lower  part  is  by  islands,  without  feeling 
that  a speedier  termination  of  the  long  vista  of  blank 
water  would  be  acceptable;  and  without  wishing  for 
an  interposition  of  green  meadows,  trees,  and  cottages, 
and  a sparkling  stream  to  run  by  his  side  7 In  fact,  a 
notion  of  grandeur,  as  connected  with  magnitude,  has 
seduced  persons  of  taste  into  a general  mistake  upon 
this  subject.  It  is  much  more  desirable,  for  the  pur- 
poses of  pleasure,  that  lakes  should  be  numerous,  and 
small  or  middle-sized,  than  large,  not  only  for  commu- 
nication by  walks  and  rides,  but  for  variety,  and  for  re- 
currence of  similar  appearances.  To  illustrate  this  by 
one  instance : — how  pleasing  is  it  to  have  a ready  and 
frequent  opportunity  of  watching,  at  the  outlet  of  a 
lake,  tlie  stream  pushing  its  way  among  the  rocks  in 
lively  contrast  with  the  stillness  from  which  it  has  es- 
caped ; and  how  amusing  to  compare  its  noisy  and  tur 
bulent  motions  with  the  gentle  play  ful  ness  of  tlie  breezes, 
that  may  be  starting  up  or  wandering  here  and  there 
over  the  faintly-rippled  surface  of  the  broad  water ! I 
may  add,  as  a general  remark,  that,  in  lakes  of  great 
width,  the  shores  cannot  be  distinctly  seen  at  the  same 
time,  and  therefore  contribute  little  to  mutual  illustra- 
tion and  ornament;  and  if,  like  the  American  and  Asi- 
atic lakes,  the  opposite  shores  are  out  of  sight  of  each 
other,  then  unfortunately  the  traveller  is  reminded  of 
a nobler  object;  lie  has  the  blankness  of  a sea-prospect 
without  the  same  grandeur  and  accompanying  sense  of 
power. 

As  the  comparatively  small  size  of  the  lakes  in  the 
North  of  England  is  favourable  to  the  production  of 
variegated  landscape,  their  boundary-line  also  is  for  the 
most  part  gracefully  or  boldly  indented.  That  uni- 
formity which  prevails  in  the  primitive  frame  of  the 
lower  grounds  among  all  chains  or  clusters  of  moun- 
tains where  large  bodies  of  still  water  are  bedded,  is 
broken  by  the  secondary  agents  of  nature,  over  at  work 
to  supply  the  deficiencies  of  the  mould  in  which  things 
were  originally  cast.  It  need  scarcely  be  observed  that 
using  the  word,  deficiencies,  I do  not  speak  with  refer- 
ence to  those  stronger  emotions  which  a region  of 
mountains  is  peculiarly  fitted  to  excite.  The  bases  of 
those  huge  barriers  may  run  for  a long  space  in  straight 
lines,  and  these  parallel  to  each  other;  the  opposite 
sides  of  a profound  vale  may  ascend  as  exact  counter- 
parts or  in  mutual  reflection  like  the  billows  of  a 
troubled  sea:  and  the  impression  be,  from  its  very 
simplicity,  more  awful  and  sublime.  Sublimity  is  the 


result  of  Nature’s  first  great  dealings  with  the  super- 
ficies of  the  earth ; but  the  general  tendency  of  her 
subsequent  operations,  is  towards  the  production  of 
beauty,  by  a multiplicity  of  symmetrical  parts  uniting 
in  a consistent  whole.  This  is  every  where  exempli- 
fied along  the  margin  of  these  lakes.  Masses  of  rock 
that  have  been  precipitated  from  the  heights  into  the 
area  of  waters,  lie  frequently  like  stranded  ships;  or 
have  acquired  the  compact  structure  of  jutting  piers; 
or  project  in  little  peninsulas  crested  with  native  wood. 
The  smallest  rivulet — one  whose  silent  influx  is  scarce- 
ly noticeable  in  a season  of  dry  weather,  so  faint  is  the 
dimple  made  by  it  on  the  surface  of  the  smooth  lake — 
will  be  found  to  have  been  not  useless  in  shaping,  by 
its  deposits  of  gravel  and  soil  in  time  of  flood,  a curve 
that  would  not  otherwise  have  existed.  But  the  more 
powerful  brooks,  encroaching  upon  the  level  of  the  lake, 
have  in  course  of  time  given  birth  to  ample  promon- 
tories, whose  sw^eeping  line  often  contrasts  boldly  with 
the  longitudinal  base  of  the  steeps  on  the  opposite  shore  ; 
while  their  flat  or  gently-sloping  surface  never  fails  to 
introduce,  into  the  midst  of  desolation  and  barrenness, 
the  elements  of  fertility,  even  where  the  habitations 
of  men  may  not  happen  to  have  been  raised.  These 
alluvial  promontories,  however,  threaten  in  some  places 
to  bisect  the  waters  which  they  have  long  adorned ; 
and,  in  course  of  ages,  they  will  cause  some  of  the  lakes 
todwindle  into  numerous  and  insignificant  pools ; which, 
in  their  turn,  will  finally  be  filled  up.  But  the  man 
of  taste  will  say,  it  is  an  impertinent  calculation  that 
leads  to  such  unwelcome  conclusions; — let  us  rather 
be  content  with  appearances  as  they  are,  and  pursue 
in  imagination  the  meandering  shores,  whether  rugged 
steeps,  admitting  of  no  cultivation,  descend  into  the 
water;  or  the  shore  is  formed  by  gently-sloping  lawns 
and  rich  woods,  or  by  flat  and  fertile  meadows  stretch- 
ing between  the  margin  of  the  lake  and  the  mountain:;. 
Among  minuter  recommendations  will  be  noted  with 
pleasure  the  curved  rim  of  fine  blue  gravel  thrown  up 
by  the  waves,  especially  in  bays  exposed  to  the  setting- 
in  of  strong  winds;  here  and  there  are  found,  bordering 
the  lake,  groves,  if  I may  so  call  them,  of  reeds  and 
bulrushes;  or  plots  of  water-lilies  lifting  up  their  large 
circular  leaves  to  the  breeze,  while  the  white  flower 
is  heaving  upon  the  wave. 

The  Islands  are  neither  so  numerous  nor  so  beau- 
tiful as  might  be  expected  from  the  account  I have 
given  of  the  manner  in  which  the  level  areas  of  the 
vales  are  so  frequently  diversified  by  rocks,  hills,  and 
hillocks,  scattered  over  them  ; nor  are  they  ornamented, 
as  are  several  islands  of  the  lakes  in  Scotland,  by  the 
remains  of  old  castles  or  other  places  of  defence,  or  of 
monastic  edifices.  There  is  however  a beautiful  cluster 
of  islands  on  Winandermere ; a pair  pleasingly  con- 
trasted upon  Rydal ; nor  must  the  solitary  green  i.sland 
at  Grasmere  be  forgotten.  In  the  bosom  of  each  of  the 
lakes  of  Ennerdale  and  Devock-water  is  a single  rock 


684 


APPENDIX. 


which,  owing  to  its  neighbourhood  to  the  sea,  is — 

“ The  haunt  of  cormorants  and  sea-mews’  clang,” 

a music  well  suited  to  the  stern  and  wild  character  of 
the  several  scenes ! 

This  part  of  the  subject  may  be  concluded  with  ob- 
serving— that,  from  the  multitude  of  brooks  and  tor- 
rents that  fall  into  these  lakes,  and  of  internal  springs 
by  which  they  are  fed,  and  which  circulate  through 
them  like  veins,  they  are  truly  living  lakes,  “ vivi 
lacus and  are  thus  discriminated  from  the  stagnant 
and  sullen  pools  frequent  among  mountains  that  have 
been  formed  by  volcanoes,  and  from  the  shallow  meres 
found  in  flat  and  fenny  countries.  The  water  is  also 
pure  and  crystalline ; so  that,  if  it  were  not  for  the 
reflections  of  the  incumbent  mountains  by  which  it  is 
darkened,  a delusion  might  be  felt,  by  a person  resting 
quietly  in  a boat  on  the  bosom  of  Winandermere  or 
Derwent-water,  similar  to  that  which  Carver  so  beau- 
tifully describes  when  he  was  floating  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  lake  Erie  or  Ontario,  and  could  almost 
have  imagined  that  his  boat  was  suspended  in  an 
element  as  pure  as  air,  or  rather  that  the  air  and  water 
were  one. 

Having  spoken  of  Lakes  I must  not  omit  to  mention, 
as  a kindred  feature  of  this  country,  those  bodies  of 
still  water  called  Tarns.  These  are  found  in  some  of 
the  valleys,  and  are  very  numerous  upon  the  moun- 
tains. A Tarn,  in  a Vale,  implies,  for  the  most  part, 
that  the  bed  of  the  vale  is  not  happily  formed  ; that  the 
water  of  the  brooks  can  neither  wholly  escape,  nor  dif- 
fuse itself  over  a large  area.  Accordingly,  in  such  sit- 
uations, Tarns  are  often  surrounded  by  a tract  of  boggy 
ground  which  has  an  unsightly  appearance;  but  this  is 
not  always  the  case,  and  in  the  cultivated  parts  of  the 
country  when  the  shores  of  the  Tarn  are  determined, 
it  differs  only  from  the  Lake  in  being  smaller,  and  in 
belonging  mostly  to  a smaller  valley  or  circular  recess. 
Of  this  class  of  miniature  lakes  Loughrigg  Tarn,  near 
Grasmere,  is  the  most  beautiful  example.  It  has  a 
margin  of  green  firm  meadows,  of  rocks,  and  rocky 
woods,  a few  reeds  here,  a little  company  of  water-lilies 
there,  with  beds  of  gravel  or  stone  beyond;  a tiny 
stream  issuing  neither  briskly  nor  sluggishly  out  of  it ; 
but  its  feeding  rills,  from  the  shortness  of  their  course, 
so  small  as  to  be  scarcely  visible.  Five  or  six  cottages 
are  reflected  in  its  peaceful  bosom ; rocky  and  barren 
steeps  rise  up  above  the  hanging  enclosures;  and  the 
solemn  pikes  of  Langdale  overlook,  from  a distance, 
the  low  cultivated  ridge  of  land  that  forms  the  northern 
boundary  of  this  small,  quiet,  and  fertile  domain.  The 
moxintain  Tarns  can  only  be  recommended  to  the  no- 
tice of  the  inquisitive  traveller  who  has  time  to  spare. 
They  are  difficult  of  access  and  naked ; yet  some  of 
them  are,  in  their  permanent  forms,  very  grand  ; and 
there  are  accidents  of  things  which  would  make  the 
meanest  of  them  interesting.  At  all  events,  one  of 


these  pools  is  an  acceptable  sight  to  the  mountain  wan- 
derer, not  merely  as  an  incident  that  diversifies  the 
prospect,  but  as  forming  in  his  mind  a centre  or  con- 
spicuous point  to  which  objects,  otherwise  disconnected 
or  unsubordinated,  may  be  referred.  Some  few  have 
a varied  outline,  with  bold  heath-clad  promontories; 
and,  as  they  mostly  lie  at  the  foot  of  a steep  precipice, 
the  water,  where  the  sun  is  not  shining  upon  it,  appears 
black  and  sullen ; and  round  the  margin  huge  stones 
and  masses  of  rocks  are  scattered  ; some  defying  con- 
jecture as  to  the  means  by  which  they  came  there,  and 
others  obviously  fallen  from  on  high — the  contribution 
of  ages ! The  sense,  also,  of  some  repulsive  power 
strongly  put  forth — excited  by  the  prospect  of  a body 
of  pure  water  unattended  with  groves  and  other  cheer- 
ful rural  images  by  which  fresh  water  is  usually  accom- 
panied, and  unable  to  give  any  furtherance  to  the  mea- 
gre vegetation  around  it — heightens  the  melancholy 
natural  to  such  scenes.  Nor  is  the  feeling  of  solitude 
often  more  forcibly  or  more  solemnly  impressed  than  by 
the  side  of  one  of  these  mountain  pools : though  deso- 
late and  forbidding,  it  seems  a distinct  place  to  repair 
to;  j’et  where  the  visitants  must  be  rare,  and  there 
can  be  no  disturbance.  Water-fowl  flock  hither  ; and 
the  lonely  Angler  may  oftentimes  here  be  seen;  but 
the  imagination,  not  content  with  this  scanty  allowance 
of  society,  is  tempted  to  attribute  a voluntary  power  to 
every  change  which  takes  place  in  such  a spot,  whether 
it  be  the  breeze  that  wanders  over  the  surface  of  the 
water,  or  the  splendid  lights  of  evening  resting  upon  it 
in  the  midst  of  awful  precipices. 

“There,  sometimes  doe?  a leaping  fish 
Send  through  the  tarn  a lonely  cheer ; 

The  crags  repeat  the  raven’s  croak 
In  symphony  austere : 

Thither  the  rainbow  conies,  the  cloud. 

And  mists  that  spread  the  flying  shroud. 

And  sunbeams,  and  the  sounding  blast.”  — 

Though  this  country  is,  on  one  side,  bounded  by  the 
sea,  which  comhines  beautifully,  from  some  elevated 
points  of  view,  with  the  inland  scenery;  yet  the  estu- 
aries cannot  pretend  to  vie  with  those  of  Scotland  and 
Wales: — the  Lakes  are  such  in  the  strict  and  usual 
sense  of  the  word,  being  all  of  fresh  water ; nor  have 
the  Rivers,  from  the  shortness  of  their  course,  time  to 
acquire  that  body  of  water  necessary  to  confer  upon 
them  much  majesty.  In  fact,  while  they  continue  in 
the  mountain  and  lake-country,  they  are  rather  large 
brooks  than  rivers.  The  water  is  perfectly  pellucid, 
through  which  in  many  places  are  seen  to  a great  depth 
their  beds  of  rock  or  of  blue  gravel  which  give  to  the 
water  itself  an  exquisitely  cerulean  colour:  this  is  par- 
ticularly striking  in  the  rivers,  Derwent  and  Duddon, 
which  may  be  compared,  such  and  so  various  are  their 
beauties,  to  any  two  rivers  of  equal  length  of  course  in 
any  country.  The  number  of  the  torrents  and  smaller 
brooks  is  infinite,  with  their  water-falls  and  water- 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G85 


breaks;  and  they  need  not  here  be  described.  I will 
only  observe  that,  as  many,  even  of  the  smallest  of  these 
rills,  have  either  found,  or  made  for  themselves,  recesses 
in  the  sides  of  the  mountains  or  in  the  vales,  they  have 
tempted  the  primitive  inhabitants  to  settle  near  them 
for  shelter;  and  hence  the  retirement  and  seclusion  by 
which  these  cottages  are  endeared  to  the  eye  of  the 
man  of  sensibility. 

The  Woods  consist  chiefly  of  oak,  ash,  and  birch, 
and  here  and  there  a species  of  elm,  with  underwood 
of  hazel,  the  white  and  black  thorn,  and  hollies;  in 
moist  places  alders  and  willows  abound ; and  yews 
among  the  rocks.  Formerly  the  whole  country  must 
have  been  covered  with  wood  to  a great  height  up  the 
mountains;  and  native  Scotch  Firs  (as  in  the  northern 
part  of  Scotland  to  this  day)  must  have  grown  in  great 
profusion.  But  no  one  of  these  old  inhabitants  of  the 
country  remains,  or  perhaps  has  done  for  some  hundreds 
of  years ; beautiful  traces  however  of  the  universal  syl- 
van appearance  the  country  formerly  had,  are  yet  seen, 
both  in  the  native  coppice-woods  that  remain,  and  have 
been  protected  by  enclosures,  and  also  in  the  forest- 
trees  and  hollies,  which,  though  disappearing  fast|  are 
yet  scattered  both  over  the  inclosed  and  uninclosed  parts 
of  the  mountains.  The  same  is  expressed  by  the  beau- 
ty and  intricacy  with  which  the  fields  and  coppice- 
woods  are  often  intermingled : the  plough  of  the  first 
settlers  having  followed  naturally  the  veins  of  richer, 
dryer,  or  less  stony  soil;  and  thus  it  has  shaped  out  an 
intermixture  of  wood  and  lawn  with  a grace  and  wild- 
ness which  it  would  have  been  impossible  for  the  hand 
of  studied  art  to  produce.  Other  trees  have  been  intro- 
duced v/ithin  these  last  fifty  years,  such  as  beeches, 
larches,  limes,  &c.  and  plantations  of  Scotch  firs,  sel- 
dom with  advantage,  and  often  with  great  injury  to  the 
appearance  of  the  country ; but  the  sycamore  (which 
I believe  was  brought  into  this  island  from  Germany, 
not  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago)  has  long  been 
the  favourite  of  the  cottagers ; and,  with  the  Scotch  fir, 
has  been  chosen  to  screen  their  dwellings;  and  is 
sometimes  found  in  the  fields  whither  the  winds  or 
waters  may  have  carried  its  seeds. 

The  want  most  felt,  how'ever,  is  that  of  timber  trees. 
There  are  few  magnificent  ones  to  be  found  near  any 
of  the  lakes;  and,  unless  greater  care  be  taken,  there 
will  in  a short  time  scarcely  be  left  an  ancient  oak  that 
would  repay  the  cost  of  felling.  The  neighbourhood 
of  Rydal,  notwithstanding  the  havoc  which  has  been 
made,  is  yet  nobly  distinguished.  In  the  woods  of  Low- 
ther,  also,  is  found  an  almost  matchless  store  of  the 
grandest  trees,  and  all  the  majesty  and  wildness  of  the 
native  forest. 

Among  the  smaller  vegetable  ornaments  provided 
here  by  nature,  must  be  reckoned  the  juniper,  bilberry, 
and  the  broom-plant,  with  which  the  hills  and  woods 
abound ; the  Dutch  myrtle  in  moist  places ; and  the 


endless  variety  of  brilliant  flowers  in  the  fields  and 
meadows;  which,  if  the  agriculture  of  the  country  were 
more  carefully  attended  to,  would  disappear.  Nor  can 
I omit  again  to  notice  the  lichens  and  mosses, — their 
profusion,  beauty,  and  variety  exceed  those  of  any 
other  country  I have  seen. 

Thus  far  I have  chiefly  spoken  of  the  features  by 
which  Nature  has  discriminated  this  country  from 
others.  I will  now  describe,  in  general  terms,  in  what 
manner  it  is  indebted  to  the  hand  of  man.  What  I 
have  to  notice  on  this  subject  will  emanate  most  easily 
and  perspicuously  from  a description  of  the  ancient 
and  present  inhabitants,  their  occupations,  their  con- 
dition of  life,  the  distribution  of  landed  property  among 
them,  and  the  tenure  by  which  it  is  holden. 

The  reader  will  suffer  me  hero  to  recall  to  his  mind 
the  shapes  of  the  valleys  and  their  position  with  respect 
to  each  other,  and  the  forms  and  substance  of  the  in- 
tervening mountains.  lie  will  people  the  valleys  with 
lakes  and  rivers;  the  coves  and  sides  of  the  moun- 
tains with  pools  and  torrents ; and  will  bound  half  of 
the  circle  which  we  have  contemplated  by  the  sands 
of  the  sea,  or  by  the  sea  itself.  He  will  conceive 
that,  from  the  point  upon  which  he  before  stood,  he 
looks  down  upon  this  scene  before  the  country  had 
been  penetrated  by  any  inhabitants  : — to  vary  his  sen- 
sations and  to  break  in  upon  their  stillness,  he  will 
form  to  himself  an  image  of  the  tides  visiting  and  re- 
visiting the  Friths,  the  main  sea  dashing  again.st  the 
bolder  shore,  the  rivers  pursuing  their  course  to  be  lost 
in  the  mighty  mass  of  waters.  He  may  see  or  hear  in 
fancy  the  winds  sweeping  over  the  lakes,  or  piping 
with  a loud  voice  among  the  mountain  peaks;  and, 
lastly,  may  think  of  the  primeval  woods  shedding  and 
renewing  their  leaves  with  no  human  eye  to  notice, 
or  human  heart  to  regret  or  welcome  the  change. 
“ When  the  first  settlers  entered  this  region  (says 
an  animated  writer)  they  found  it  overspread  with 
wood ; forest  trees,  the  fir,  the  oak,  the  ash,  and  the 
birch,  had  skirted  the  fells,  tufted  the  hills,  and  shaded 
the  valleys  through  centuries  of  silent  solitude  ; the 
birds  and  beasts  of  prey  reigned  over  the  meeker  spe- 
cies; and  the  helium  inter  omnia  maintained  the  bal- 
ance of  nature  in  the  empire  of  beasts.” 

Such  was  the  state  and  app'earance  of  this  region 
when  the  aboriginal  colonists  of  the  Celtic  tribes  were 
first  driven  or  drawn  towards  it,  and  became  joint 
tenants  with  the  wolf,  the  boar,  the  wild  bull,  the  red 
deer,  and  the  leigh,  a gigantic  species  of  deer  which 
has  been  long  extinct;  while  the  inaccessible  crags 
were  occupied  by  the  falcon,  the  raven,  and  the  eagle. 
The  inner  parts  were  too  secluded  and  of  too  little 
value  to  participate  much  of  the  benefit  of  Roman 
manners;  and  though  these  conquerors  encouraged 
the  Britons  to  the  improvement  of  their  lands  in  the 
plain  country  of  Furness  and  Cumberland,  they  seem 
58 


686 


APPENDIX. 


to  have  had  little  connection  with  the  mountains,  ex- 
cept for  military  purposes,  or  in  subservience  to  the 
profit  tliey  drew  from  the  mines. 

When  the  Romans  retired  from  Great  Britain,  it  is 
well  known  that  these  mountain  fastnesses  furnished  a 
protection  to  some  unsubdued  Britons,  long  after  the 
more  accessible  and  more  fertile  districts  had  been 
seized  by  the  Saxon  or  Danish  invader.  A few  though 
distinct  traces  of  Roman  forts  or  camps,  as  at  Amble- 
side,  and  upon  Dunmallet,  and  two  or  three  circles  of 
rude  stones  attributed  to  the  Druids,  are  the  only  ves- 
tiges that  remain  upon  the  surface  of  the  country,  of 
these  ancient  occupants ; and,  as  the  Saxons  and  Danes, 
who  succeeded  to  the  possession  of  the  villages  and 
hamlets  which  had  been  established  by  the  Britons, 
seem  at  first  to  have  confined  themselves  to  the  open 
country, — we  may  descend  at  once  to  times  long  pos- 
terior to  the  conquest  by  the  Normans  when  their  feu- 
dal polity  was  regularly  established.  We  may  easily 
conceive  that  these  narrow  dales  and  mountain  sides, 
choaked  up  as  they  must  have  been  with  wood,  lying 
out  of  the  way  of  communication  with  other  parts  of 
the  Island,  and  upon  the  edge  of  a hostile  kingdom, 
could  have  little  attraction  for  the  high-born  and 
powerful ; especially  as  the  more  open  parts  of  the 
country  furnished  positions  for  castles  and  houses  of  de- 
fence sufficient  to  repel  any  of  those  sudden  attacks, 
which,  in  the  then  rude  state  of  military  knowledge, 
could  be  made  upon  them.  Accordingly,  the  more 
retired  regions  (and,  observe,  it  is  to  these  I am  now 
confining  myself)  must  have  been  neglected  or  shunned 
even  by  the  persons  whose  baronial  or  seignioral  rights 
extended  over  them,  and  left,  doubtless,  partly  as  a 
place  of  refuge  for  outlaws  and  robbers,  and  partly 
granted  out  for  the  more  settled  habitation  of  a few 
vassals  following  the  employment  of  shepherds  or  wood- 
landers.  Hence  these  lakes  and  inner  valleys  are  un- 
adorned by  any  of  the  remains  of  ancient  grandeur, 
castles,  or  monastic  edifices,  which  are  only  found  upon 
the  skirts  of  this  country,  as  Furness  Abbey,  Calder 
Abbey,  the  Priory  of  Lannercost,  Gleaston  Castle, — 
long  ago  the  residence  of  the  Flemings, — and  the  nu- 
merous ancient  castles  of  the  Cliffords  and  the  Dacres. 
On  the  southern  side  of  these  mountains,  (especially 
in  that  part  known  by  the  name  of  Furness  Fells,  which 
is  more  remote  from  the  borders,)  the  state  of  society 
would  necessarily  be  more  settled ; though  it  was  fash- 
ioned not  a little,  with  the  rest  of  the  country,  by  its 
neighbourhood  to  a hostile  kingdom.  We  will  there- 
fore give  a sketch  of  the  economy  of  the  Abbots  in  the 
distribution  of  lands  among  their  tenants,  as  similar 
plans  were  doubtless  adopted  by  other  Lords,  and  as 
the  consequences  have  affected  the  face  of  the  country 
materially  to  the  present  day,  being  in  fact  one  of  the 
principal  causes  which  give  it  such  a striking  superi- 
ority, in  beauty  and  interest,  over  all  other  parts  of  the 
island. 


“ When  the  Abbots  of  Furness,”  says  an  author 
before  cited,  “ enfranchised  their  villains,  and  raised 
them  to  the  dignity  of  customary  tenants,  the  lands, 
which  they  had  cultivated  for  their  lord,  were  divided 
into  whole  tenements;  each  of  w'hich,  besides  the  cus- 
tomary annual  rent,  was  charged  with  the  obligation  ot 
having  in  readiness  a man  completely  armed  for  the 
king’s  service  on  the  borders,  or  elsewhere : each  of 
these  whole  tenements  was  again  subdivided  into  four 
equal  parts ; each  villain  had  one ; and  the  party  ten- 
ant contributed  his  share  to  the  support  of  the  man-at- 
arms,  and  of  other  burdens.  These  divisions  were  not 
properly  distinguished  ; the  land  remained  mixed  ; each 
tenant  had  a share  through  all  the  arable  and  meadow- 
land,  and  common  of  pasture  over  all  the  wastes. 
These  sub-tenements  were  judged  sufficient  for  tbe 
support  of  so  many  families;  and  no  further  division 
was  permitted.  These  divisions  and  subdivisions  were 
convenient  at  the  time  for  which  they  were  calculated  ; 
the  land,  so  parcelled  out,  was,  of  necessity,  more 
attended  to ; and  the  industry  greater,  when  more 
persons  were  to  be  supported  by  the  produce  of  it. 
The*  frontier  of  the  kingdom,  within  which  Furness 
was  considered,  was  in  a constant  state  of  attack  and 
defence;  more  hands,  therefore,  were  necessary  to 
guard  the  coast,  to  repel  an  invasion  from  Scotland,  or 
make  reprisals  on  the  hostile  neighbour.  The  dividing 
the  lands  in  such  manner  as  has  been  shown,  increased 
the  number  of  inhabitants,  and  kept  them  at  hoUie 
till  called  for;  and,  the  land  being  mixed,  and  the 
several  tenants  united  in  equipping  the  plough,  the 
absence  of  the  fourth  man  was  no  prejudice  to  the 
cultivation  of  his  land,  which  was  committed  to  the 
care  of  three. 

” While  the  villains  of  Low  Furness  were  thus  dis- 
tributed over  the  land,  and  employed  in  agriculture; 
those  of  High  Furness  were  charged  with  the  care 
of  flocks  and  herds,  to  protect  them  from  the  wolves 
which  lurked  in  the  thickets,  and  in  winter  to  browse 
them  with  the  tender  sprouts  of  hollies  and  ash. 
This  custom  was  not  till  lately  discontinued  in  High 
Furness;  and  holly-trees  were  carefully  preserved  for 
that  purpose  when  all  other  wood  was  cleared  off"; 
large  tracts  of  common  being  so  covered  with  these 
trees,  as  to  have  the  appearance  of  a forest  of  hollies. 
At  the  Shepherd’s  call,  the  flocks  surrounded  the 
holly-bush,  and  received  the  croppings  at  his  hand, 
which  they  greedily  nibbled  up,  bleating  for  more. 
The  Abbots  of  Furness  enfranchised  these  pastoral 
vassals,  and  permitted  them  to  enclose  quillets  to  their 
houses,  for  which  they  paid  encroachment  rent.” — 
West’s  Antiquities  of  Furness. 

However  desirable,  for  tbe  purposes  of  defence,  a 
numerous  population  might  be,  it  was  not  jz/ssible  to 
make  at  once  the  same  numerous  allotmente  smong  the 
untilled  valleys,  and  upon  the  sides  of  the  Mountains, 
as  had  been  made  in  the  cultivated  plains-  Tlie  en- 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


C87 


franchised  shepherd,  or  vvoodlander,  having  chosen 
there  his  place  of  residence,  huilds  it  of  sods,  or  of  the 
mountain-stone,  and,  with  the  permission  of  his  lord, 
encloses,  like  Robinson  Crusoe,  a small  croft  or  two 
immediately  at  his  door  for  such  animals  chiefly  as 
he  wishes  to  protect.  Others  are  happy  to  imitate  liis 
example,  and  avail  themselves  of  the  same  privileges ; 
and  thus  a population,  mainly  of  Danish  or  Norse 
origin,  as  the  dialect  indicates,  crept  on  towards  the 
more  secluded  parts  of  the  valleys.  Chapels,  daughters 
of  some  distant  mother  church,  are  first  erected  in  the 
more  open  and  fertile  vales,  as  those  of  Bowness  and 
Grasmere,  offsets  of  Kendal ; which  again,  after  a 
period,  as  the  settled  population  increases,  become 
mother-churches  to  smaller  edifices,  scattered,  at 
length,  in  almost  every  dale  throughout  the  country. 
Tlie  enclosures,  formed  by  the  tenantry,  are  for  a long 
time  confined  to  the  home-steads;  and  the  arable  and 
meadow  land  of  the  vales  is  possessed  in  common  field ; 
the  several  portions  being  marked  out  by  stones,  bushes, 
or  trees;  which  portions,  where  the  custom  has  sur- 
vived, to  this  day  are  called  dales,  from  the  word  dey- 
len,  to  distribute ; but  while  the  valley  was  thus  lying 
open,  enclosures  seem  to  have  taken  place  upon  the 
sides  of  the  n)ountains;  because  the  land  there  was 
not  intermixed,  and  was  of  little  comparative  value, 
and,  therefore,  small  opposition  would  be  made  to 
its  being  appropriated  by  those  to  whose  habitations  it 
was  contiguous.  Hence  the  singular  appearance 
which  the  sides  of  many  of  these  mountains  exhibit, 
intersected,  as  they  are,  almost  to  their  summit,  with 
stone  walls,  of  which  the  fences  are  always  formed. 
When  first  erected,  they  must  have  little  disfigured  the 
face  of  the  country;  as  part  of  the  lines  would  every 
where  be  hidden  by  the  quantity  of  native  wood  then 
remaining;  and  the  lines  would  also  be  broken  (as  they 
still  are)  by  the  rocks  which  interrupt  and  vary  their 
course.  In  the  meadows,  and  in  those  parts  of  the 
lower  grounds  where  the  soil  has  not  been  sufficiently 
drained,  and  could  not  afford  a stable  foundation,  there, 
when  the  increasing  value  of  land,  and  the  inconveni- 
ence suffered  from  intermixed  plots  of  ground  in  com- 
mon field,  had  induced  each  inhabitant  to  inclose  his 
own,  they  were  compelled  to  make  the  fences  of  alders, 
willows,  and  other  trees.  Tliese,  where  the  native 
wood  had  disappeared,  have  frequently  enriched  the 
valleys  with  a sylvan  appearance;  while  the  intricate 
intermixture  of  property  lias  given  to  the  fences  a 
graceful  irregularity,  which,  where  large  properties  are 
prevalent,  and  larger  capitals  employed  in  agriculture, 
is  unknown.  This  sylvan  appearance  is  still  further 
heightened  by  the  number  of  ash-trees  which  have 
been  planted  in  rows  along  the  quick  fences,  and 
along  the  walls,  for  the  purpose  of  browzing  cattle  at 
the  approach  of  winter.  The  branches  are  lopped  off 
and  strewed  upon  the  pastures ; and,  when  the  cattle 
have  stripped  them  of  the  leaves,  they  are  used  for 
repairing  hedges,  or  for  fuel. 


We  have  thus  seen  a numerous  body  of  Dalesmen 
creeping  into  possession  of  their  home-steads,  their 
little  crofts,  their  mountain-enclosures;  and,  finally, 
the  whole  vale  is  visibly  divided  ; except,  perhaps,  here 
and  there  some  marshy  ground,  which,  till  fully  drain- 
ed, would  not  repay  the  trouble  of  enclosing.  But  these 
last  partitions  do  not  seem  to  have  been  general,  till 
long  after  the  pacification  of  the  Borders,  by  the  union 
of  the  two  crowns;  when  the  cause,  which  had  first 
determined  the  distribution  of  land  into  such  small 
parcels,  had  not  only  ceased, — but  likewise  a general 
improvement  had  taken  place  in  the  country,  with  a 
correspondent  rise  in  the  value  of  its  produce.  From 
the  time  of  the  union,  it  is  certain  that  this  species  of 
feudal  population  would  rapidly  diniini.sh.  That  it  was 
formerly  much  more  numerous  than  it  is  at  present,  is 
evident  from  the  multitude  of  tenements  (I  do  not  mean 
houses,  but  small  divisions  of  land,)  which  belonged 
formerly  each  to  its  several  proprietor,  and  for  which 
separate  fines  are  paid  to  the  manorial  lord  at  this  day. 
These  are  often  in  the  proportion  of  four  to  one,  of  the 
present  occupants.  “ Sir  Launcelot  Threlkeld,  who 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  was  wont  to  say,  he 
had  three  noble  houses,  one  for  pleasure,  Crosby,  in 
Westmoreland,  where  he  had  a park  full  of  deer;  one 
for  profit  and  warmth,  wherein  to  reside  in  winter, 
namely,  Yanwith,  nigh  Penrith;  and  the  third,  Threl- 
keld (on  the  edge  of  the  vale  of  Keswick)  well  stocked 
with  tenants  to  go  with  him  to  the  wars.”  But,  as  I 
have  said,  from  the  union  of  the  two  crowns,  this  nu- 
merous vassalage  (their  services  not  being  wanted) 
would  rapidly  diminish ; various  tenements  would  be 
united  in  one  possessor;  and  the  aboriginal  houses, 
probably  little  better  than  hovels,  like  the  kraels  of 
savages,  or  the  huts  of  the  Highlanders  of  Scotland, 
would  many  of  them  fall  into  decay,  and  wholly  dis- 
appear, while  the  place  of  others  was  supplied  by  sub- 
stantial and  comfortable  buildings,  a majority  of  which 
remain  to  this  day  scattered  over  the  valleys,  and  are 
in  many  the  only  dwellings  found  in  them. 

From  the  time  of  the  erection  of  these  houses,  till 
within  the  last  fifty  years,  the  state  of  society,  though 
no  doubt  slowly  and  gradually  improving,  underwent 
no  material  change.  Corn  w'as  grown  in  these  vales 
(through  which  no  carriage-road  had  been  made)  suffi 
cient  upon  each  estate  to  furnish  bread  for  each  family, 
and  no  more:  notwithstanding  the  union  of  several 
tenements,  the  possessions  of  each  inhabitant  still  being 
small,  in  the  same  field  was  seen  an  intermixture  of 
different  crops ; and  the  plough  was  interrupted  by  little 
rocks,  mostly  overgrown  with  wood,  or  by  spongy 
places,  which  the  tillers  of  the  soil  had  neither  leisure 
nor  capital  to  convert  into  firm  land.  The  storms  and 
moisture  of  the  climate  induced  them  to  sprinkle  their 
upland  property  with  outhouses  of  native  stone,  as 
places  of  shelter  for  their  sheep,  where,  in  tempestuous 
weather,  food  was  distributed  to  them.  Every. family 
spun  from  its  own  flock  the  wool  with  which  it  was 


G88 


APPENDIX. 


clothed;  a weaver  was  here  and  there  found  among 
them ; and  the  rest  of  their  wants  were  supplied  by 
ihe  produce  of  the  yarn,  wliich  they  carded  and  spun 
in  their  own  houses,  and  carried  to  market,  either  under 
their  arms,  or  more  frequently  on  pack-horses,  a small 
train  taking  their  way  weekly  down  the  valley  or  over 
the  mountains  to  the  most  commodious  town.  They 
had,  as  I have  said,  their  rural  chapel,  and  of  course 
their  minister,  in  clothing  or  in  manner  of  life,  in  no 
respect  differing  from  themselves,  except  on  the  Sab- 
bath-day ; this  was  the  sole  distinguished  individual 
among  them ; every  thing  else,  person  and  possession, 
exhibited  a perfect  equality,  a community  of  shepherds 
and  agriculturists,  proprietors,  for  the  most  part,  of  the 
lands  which  they  occupied  and  cultivated. 

While  the  process  above  detailed  was  going  on,  the 
native  forest  must  have  been  every  where  receding; 
but  trees  were  planted  for  the  sustenance  of  the  flocks 
in  winter, — such  was  then  the  rude  state  of  agricul- 
ture; and,  for  the  same  cause,  it  was  necessary  that 
care  should  be  taken  of  some  part  of  the  growth  of  the 
native  forest.  Accordingly,  in  Queen  Elizabeth’s  time, 
this  was  so  strongly  felt,  that  a petition  was  made  to 
the  Crown,  praying,  “ that  the  Blomaries  in  high  Fur- 
ness might  be  abolished,  on  account  of  the  quantity  of 
wood  which  was  consumed  in  them  for  the  use  of  the 
mines,  to  the  great  detriment  of  the  cattle.”  But  this 
same  cause,  about  a hundred  years  after,  produced 
eft’ects  directly  contrar}'  to  those  which  had  been  de- 
precated. The  re-establishment,  at  that  period,  of  fur- 
naces upon  a large  scale,  made  it  the  interest  of  the 
people  to  convert  the  steeper  and  more  stony  of  the 
enclosures,  sprinkled  over  with  remains  of  the  native 
forest,  into  close  woods,  which,  when  cattle  and  sheep 
were  excluded,  rapidly  sowed  and  thickened  them- 
selves. I have  already  directed  the  reader’s  attention 
to  the  cause  by  which  tufts  of  wood,  pasturage,  meadow, 
and  arable  land,  with  its  various  produce,  are  intricately 
intermingled  in  the  same  field,  and  he  will  now  see,  in 
like  manner,  how  enclosures  entirely  of  wood,  and 
those  of  cultivated  ground,  are  blended  all  over  the 
country  under  a law  of  similar  wildness. 

An  historic  detail  has  thus  been  given  of  the  manner 
in  which  the  hand  of  man  has  acted  upon  the  surface 
of  the  inner  regions  of  this  mountainous  country,  as 
hicorporated  with  and  subservient  to  the  powers  and 
processes  of  nature.  We  will  now  take  a view  of  the 
same  agency  acting,  within  narrower  bounds,  for  the 
production  of  the  few  works  of  art  and  accommoda- 
tions of  life  which,  in  so  simple  a state  of  society, 
could  be  necessary.  These  are  merely  habitations  of 
man  and  coverts  for  beasts,  roads  and  bridges,  and 
places  of  worship. 

And  to  begin  with  the  Cottages.  They  are  scat- 
tered over  the  valleys,  and  tinder  the  hill  sides,  and  on 
the  rocks ; and,  even  to  this  day,  in  the  more  retired 
dales,  without  any  intrusion  of  more  assuming  buildings. 


Clustered  like  stars  some  few,  but  single  most, 

And  lurking  dimly  in  their  shy  retreats, 

Or  glancing  on  each  other  cheerful  looks. 

Like  separated  stars  with  clouds  between. Mi>. 

The  dwelling-houses,  and  contiguous  outhouses,  are 
in  many  instances,  of  the  colour  of  the  native  rock,  out 
of  which  they  have  been  built;  but,  frequetitly  the 
dwelling-house  has  been  distinguished  from  the  barn 
and  byer  by  roughcast  and  white  wash,  which,  as  the 
inhabitants  are  not  hasty  in  renewing  it,  in  a few  years 
acquires,  by  the  influence  of  weather,  a tint  at  once 
sober  and  variegated.  As  these  houses  have  been  from 
father  to  son  inhabited  by  persons  engaged  in  the  same 
occupations,  yet  necessarily  with  changes  in  their  cir- 
cumstances, they  have  received  additions  and  accom- 
modations adapted  to  the  needs  of  each  successive  oc- 
cupant, who,  being  for  the  most  part  proprietor,  was  at 
liberty  to  follow  his  own  fancy;  so  that  these  humble 
dwellings  remind  the  contemplative  spectator  of  a pro- 
duction of  nature,  and  may  (using  a strong  expression) 
rather  be  said  to  have  grown  than  to  have  been  erected  ; 
— to  have  risen  by  an  instinct  of  their  own  out  of 
the  native  rock  ! so  little  is  there  in  them  of  formality  ; 
such  is  their  wildness  and  beauty.  Among  the  nu- 
merous recesses  and  projections  in  the  walls  and  in  the 
different  stages  of  their  roofs,  are  seen  the  boldest  and 
most  harmonious  effects  of  contrasted  sunshine  and 
shadow.  It  is  a favourable  circumstance,  that  the 
strong  winds,  which  sweep  down  the  valleys,  induced 
the  inhabitants,  at  a time  when  the  materials  foi 
building  were  easily  procured,  to  furnish  many  of  these 
dwellings  with  substantial  porches;  and  such  as  have 
not  this  defence,  are  seldom  unprovided  with  a pro- 
jection of  two  large  slates  over  their  thresholds.  Nor 
will  the  singular  beauty  of  the  chimneys  escape  the 
eye  of  the  attentive  traveller.  Sometimes  a low  chim- 
ney, almost  upon  a level  with  the  roof,  is  overlaid  with 
a slate,  supported  upon  four  slender  pillars,  to  prevent 
the  wind  from  driving  the  smoke  down  the  chimney. 
Others  are  of  a quadrangular  shape,  rising  one  or  two 
feet  above  the  roof;  which  low  square  is  often  sur- 
mounted by  a tall  cylinder,  giving  to  the  cottage  chim- 
ney the  most  beautiful  shape  in  which  it  is  ever  seen. 
Nor  will  it  be  too  fanciful  or  refined  to  remark,  that 
there  is  a pleasing  harmony  between  a tall  chimney  of 
this  circular  form,  and  the  living  column  of  smoke, 
through  the  still  air  ascending  from  it.  Tliese  dwellings, 
as  has  been  said,  are  built  of  rough  unhewn  stone ; and 
they  are  roofed  with  slates,  which  were  rudely  taken 
from  the  quarry  before  the  present  art  of  splitting  them 
was  understood,  and  are  therefore  rough  and  uneven  in 
their  surfaces,  so  that  both  the  coverings  and  sides  of 
the  houses  have  furnished  places  of  rest  for  the  seeds 
of  lichens,  mosses,  ferns,  and  flowers.  Hence  buildings, 
which,  in  their  very  form  call  to  mind  the  processes  of 
nature,  do  thus,  clothed  with  this  vegetable  garb,  appear 
to  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  living  principle  of 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


689 


things,  as  it  acts  and  exists  among  the  woods  and 
fields : and,  by  their  colour  and  their  shape,  affectingly 
direct  the  thoughts  to  that  tranquil  course  of  nature 
and  simplicity,  along  which  the  humble-minded  inhabit- 
ants have  through  so  many  generations  been  led.  Add 
the  little  garden  with  its  shed  for  bee-hives,  its  small 
beds  of  pot-herbs,  and  its  borders  and  patches  of  flowers 
for  Sunday  posies,  with  sometimes  a choice  few  too 
much  prized  to  be  plucked;  an  orchard  of  proportioned 
size;  a cheese-press,  often  supported  by  some  tree 
near  the  door;  a cluster  of  embowering  sycamores  for 
summer  shade ; with  a tall  Scotch  fir,  through  which 
tlie  winds  sing  when  other  trees  are  leafless ; the  little 
rill  or  household  spout  murmuring  in  alt  seasons ; — 
combine  these  incidents  and  images  together,  and  you 
have  the  representative  idea  of  a mountain-cottage  in 
this  country  so  beautifully  formed  in  itself,  and  so  richly 
adorned  by  the  hand  of  nature. 

Till  within  the  last  fifty  years  there  was  no  commu- 
nication between  any  of  these  vales  by  carriage-roads; 
all  bulky  articles  were  transported  on  pack-horses. 
Owing,  however,  to  the  population  not  being  concen- 
trated in  villages  but  scattered,  the  valleys  themselves 
were  intersected  as  now  by  innumerable  lanes  and  path- 
ways leading  from  house  to  house  and  from  field  to 
field.  These  lanes,  where  they  are  fenced  by  stone 
walls,  are  mostly  bordered  with  ashes,  hazels,  wild  roses, 
end  beds  of  tall  fern,  at  their  base ; while  the  walls 
themselves  if  old  are  overspread  with  mosses,  small 
ferns,  wild  strawberries,  the  geranium,  and  lichens ; 
and  if  the  wall  happen  to  rest  against  a bank  of  earth, 
it  is  sometimes  almost  wholly  concealed  by  a rich  fa- 
cing of  stone-fern.  It  is  a great  advantage  to  a traveller 
or  resident,  that  these  numerous  lanes  and  paths,  if  he 
be  a zealous  admirer  of  nature,  will  introduce  him, 
nay,  will  lead  him  on  into  all  the  recesses  of  the  coun- 
try, so  that  the  hidden  treasures  of  its  landscapes  will 
by  an  ever-ready  guide  be  laid  open  to  his  eyes. 

Likewise  to  the  smallness  of  the  several  properties 
is  owing  the  .great  number  of  bridges  over  the  brooks 
and  torrents,  and  the  daring  and  graceful  neglect  of 
danger  or  accommodation  with  which  so  many  of  them 
are  constructed,  the  rudeness  of  the  forms  of  some,  and 
their  endless  variety.  But,  when  I speak  of  this  rude- 
ness, I must  at  the  same  time  add  that  many  of  these 
structures  are  in  themselves  models  of  elegance,  as  if 
they  had  been  formed  upon  principles  of  the  most 
thoughtful  architecture.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  these 
monuments  of  the  skill  of  our  ancestors,  and  of  that 
happy  instinct  by  which  consummate  beauty  was  pro- 
duced, are  disappearing  fast ; but  sufficient  specimens 
remain  to  give  a high  gratification  to  the  man  of  genu- 
ine taste.  Such  travellers  as  may  not  be  accustomed 
to  pay  attention  to  these  things,  will  excuse  me  if  I 
point  out  the  proportion  between  the  span  and  elevation 
of  the  arch,  the  lightness  of  the  parapet,  and  the 
graceful  manner  in  which  its  curve  follows  faithfully 
tliat  of  the  arch. 


Upon  this  subject  I have  nothing  further  to  notice, 
except  the  places  of  worship,  which  have  mostly  a little 
school-house  adjoining.  The  architecture  of  these 
churches  and  chapels,  where  they  have  not  been  re- 
cently rebuilt  or  modernised,  is  of  a style  not  less 
appropriate  and  admirable  than  that  of  the  dwelling- 
houses  and  other  structures.  How  sacred  the  spirit  by 
which  our  forefathers  were  directed  ! The  rdigio  loci 
is  no  where  outraged  by  these  unstinted,  yet  unpre- 
tending, works  of  human  hands.  They  exhibit  gene- 
rally a well  proportioned  oblong  with  a suitable  porch, 
in  some  instances  a steeple  tower,  and  in  others  nothing 
more  than  a small  belfry  in  which  one  or  two  bells 
hang  visibly. — But  these  objects,  though  pleasing  in 
their  forms,  must  necessarily,  more  than  others  in  rural 
scenery,  derive  their  interest  from  the  sentiments  of 
piety  and  reverence  for  the  modest  virtues  and  simple 
manners  of  humble  life  with  which  they  may  be  con- 
templated. A man  must  be  very  insensible  who  would 
not  be  touched  with  pleasure  at  the  sight  of  the  chapel 
of  Butiermere,  so  strikingly  expressing  by  its  diminu- 
tive size  how  small  must  be  the  congregation  there  as- 
sembled, as  it  were,  like  one  family;  and  proclaiming 
at  the  same  time  to  the  passenger,  in  connection  with 
the  surrounding  mountains,  the  depth  of  that  seclusion 
in  which  the  people  live  that  has  rendered  necessary 
the  building  of  a separate  place  of  worship  for  so  few. 
A Patriot,  calling  to  mind  the  images  of  the  stately 
fabrics  of  Canterbury,  York,  or  Westminster,  will  find 
a heart-felt  satisfaction  in  presence  of  this  lowly  pile, 
as  a monument  of  the  wise  institutions  of  our  country, 
and  as  evidence  of  the  all-pervading  and  paternal  care 
of  that  venerable  Establishment  of  which  it  is  perhaps 
the  humblest  daughter. — The  edifice  is  scarcely  larger 
than  many  of  the  single  stones  or  fragments  of  rock 
which  are  scattered  near  it. 

We  have  thus  far  confined  our  observations  on  this 
division  of  the  subject  to  that  part  of  these  Dales  which 
runs  up  far  into  the  mountains.  In  addition  to  such 
objects  as  have  been  hitherto  described,  it  may  be 
mentioned  that,  as  we  descend  towards  the  open  part 
of  the  Vales,  we  meet  with  the  remains  of  ancient 
Parks,  and  with  old  Mansions  of  more  stately  archi- 
tecture ; and  it  may  be  observed  that  to  these  circum- 
stances the  country  owes  whatever  ornament  it  retains 
of  majestic  and  full-grown  timber,  as  the  remains  of 
the  park  of  the  ancient  family  of  the  Ratcliffs  at  Der- 
went-water,  Gowbraypark,  and  the  venerable  woods 
of  Rydal.  Through  the  open  parts  of  the  vales  are 
scattered,  with  more  spacious  domains  attached  to 
them,  houses  of  a middle  rank,  between  the  pastoral 
cottage  and  the  old  hall-residence  of  the  more  wealthy 
Estatesman. 

Thus  has  been  given  a faithful  description,  the  mi- 
nuteness of  which  the  reader  will  pardon,  of  the  face 
of  this  country  as  it  was,  and  had  been  through  cen- 
turies, till  within  the  last  fifty  years.  Towards  the 
head  of  these  Dales  was  found  a perfect  Republic  of 
68* 


4M 


690 


APPENDIX. 


Shepherds  and  Agriculturists,  among  whom  the  plough 
of  each  man  was  confined  to  the  maintenance  of  his 
own  family,  or  to  the  occasional  accommodation  of  his 
neighbour.  Two  or  ihree  cows  furnished  each  family 
with  milk  and  cheese.  Tlie  Chapel  was  the  only  edi- 
fice that  presided  over  these  dwellings,  the  supreme 
head  of  this  pure  Commonwealth ; the  members  of 
which  existed  in  the  midst  of  a powerful  empire,  like 
an  ideal  society  or  an  organised  community,  whose  con- 
stitution had  been  imposed  and  regulated  by  the  moun- 
tains which  protected  it.  Neither  Knight,  nor  Esquire, 
nor  high-born  Nobleman,  was  here;  but  many  of  these 
humble  sons  of  the  hills  had  a consciousness  that  the 
land,  which  they  walked  over  and  tilled,  liad  for  more 
than  five  hundred  years  been  possessed  by  men  of  their 
name  and  blood  ; — and  venerable  was  the  transition, 
when  a curious  traveller,  descending  from  the  heart  of 
the  mountains,  had  come  to  some  ancient  manorial  res- 
idence in  the  more  open  parts  of  the  Vales,  which, 
through  the  rights  attached  to  its  proprietor,  connected 
the  almost  visionary  mountain  Republic  he  had  been 
contemplating  with  the  substantial  frame  of  society 
as  existing  in  the  laws  and  constitution  of  a mighty 
empire. 

Such,  as  I have  said,  was  the  appearance  of  things 
till  within  these  last  fifty  years.  A practice,  by  a 
strange  abuse  of  terms  denominated  Ornamental  Gar- 
dening, was  at  that  time  becoming  prevalent  over  En- 
gland. In  union  with  an  admiration  of  this  art  and 
in  some  instances  in  opposition  to  it,  had  been 
generated  a relish  for  select  parts  of  natural  sce- 
nery ; and  Travellers,  instead  of  confining  tlieir  ob- 
servations to  Towns,  Manufactories,  or  Mines,  began 
(a  tliinc  till  then  unheard  of)  to  wander  over  the  Island 
in  search  of  sequestered  spots  distinguished,  as  they 
might  accidentally  have  learned,  for  the  sublimity  or 
beauty  of  the  forms  of  Nature  tliere  to  be  seen.  — 
Dr.  Brown,  the  celebrated  Author  of  the  Estimate  of 
the  Manners  and  Principles  of  the  Times,  published 
a letter  to  a Friend  in  which  the  attractions  of  the  Vale 
of  Keswick  were  delineated  with  a powerful  pencil, 
and  the  feeling  of  a genuine  Enthusiast.  Gray  the 
Poet  followed ; he  died  soon  after  his  forlorn  and  mel- 
ancholy pilgrimage  to  the  Vale  of  Keswick,  and  the 
record  left  behind  him  of  what  he  had  seen  and  felt  in 
this  journey  excited  that  pensive  interest  with  which 
the  human  mind  is  ever  disposed  to  listen  to  the  fare- 
well words  of  a Jlan  of  genius.  The  journal  of  Gray 
feelingly  showed  how  the  gloom  of  ill  health  and  low 
spirits  had  been  irradiated  by  objects,  which  the  Au- 
thor’s powers  of  mind  enabled  him  to  describe  with  dis- 
tinctness and  unaffected  simplicity.  Every  reader  of 
this  journal  must  have  been  impressed  with  the  words 
that  conclude  his  notice  of  the  Vale  of  Grasmere — 
“Not  a single  red  tile,  no  flaring  gentleman’s  house  or 
garden-wall,  breaks  in  upon  the  repose  of  this  little 
unsuspected  paradise  ; but  all  is  peace,  rusticity,  and  , 


happy  poverty  in  its  neatest  and  most  becoming  at- 
tire.’’ 

What  is  here  so  justly  said  of  Grasmere  applied 
almost  equally  to  all  its  sister  Vales.  It  was  well  for 
the  undisturbed  pleasure  of  the  Poet  that  he  had  no 
forebodings  of  the  change  which  was  soon  to  take 
place ; and  it  might  have  been  hoped  that  these  words, 
indicating  how  much  the  charm  of  what  was,  depended 
upon  what  was  not,  would  of  themselves  have  pre- 
served the  ancient  franchises  of  this  and  other  kindred 
mountain  retirements  from  trespass ; or,  (shall  I dare 
to  say  1)  would  have  secured  scenes  so  consecrated 
from  profanation.  The  lakes  had  now  become  celebra- 
ted ; visitors  flocked  hither  from  all  parts  of  England  ; 
the  fancies  of  some  were  smitten  so  deeply,  that  they 
became  settlers ; and  the  Islands  of  Dervvent-water 
and  Winandermere,  as  they  offered  the  strongest  tempt- 
ation, were  the  first  places  seized  upon,  and  were  in- 
stantly defaced  by  the  intrusion. 

The  venerable  wood  that  had  grown  for  centuries 
round  the  small  house  called  St.  Herbert’s  Hermitage, 
had  indeed  some  years  before  been  felled  by  its  native 
proprietor,  and  the  whole  island  had  been  planted 
anew  with  Scotch  firs  left  to  spindle  up  by  each  other’s 
side — a melancholy  phalanx,  defying  the  power  of  the 
winds,  and  disregarding  the  regret  of  the  spectator,  who 
might  otherwise  have  cheated  himself  into  a belief, 
that  some  of  the  decayed  remains  of  tlmse  oaks,  the 
place  of  which  is  in  this  manner  usurped,  had  been 
planted  by  the  Hermit’s  own  hand.  Comparatively, 
however,  this  sainted  spot  suffered  little  injury.  The 
Hind’s  Cottage  upon  Vicai’s  island,  in  the  same  lake, 
with  its  embowering  sycamores  and  cattle  shed,  disap- 
peared, at  the  bidding  of  an  alien  improver,  from  the 
corner  where  they  had  stood ; and  right  in  the  middle, 
and  upon  the  precise  point  of  the  island’s  highest  ele- 
vation, rose  a tall  square  habitation,  with  four  sides 
exposed,  like  an  observatory,  or  a warren-house  reared 
upon  an  eminence  for  the  detection  of  depredators,  or, 
like  the  temple  of  CEolus,  where  all  the  winds  pay  him 
obeisance.  Round  this  novel  structure,  but  at  lespect- 
ful  distance,  platoons  of  firs  were  stationed,  as  if  to  pro- 
tect their  commander  when  weather  and  time  should 
somewhat  have  shattered  his  strength.  Within  the 
narrow  limits  of  this  island  were  typified  also  the  state 
and  strength  of  a kingdom,  and  its  religion  as  it  had 
been  and  was, — for  neither  was  the  druidical  circle  un- 
created, nor  the  church  of  the  present  establishment; 
nor  the  stately  pier,  emblem  of  commerce  and  naviga- 
tion; nor  the  fort,  to  deal  out  thunder  upon  the  ap- 
proaching invader.  The  taste  of  a succeeding  propri- 
etor rectified  the  mistakes  as  far  as  was  practicable, 
and  has  ridded  the  spot  of  all  its  puerilities.  The 
church,  after  having  been  docked  of  its  steeple,  is  ap- 
plied, both  ostensibly  and  really,  to  the  purpose  for 
which  the  body  of  the  pile  was  actually  erected,  name- 
ly, a boat-house;  the  fort  is  demolished,  and,  without 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G91 


indig^nation  on  the  part  of  the  spirits  of  the  ancient 
Druids  who  officiated  at  the  circle  upon  the  opposite 
hill,  the  mimic  arrangement  of  stones,  with  its  sanctum 
sanctorum,  has  been  swept  away. 

The  present  instance  has  been  singled  out,  extrava- 
gant as  it  is,  because,  unquestionably,  this  beautiful 
country  has,  in  numerous  other  places,  suffered  from 
the  same  spirit,  though  not  clothed  exactly  in  the  same 
form,  nor  active  in  an  equal  degree.  It  will  be  suffi- 
cient here  to  utter  a regret  for  the  changes  that  have 
been  made  upon  the  principal  Island  at  Winandermere, 
and  in  its  neighbourhood.  What  could  be  more  unfortu- 
nate than  the  taste  that  suggested  the  paring  of  the 
shores,  and  surrounding  with  an  embankment  this  spot 
of  ground,  the  natural  shape  of  which  was  so  beautiful ! 
An  artificial  appearance  has  thus  been  given  to  the 
whole,  while  infinite  varieties  of  minute  beauty  have 
been  destroyed.  Could  not  the  margin  of  this  noble 
island  be  given  back  to  nature!  Winds  and  waves 
work  with  a careless  and  graceful  hand  ; and,  should 
they  in  some  places  carry  away  a portion  of  the  soil, 
the  trifling  loss  would  be  amply  compensated  by  the 
additional  spirit,  dignity,  and  loveliness,  which  these 
agents  and  the  other  powers  of  nature  would  soon 
communicate  to  what  was  left  behind.  As  to  the  larch- 
plantations  upon  the  main  shore, — they  who  remember  , 
the  original  appearance  of  the  rocky  steeps  scattered  j 
over  with  native  hollies  and  ash-trees,’  will  be  prepared 
to  agree  with  what  I shall  have  to  say  hereafter  upon 
plantations  in  general. 

But,  in  truth,  no  one  can  now  travel  through  the 
more  frequented  tracts,  without  being  offended  at  al- 
most every  turn  by  an  introduction  of  discordant  ob- 
jects, disturbing  that  peaceful  harmony  of  form  and 
colour  which  had  been  through  a long  lapse  of  ages 
most  happily  preserved. 

Alt  gross  transgressions  of  this  kind  originate,  doubt- 
less, in  a feeling  natural  and  honourable  to  the  human 
mind,  viz.  the  pleasure  which  it  receives  from  distinct 
ideas,  and  from  the  perception  of  order,  regularity,  and 
contrivance.  Now,  unpractised  minds  receive  these  | 
impressions  only  from  objects  that  are  divided  from 
each  other  by  strong  lines  of  demarcation  ; hence  the 
delight  with  which  such  minds  are  smitten  by  formality 
and  harsh  contrast.  But  I would  beg  of  those  who 
are  eager  to  create  the  means  of  such  gratification, 
first  carefully  to  study  what  already  exists;  and  they 
will  find,  in  a country  so  lavishly  gifted  by  nature,  an 
abundant  variety  of  forms  marked  out  with  a precision 
that  will  satisfy  their  desires.  Moreover,  a new  habit  ' 
of  pleasure  will  be  formed  opposite  to  thi.s,  arising  out  i 
of  the  perception  of  the  fine  gradations  by  which  in 
nature  one  thing  passes  away  into  another,  and  the 
boundaries  that  constitute  individuality,  disappear  in 
one  instance,  only  to  be  revived  elsewhere  under  a 
more  alluring  form.  The  hill  of  Dunmallet,  at  the 
foot  of  Ulswater,  was  once  divided  into  different  por- 


tions, by  avenues  of  fir-trees,  with  a green  and  almost 
perpendicular  lane  descending  down  the  steep  hill 
through  each  avenue ; — contrast  this  quaint  appearance 
j with  the  image  of  the  same  hill  overgrown  with  self- 
planted  wood, — each  tree  springing  up  in  the  situation 
I best  suited  to  its  kind,  and  with  that  shape  which 
I the  situation  constrained  or  suffered  it  to  take.  What 
endless  melting  and  playing  into  each  other  of  forms 
and  colours  does  the  one  offer  to  a mind  at  once  atten- 
tive and  active;  and  how  insipid  and  lifeless,  compared 
with  it,  appear  those  parts  of  the  former  exhibition 
w'ith  which  a child,  a peasant  perhaps,  or  a citizen 
unfamiliar  with  natural  imagery,  would  have  been  most 
delighted ! 

I cannot,  however,  omit  observing,  that  the  disfigure- 
ment which  this  country  has  undergone,  has  not  pro- 
ceeded  wholly  from  those  common  feelings  of  human 
j nature  which  have  been  referred  to  as  the  primary 
sources  of  bad  taste  in  rural  scenery ; another  cause 
must  be  added,  which  has  chiefly  shown  itself  in  its 
effect  upon  buildings.  I mean  a warping  of  the 
natural  mind  occasioned  by  a consciousness  that,  this 
country  being  an  object  of  general  admiration,  every 
new  house  would  be  looked  at  and  commented  upon 
either  for  approbation  or  censure.  Hence  all  the 
deformity  and  ungracefulness  that  ever  pursue  the  steps 
of  constraint  or  affectation.  Men,  who  in  Leicester- 
shire or  Northamptonshire  would  probably  have  built  a 
modest  dwelling  like  those  of  their  sensible  neighbours, 
have  been  turned  out  of  their  course;  and,  acting  a 
part,  no  wonder  if,  having  had  little  experience,  they 
act  it  ill.  The  craving  for  prospect  also,  which  is  im- 
moderate, particularly  in  new  settlers,  has  rendered  it 
impossible  that  buildings,  whatever  might  have  been 
their  architecture,  should  in  most  instances  be  orna- 
mental to  the  landscape;  rising  as  they  do  from  the 
summits  of  naked  hills  in  staring  contrast  to  the  snug- 
ness and  privacy  of  the  ancient  houses. 

No  man  is  to  be  condemned  for  a desire  to  decorate 
his  residence  and  possessions;  feeling  a disposition  to 
applaud  such  an  endeavour,  I would  show  how  the  end 
maybe  best  attained.  The  rule  is  simple;  with  re- 
spect to  grounds — work,  where  you  can,  in  the  spirit 
of  nature  with  an  invisible  hand  of  art.  Plantinir,  and 
a removal  of  wood,  may  thus  and  thus  only  be  carried 
on  with  good  effect;  and  the  like  may  be  said  of 
building,  if  Antiquity,  who  may  be  styled  the  co-part- 
ner and  sister  of  Nature,  be  not  denied  the  respect  to 
which  she  is  entitled.  I have  already  spoken  of  the 
beautiful  forms  of  the  ancient  mansions  of  this  country, 
and  of  the  happy  manner  in  which  they  harmonise  with 
the  forms  of  nature.  Why  cannot  these  be  taken  as  a 
model,  and  modern  internal  convenience  be  confined 
within  their  external  grace  and  dignity  1 Expense  to 
be  avoided,  or  difficulties  to  be  overcome,  may  prevent 
a close  adherence  to  this  model;  still,  however,  it 
might  be  followed  to  a certain  degree  in  the  style  of 


692 


APPENDIX. 


architecture  and  in  the  choice  of  situation,  if  the  thirst 
for  prospect  were  mitigated  by  those  considerations  of 
comfort,  shelter,  and  convenience,  which  used  to  be 
chiefly  sought  after.  But,  should  an  aversion'  to  old 
fashions  unfortunately  exist,  accompanied  with  a desire 
to  transplant  into  the  cold  and  stormy  North,  the  ele- 
gancies of  a villa  formed  upon  a model  taken  from 
countries  with  a milder  climate,  I will  adduce  a pas- 
sage from  an  English  poet,  the  divine  Spenser,  which 
will  show  in  what  manner  such  a plan  may  be  realised 
without  injury  to  the  native  beauty  of  these  scenes. 

“ Into  that  forest  farre  tliey  thence  him  led, 

Wliere  was  their  dwelling  in  a pleasant  glade 
With  .MOU.NTAINS  round  about  environed, 

And  MIGHTY  WOODS  which  did  the  valley  shade 
And  like  a stately  theatre  it  made, 

Spreading  itself  into  a spacious  plaine; 

And  in  the  midst  a little  river  plaide 

Emongst  the  pumy  stones  which  seem'd  to  ’plaine 

With  gentle  murmure  that  his  course  they  did  restraine. 

Beside  the  same  a dainty  place  there  lay. 

Planted  with  rairtle  trees  and  laurels  green. 

In  which  the  birds  sang  many  a lovely  lay 
Of  God’s  high  praise,  and  of  their  sweet  loves  teene. 

As  it  an  earthly  paradise  had  beene  ; 

In  whose  enclosed  shadow  there  was  pight 
A fair  pavilion,  scarcely  to  be  seen, 

The  which  was  all  within  most  richly  dight. 

That  greatest  princes  living  it  mote  well  delight.” 

Houses  or  mansions  suited  to  a mountainous  region, 
should  be  “not  obvious,  nor  obtrusive,  but  retired;” 
and  the  reasons  for  this  rule,  though  they  have  been 
little  adverted  to,  are  evident.  Mountainous  coun- 
tries, more  frequently  and  forcibly  than  others,  remind 
us  of  the  power  of  the  elements,  as  manifested  in  winds, 
snows,  and  torrents,  and  accordingly  make  the  notion 
of  exposure  very  unpleasing;  while  shelter  and  comfort 
are  in  proportion  necessary  and  acceptable.  Far-wind- 
ing valleys  difficult  of  access,  and  the  feelings  of  sim- 
plicity habitually  connected  with  mountain  retire- 
ments, prompt  us  to  turn  from  ostentation  as  a thing 
there  eminently  unnatural  and  out  of  place.  A man- 
sion, amid  such  scenes,  can  never  have  sufficient  dig- 
nity or  interest  to  become  principal  in  the  landscape, 
and  render  the  mountains,  lakes,  or  torrents  by  which 
it  may  be  surrounded,  a subordinate  part  of  the  view. 
It  is,  I grant,  easy  to  conceive,  that  an  ancient  castel- 
lated building,  hanging  over  a precipice  or  raised  upon 
an  island,  or  the  peninsula  of  a lake,  like  that  of  Kil- 
churn  Castle,  upon  Loch  Awe,  may  not  want,  whether 
deserted  or  inhabited,  sufficient  majesty  to  preside  for 
a moment  in  the  spectator’s  thoughts  over  the  high 
mountains  among  which  it  is  embosomed ; but  its  titles 
are  from  antiquity — a power  readily  submitted  to  upon 
occasion  as  the  vicegerent  of  Nature : it  is  respected, 
as  having  ow'ed  its  existence  to  the  necessities  of  things, 
as  a monument  of  security  in  times  of  disturbance  and 


danger  long  passed-away, — as  a record  of  the  pomp 
and  violence  of  passion,  and  a symbol  of  the  wisdom 
of  law; — it  bears  a countenance  of  authority,  which  is 
not  impaired  by  decay. 

“ Child  of  loud-throated  war,  the  mountain-stream 
Roars  in  thy  hearing;  but  thy  hour  of  rest 
Is  come,  and  thou  art  silent  in  thy  age  !” MS. 


I 


I 


To  such  honours  a modern  edifice  can  lay  no  claim; 
and  the  puny  efibrts  of  elegance  appear  contemptible, 
when,  in  such  situations,  they  are  obtruded  in  rival- 
ship  with  the  sublimities  of  Nature.  But,  towards  the 
verge  of  a district  like  this  of  which  we  are  treating, 
where  the  mountains  subside  into  hills  of  moderate 
elevation,  or  in  an  undulating  or  flat  country,  a gen- 
tleman’s mansion  may,  with  propriety,  become  a prin- 
cipal feature  in  the  landscape;  and,  itself  being  a work 
of  art,  works  and  traces  of  artificial  ornament  may, 
without  censure,  be  extended  around  it,  as  they  will  be 
referred  to  the  common  centre,  the  house ; the  right 
of  which  to  impress  within  certain  limits  a character 
of  obvious  ornament  will  not  be  denied,  where  no  com- 
manding forms  of  nature  dispute  it,  or  set  it  aside. 
Now,  to  a want  of  the  perception  of  this  dificrence, 
and  to  the  causes  before  assigned,  may  chiefly  be  at- 
tributed the  disfigurement  which  the  Country  of  the 
Lakes  has  undergone,  from  persons  who  may  have  built, 
demolished,  and  planted,  with  full  confidence,  that 
every  change  and  addition  was  or  would  become  an 
improvement. 

The  principle  that  ought  to  determine  the  position, 
apparent  size,  and  architecture  of  a house,  viz.  that  it 
should  be  so  constructed,  and  (if  large)  so  much  of  it 
hidden,  as  to  admit  of  its  being  gently  incorporated 
into  the  scenery  of  nature — should  also  determine  its 
colour.  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  used  to  say,  “if  you 
would  fix  upon  the  best  colour  for  your  house,  tu?n  up 
a stone,  or  pluck  up  a handful  of  grass  by  the  roots,  and 
see  what  is  the  colour  of  the  soil  where  the  house  is  to 
stand,  and  let  that  be  your  choice.”  Of  course,  this 
precept,  given  in  conversation,  could  not  have  been 
meant  to  be  taken  literally.  For  example,  in  Low 
Furness,  whore  the  soil,  from  its  strong  impregnation 
with  iron,  is  universally  of  a deep  red,  if  this  rule  were 
strictly  followed,  the  house  also  must  be  of  a glaring 
red ; in  other  places  it  must  be  of  a sullen  black ; which 
\yould  only  be  adding  annoyance  to  annoyance.  The 
rule,  however,  as  a general  guide,  is  good  ; and,  in 
agricultural  districts,  w’hcre  large  tracts  of  soil  are 
laid  bare  by  the  plough,  particularly  if  (the  face  of  the 
country  being  undulating)  they  are  held  up  to  view, 
this  rule,  though  not  to  be  im|dicitly  adhered  to, 
should  never  be  lost  sight  of; — the  colour  of  the  house 
ought,  if  jwssible,  to  have  a cast  or  shade  of  the  colour 
of  the  soil.  The  principle  is,  that  the  house  must  har 
monise  with  the  surrounding  landscape:  accordingly 
in  mountainous  countries,  with  still  more  confidence 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G03 


may  it  be  said,  “ look  at  the  rocks  and  those  parts  of 
the  mountains  where  the  soil  is  visible,  and  they  will 
furnish  a safe  direction.”  Nevertheless,  it  w’ill  often 
happen  that  the  rocks  may  bear  so  large  a proportion 
to  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  and  may  be  of  such  a tone 
of  colour,  that  the  rule  may  not  admit  even  here  of 
being  implicitly  followed.  For  instance,  the  chief  de- 
fect in  the  colouring  of  the  Country  of  the  Lakes, 
(which  is  most  strongly  felt  in  the  summer  season)  is 
an  over-prevalence  of  a bluish  tint,  vvhicli  the  green 
of  the  herbage,  the  fern,  and  the  woods,  does  not  suffi- 
ciently counteract.  If  a house,  therefore,  should  stand 
where  this  defect  prevails,  I have  no  hesitation  in  say- 
ing, that  the  colour  of  the  neighbouring  rocks  would 
not  be  the  best  that  could  be  chosen.  A tint  ought  to 
be  introduced  approaching  nearer  to  those  which,  in 
the  technical  language  of  painters,  are  called  warm: 
this,  if  happily  selected,  would  not  disturb  but  would 
animate  llie  landscape.  How  often  do  we  see  this 
e.xemplified  u|x>n  a small  scale  by  the  native  cottages, 
in  cases  where  the  glare  of  white-wash  has  been  sub- 
dued by  time  and  enriched  by  weatlier-stains ! No 
hai-shness  is  then  seen ; but  one  of  these  cottages,  thus 
coloured,  will  often  form  a central  point  to  a landscape 
by  which  the  whole  shall  be  connected,  and  an  influence 
of  pleasure  diffused  over  all  the  objects  that  compose 
the  picture.  But  where  the  cold  blue  tint  of  the  rocks 
is  enriched  by  the  iron  tinge,  the  colour  cannot  be  too 
closely  imitated  ; and  it  will  be  produced  of  itself  by 
the  stones  hewn  from  the  adjoining  quarry,  and  by  the 
mortar,  which  may  be  tempered  with  the  most  gravelly 
part  of  the  soil.  The  pure  blue  gravel,  from  the  bed 
of  the  river,  is,  however,  more  suitable  to  the  mason’s 
purpose,  who  will  probably  insist  also  that  the  house 
must  be  covered  with  rough-cast,  otherwise  it  cannot 
be  kept  dry;  if  this  advice  be  taken,  the  builder  of 
taste  will  set  about  contriving  such  means  as  may  en- 
able him  to  come  the  nearest  to  the  effect  aimed  at. 

The  supposed  necessity  of  rough-cast  to  keep  out 
rain  in  houses  not  built  of  hewn  stone  or  brick,  has 
tended  greatly  to  injure  English  landscape,  and  the 
neighbourhood  of  these  Lakes  especially,  by  furnish- 
ing such  apt  occasion  for  whitening  buildings.  That 
white  should  be  a favourite  colour  for  rural  residences 
is  natural  for  many  reasons.  The  mere  aspect  of  clean- 
liness and  neatness  thus  given,  not  only  to  an  individu- 
al house,  but,  where  the  practice  is  general,  to  the 
whole  face  of  the  country,  produces  moral  associations 
so  powerful,  that,  in  the  minds  of  many,  they  take  place 
of  every  other  relating  to  such  objects.  But  what  has 
already  been  said  upon  the  subject  of  cottages,  must 
have  convinced  men  of  feeling  and  imagination,  that 
a human  habitation  of  the  humblest  class  may  be  ren- 
dered more  deeply  interesting  to  the  affections,  and  far 
more  pleasing  to  the  eye,  by  other  influences  than  a 
sprightly  tone  of  colour  spread  over  its  outside,  I do 
not,  however,  mean  to  deny,  that  a small  white  build- 


ing, embowered  in  trees,  may,  in  some  situations,  be 
a delightful  and  animating  object — in  no  way  injurious 
to  the  landscape  ; but  this  only,  where  it  sparkles  from 
the  midst  of  a thick  shade,  and  in  rare  and  solitary  in- 
stances; especially  if  the  country  be  itself  rich,  and 
pleasing,  and  full  of  grand  forms.  On  the  sides  of 
bleak  and  desolate  moors,  we  are  indeed  thankful  for 
the  sight  of  white  cottages  and  white  houses  plentifully 
scattered,  where,  witliout  these,  perhaps  every  thing 
would  be  cheerless:  this  is  said,  however,  with  hesita- 
tion, and  with  a wilful  sacrifice  of  some  higlier  enjoy- 
ments. But  I have  certainly  seen  such  buildings  glit- 
tering at  sunrise,  and  in  wandering  lights,  with  no 
common  pleasure.  The  continental  traveller  also  will 
remember,  that  the  convents  hanging  from  the  rocks 
of  the  Rhine,  the  Rhone,  the  Danube,  or  among  the 
Appenines  or  the  mountains  of  Spain,  are  not  looked 
at  with  less  complacency  when,  as  is  often  the  case, 
they  happen  to  be  of  a brilliant  white.  But  this  is 
perhaps  owing,  in  no  small  degree,  to  the  contrast  of 
that  lively  colour  with  the  gloom  of  monastic  life,  and 
to  the  general  want  of  rural  residences  of  smiling  and 
attractive  appearance,  in  those  countries. 

The  objections  to  white,  as  a colour,  in  large  spots 
or  masses  in  landscapes,  especially  in  a mountainous 
country,  are  insurmountable.  In  nature,  pure  white  is 
scarcely  ever  found  but  in  small  objects,  such  as 
flowers;  or  in  those  which  are  transitory,  as  the  clouds, 
foam  of  rivers,  and  snow.  Mr.  Gilpin,  who  notices 
this,  has  also  recorded  the  just  remark  of  Mr.  Locke, 
of  N , that  white  destroys  the  gradations  of  dis- 

tance ; and,  therefore,  an  object  of  pure  white  can 
scarcely  ever  be  managed  with  good  effect  in  landscape- 
painting. Five  or  six  white  houses,  scattered  over  a 
valley,  by  their  obtrusiveness,  dot  the  surface,  and  di- 
vide it  into  triangles,  or  other  mathematical  figures, 
haunting  the  eye,  and  disturbing  that  repose  which 
might  otherwise  be  perfect.  I have  seen  a single 
white  house  materially  impair  the  majesty  of  a moun- 
tain ; cutting  away,  by  a harsh  separation,  the  whole 
of  its  base,  below  the  point  on  which  the  house  stood. 
Thus  w’as  the  apparent  size  of  the  mountain  reduced, 
not  by  the  interposition  of  another  object  in  a manner 
to  call  forth  the  imagination,  w'hich  will  give  more  than 
the  eye  loses;  but  what  had  been  abstracted  in  this 
case  was  left  visible;  and  the  mountain  appeared  to 
take  its  beginning,  or  to  ri.se  from  the  line  of  the  house, 
instead  of  its  own  natural  base.  But,  if  I may  e.xpress 
my  own  individual  feeling,  it  is  after  sunset,  at  the 
coming  on  of  twilight,  that  white  objects  are  most  to 
be  complained  of.  The  solemnity  and  quietness  of  na- 
ture at  that  time  are  always  marred,  and  often  destroy 
ed  by  them.  When  the  ground  is  covered  w'ith  snow', 
they  are  of  course  inoffensive;  and  in  moonshine  they 
are  always  pleasing — it  is  a tone  of  light  with  which 
they  accord;  and  the  dimness  of  the  scene  is  enlivened 
by  an  object  at  once  conspicuous  and  cheerful.  I will 


C94 


APPENDIX. 


conclude  this  subject  with  noticing,  that  the  cold,  sla- 
ty colour,  which  many  persons,  who  have  heard  the 
white  condemned,  have  adopted  in  its  stead,  must  be 
disapproved  of  for  the  reason  already  given.  The  fla- 
ring yellow  runs  into  the  opposite  extreme,  and  is  still 
more  censurable.  Upon  the  whole,  the  safest  colour, 
for  general  use,  is  something  between  a cream  and  a 
dust-colour,  commonly  called  stone-colour; — there  are, 
among  the  Lakes,  examples  of  this  that  need  not  be 
pointed  out. 

The  principle  taken  as  our  guide,  viz.  that  the  house 
should  be  so  formed,  and  of  such  apparent  size  and 
colour,  as  to  admit  of  its  being  gently  incorporated  with 
the  scenery  of  nature,  should  also  be  applied  to  the 
management  of  the  grounds  and  plantations,  and  is 
here  more  urgently  needed ; for  it  is  from  abuses  in  this 
department,  far  more  even  than  from  the  introduction 
of  exotics  in  architecture  (if  the  phrase  may  be  used) 
that  this  country  has  suffered.  Larch  and  fir  plant- 
ations have  been  spread  every  where,  not  merely  with  a 
view  to  profit,  but  in  many  instances  for  the  sake 
of  ornament.  To  those  who  plant  for  profit,  and  are 
thrusting  every  other  tree  out  of  the  way  to  make  room 
for  their  favourite,  the  larch,  I would  utter  first  a regret 
that  they  should  have  selected  these  lovely  vales  for 
their  vegetable  manufactory,  when  there  is  so  much 
barren  and  irreclaimable  land  in  the  neighbouring  moors, 
and  in  other  parts  of  the  Island,  which  might  have  been 
had  for  this  purpose  at  a far  cheaper  rate.  And  I 
will  also  beg  leave  to  represent  to  them,  that  they  ought 
not  to  be  carried  away  by  flattering  promises  from  the 
speedy  growth  of  this  tree;  because,  in  rich  soils  and 
sheltered  situations,  the  wood,  though  it  thrives  fast,  is 
full  of  sap,  and  of  little  value  ; and  is,  likewise,  very 
subject  to  ravage  from  the  attacks  of  insects,  and  from 
blight.  Accordingly,  in  Scotland,  where  planting  is 
much  better  understood,  and  carried  on  upon  an  in- 
comparably larger  scale  than  among  us,  good  soil  and 
sheltered  situations  are  appropriated  to  the  oak,  the 
asli,  and  other  deciduous  trees ; and  the  larch  is  now 
generally  confined  to  barren  and  exposed  ground.  There 
the  plant,  which  is  a hardy  one,  is  of  slower  growth  ; 
much  less  liable  to  injury;  and  the  timber  is  of  better 
quality.  But  there  are  many,  whose  circumstances 
permit  them,  and  whose  taste  leads  them,  to  plant  with 
little  regard  to  profit;  and  others,  less  wealthy,  who 
have  such  a lively  feeling  of  the  native  beauty  of  these 
scenes,  that  they  are  laudably  not  unwilling  to  make 
some  sacrifices  to  heighten  it.  Both  these  classes  of 
persons,  I would  entreat  to  enquire  of  themselves 
W'herein  that  beauty  which  they  admire  consists.  They 
would  then  see  that,  after  the  feeling  has  been  gratified 
that  prompts  us  to  gather  round  our  dwelling  a few 
flowers  and  shrubs,  which,  from  the  circumstance  of 
their  not  being  native,  may,  by  their  very  looks,  re- 
mind us  that  they  owe  their  existence  to  our  hands, 
and  their  prosperity  to  our  care ; they  will  see  that,  after 


this  natural  desire  has  been  provided  for,  the  course  of 
all  beyond  has  been  predetermined  by  the  spirit  of  the 
place.  Before  I proceed  with  this  subject,  I will  pre- 
pare my  way  with  a remark  of  general  application, 
by  reminding  tliose  who  are  not  satisfied  with  the 
restraint  thus  laid  upon  them,  that  they  are  liable  to  a 
charge  of  inconsistency,  when  they  are  so  eager  to 
change  the  face  of  that  country,  whose  native  attrac- 
tions, by  the  act  of  erecting  their  habitations  in  it,  they 
have  so  emphatically  acknowledged.  And  surely  there 
is  not  in  this  country  a single  spot  that  would  not  have, 
if  well  managed,  sufficient  dignity  to  support  itself, 
unaided  by  the  productions  of  other  climates,  or  by 
elaborate  decorations  which  might  be  becoming  else- 
where. 

But  to  return; — having  adverted  to  the  considerations 
that  justify  the  introduction  of  a few  exotic  plants,  pro- 
vided they  be  confined  almost  to  the  doors  of  the  house, 
we  may  add,  that  a transition  should  be  contrived  with- 
out abruptness,  from  these  foreigners  to  the  rest  of  the 
shrubs,  which  ought  to  be  of  the  kinds  scattered  by 
Nature  through  the  woods  — holly,  broom,  wild-rose, 
elder,  dogberry,  white  and  black  thorn,  &-c.  either 
these  only,  or  such  as  are  carefully  selected  in  conse- 
quence of  their  uniting  in  form,  and  harmonising  in 
colour  with  them,  especially  with  respect  to  colour, 
when  the  tints  are  most  diversified,  as  in  autumn  and 
spring.  The  various  sorts  of  fruit-and-blossom-bearing 
trees  usually  found  in  orchards,  to  which  may  be  added 
those  of  the  woods, — namely,  the  wilding,  black  cherry 
tree,  and  wild  cluster-cherry  (here  called  heck-berry), 
may  be  happily  admitted  as  an  intermediate  link  between 
the  shrubs  and  the  forest  trees ; which  last  ought  almost 
entirely  to  be  such  as  are  natives  of  the  country.  Of 
the  birch,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  native  trees, 
it  may  be  noticed,  that,  in  dry  and  rocky  situations,  it 
outstrips  even  the  larch,  which  many  persons  are  tempt 
ed  to  plant  merely  on  account  of  the  speed  of  its  growth. 
Sycamore,  and  the  Scotch  fir  (which,  when  it  has  room 
to  spread  out  its  arms,  is  a noble  tree)  may  be  placed 
with  advantage  near  the  house;  for,  from  their  mas- 
siveness, they  unite  well  with  buildings,  and  in  some 
situations  with  rocks  also;  having,  in  their  forms  and 
apparent  substances,  the  effect  of  something  interme- 
diate betwixt  the  immoveableness  and  solidity  of  stone, 
and  the  sprays  and  foliage  of  the  lighter  trees.  If  those 
general  rules  be  just,  what  shall  we  say  to  whole  acres 
of  artificial  shrubbery  and  exotic  trees  among  rocks  and 
dashing  torrents,  with  their  own  wild  wood  in  sight — 
where  we  have  the  whole  contents  of  the  nurseryman’s 
catalogue  jumbled  together — colour  at  war  with  colour, 
and  form  with  form — among  the  most  peaceful  subjects 
of  Nature's  kingdom  every  where  disconl,  distraction, 
and  bewilderment ! But  this  deformity,  bad  as  it  is,  is 
not  so  obtrusive  as  the  small  patches  and  large  tracts 
of  larch  plantations  that  are  over-running  the  hill-sides. 
I To  justify  our  condemnation  of  these,  let  us  again  re- 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


G95 


cur  to  Nature.  The  process,  by  which  she  forms  woods 
and  forests,  is  as  follows.  Seeds  are  scattered  indis- 
criminately by  winds,  brought  by  waters,  and  dropped  , 
by  birds.  They  perish,  or  produce,  according  as  the  ' 
soil  upon  which  they  fall  is  suited  to  them ; and  under 
the  same  dependence,  the  seedling  or  sucker,  if  not  crop- 
ped by  animals,  thrives,  and  the  tree  grows,  sometimes 
single,  taking  its  own  shape  without  constraint,  but  for 
the  most  part  being  compelled  to  conform  itself  to  some 
law  imposed  upon  it  by  its  neighbours.  From  low  and 
sheltered  places,  vegetation  travels  upwards  to  the  more 
exposed  ; and  the  young  plants  are  protected,  and  to  a 
certain  degree  fashioned,  by  those  that  have  preceded 
them.  The  continuous  mass  of  foliage  which  would  be 
thus  produced,  is  broken  by  rocks,  or  by  glades  or  open 
places,  where  the  browzing  of  animals  has  prevented 
the  growth  of  wood.  As  vegetation  ascends,  the  winds 
begin  also  to  bear  their  part  in  moulding  the  forms  of 
the  trees ; but,  thus  mutually  protected,  trees,  though 
not  of  the  hardiest  kind,  are  enabled  to  climb  high  up 
the  mountains.  Gradually,  however,  by  the  quality  of 
the  ground,  and  by  increasing  exposure,  a stop  is  put  to 
their  ascent;  the  hardy  trees  only  are  left;  these  also, 
by  little  and  little,  give  way, — and  a wild  and  irregular 
boundary  is  established,  graceful  in  its  outline,  and 
never  contemplated  without  some  feeling  more  or 
less  distinct  of  the  powers  of  nature  by  which  it  is 
imposed. 

Contrast  the  liberty  that  encourages,  and  the  law  that 
limits,  this  joint  work  of  nature  and  time,  with  the  dis- 
heartening necessities,  restrictions,  and  disadvantages, 
under  which  the  artificial  planter  must  proceed,  even  he 
whom  long  observation  and  fine  feeling  have  best  quali- 
fied for  his  task.  In  the  first  place  hie  trees,  however 
well  chosen  and  adapted  to  their  several  situations,  must 
generally  all  start  at  the  same  time;  and  this  circum- 
stance would  of  itself  prevent  that  fine  connection  of 
parts,  that  sympathy  and  organizatiou,  if  I may  so  ex- 
press myself,  which  pervades  the  whole  of  a natural 
wood,  and  appears  to  the  eye  in  its  single  trees,  its 
masses  of  foliage,  and  their  various  colours  when  they 
are  held  up  to  view  on  the  side  of  a mountain;  or 
when  spread  over  a valley,  they  are  looked  down  upon 
from  an  eminence.  It  is  then  impossible,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, for  the  artificial  planter  to  rival  the  beauty 
of  nature.  But  a moment’s  thought  will  show  that,  if 
ten  thousand  of  this  spiky  tree,  the  larch,  are  stuck  in 
at  once  upon  the  side  of  a hill,  they  can  grow  up  into 
nothing  but  deformity;  that,  while  they  are  suffered 
to  stand,  we  shall  look  in  vain  for  any  of  those  appear- 
ances which  are  the  chief  sources  of  beauty  in  a natural 
wood. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that  the  larch,  till  it  has 
outgrown  the  size  of  a shrub,  shows,  wdien  looked  at 
singly,  some  elegance  in  its  form  and  appearance,  es- 
pecially in  spring,  decorated,  as  it  then  is,  by  the 
pink  tassels  of  its  blossoms;  but,  as  a tree,  it  is  less 


than  any  other  pleasing;  its  branches  (for  houghs  it  has 
none)  have  no  variety  in  the  youth  of  the  tree  ; and  little 
dignity  even  when  it  attains  its  full  growth ; leaves  it 
cannot  be  said  to  have,  consequently  neither  afl'crds 
shade  nor  shelter.  In  spring  it  becomes  green  long  be- 
fore the  native  trees;  and  its  green  is  so  peculiar  am 
vivid  that,  finding  nothing  to  harmonise  with  it, 
wherever  it  comes  forth,  a disagreeable  speck  is  pro- 
duced. In  summer,  when  all  other  trees  are  in  their 
pride,  it  is  of  a dingy  lifeless  hue  ; in  autumn  of  a spirit- 
less unvaried  yellow,  and  in  winter  it  is  still  more 
lamentably  distinguished  from  every  other  deciduous 
tree  of  the  forest,  for  they  seem  only  to  sleep,  but  the 
larch  appears  absolutely  dead.  If  an  attempt  be  made 
to  mingle  thickets,  or  a certain  proportion  of  other 
forest-trees,  with  the  larch,  its  horizontal  branches  in- 
tolerantly cut  them  down  as  with  a scythe,  or  force 
them  to  spindle  up  to  keep  pace  with  it.  The  spike, 
in  which  it  terminates,  renders  it  impossible,  when  it 
is  planted  in  numbers,  that  the  several  trees  should  ever 
blend  together  so  as  to  form  a mass  or  masses  of  wood. 
Add  thousands  to  tens  of  thousands,  and  the  appearance 
is  still  the  same — a collection  of  separate  individual 
trees,  obstinately  presenting  themselves  as  such  ; and 
which,  from  whatever  point  they  are  looked  at,  if  but 
seen,  may  be  counted  upon  the  fingers.  Sunshine,  or 
shadow,  has  little  power  to  adorn  the  surface  of  such 
a w'ood ; and  the  trees  not  carrying  up  their  heads,  the 
wind  raises  among  them  no  majestic  undulations.  It 
is  indeed  true,  that,  in  countries  where  the  larch  is  a 
native,  and  where  without  interruption  it  may  sweep 
from  valley  to  valley  and  from  hill  to  hill,  a sublime 
image  may  be  produced  by  such  a forest,  in  the  same 
manner  as  by  one  composed  of  any  other  single  tree, 
to  the  spreading  of  which  no  limits  can  be  assigned. 
For  sublimity  will  never  be  wanting,  where  the  sense 
of  innumerable  multitude  is  lost  in,  and  alternates  with, 
that  of  intense  unity  ; and  to  the  ready  perception 
of  this  effect,  similarity  and  almost  identity  of  indi- 
vidual form  and  monotony  of  colour  contribute.  But 
this  feeling  is  confined  to  the  native  immeasurable  for- 
est ; no  artificial  plantation  can  give  it. 

The  foregoing  observations  will,  I hope,  (as  nothing 
has  been  condemned  or  recommended  without  a suli- 
stantial  reason)  have  some  influence  upon  those  who 
plant  for  ornament  merely.  To  those  who  plant  for 
profit,  I have  already  spoken.  Let  me  then  entreat 
that  the  native  deciduous  trees  may  be  left  in  com- 
plete possession  of  the  lower  ground  ; and  that  plant- 
ations of  larch,  if  introduced  at  all,  may  be  confined 
to  the  highest  and  most  barren  tracts.  Interposition 
of  rocks  would  there  break  the  dreary  uniformity  of 
which  we  have  been  complaining;  and  the  winds  would 
take  hold  of  the  trees,  and  imprint  upon  their  shapes  a 
wildness  congenial  to  their  situation. 

Having  determined  what  kinds  of  trees  must  be  whol- 
ly rejected,  or  at  least  very  sparingly  used,  by  those 


696 


APPENDIX. 


who  are  unwilling  to  disfigure  the  country  ; and  having 
shown  what  kinds  ought  to  be  chosen  ; I should  have 
given,  ifl  had  not  already  overstepped  my  limits,  a few 
practical  rules  for  the  manner  in  which  trees  ought  to 
be  disposed  in  planting.  But  to  this  subject  I should 
attach  little  importance,  if  I could  succeed  in  banishing 
such  trees  as  introduce  deformity,  and  could  prevail 
upon  the  proprietor  to  confine  himself  either  to  those 
found  in  the  native  woods,  or  to  such  as  accord  with 
them.  This  is  indeed  the  main  point ; for,  much  as 
these  scenes  have  been  injured  by  what  has  been  taken 
from  them — buildings,  trees,  and  woods,  either  through 
negligence,  necessity,  avarice,  or  caprice  — it  is  not 
these  removals,  but  the  harsh  additions  that  have  been 
made,  which  are  the  w'orst  grievance  — a standing  and 
unavoidable  annoyance.  Often  have  I felt  this  distinc- 
tion with  mingled  satisfaction  and  regret ; for,  if  no  po- 
sitive deformity  or  discordance  be  substituted  or  super- 
induced, such  is  the  benignity  of  nature  that,  take 
away  from  her  beauty  after  beauty,  and  ornament  after 
ornament,  her  appearance  cannot  be  marred;  — the 
scars,  if  any  be  left,  will  gradually  disappear  before  a 
healing  spirit;  and  what  remains  will  still  be  soothing 
and  pleasing. — 


“ Many  hearts  deplored 
The  fate  of  those  old  trees ; and  oft  with  pain 
The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 
On  wrongs  which  nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed: 
For  sheltered  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures  yet  remain.” 


There  are  few  ancient  woods  left  in  this  part  of  Eng- 
land upon  which  such  indiscriminate  ravage  as  is  here 
“deplored”  could  now  be  committed.  But,  out  of  the 
numerous  copses,  fine  woods  might  in  time  be  raised, 
probably  without  any  sacrifice  of  profit,  by  leaving,  at 
the  periodical  fellings,  a due  proportion  of  the  healthiest 
trees  to  grow  up  into  timber.  — This  plan  ha.s  fortu- 
nately, in  many  instances,  been  adopted  ; and  they, 
who  have  set  the  e,xample,  are  entitled  to  the  thanks 
of  all  persons  of  taste.  As  to  the  management  of 
planting  with  reasonable  attention  to  ornament,  let  the 
images  of  nature  be  your  guide,  and  the  whole  secret 
lurks  in  a few  words;  thickets  or  underw’oods — single 
trees  — trees  clustered  or  in  groii|>s  — groves  — un- 
broken woods,  but  with  varied  masses  of  foliage  — 
glades — invisible  or  winding  boundaries — in  rocky 
districts,  a seemly  proportion  of  rock  left  whollj'  bare, 
and  other  parts  half  hidden — disagreeable  objects  con- 
cealed, and  formal  lines  broken — trees  climbing  up  to 
he  horizon,  and  in  some  places  ascending  from  its  sharp 
edge  in  which  they  are  rooted,  with  the  whole  body  of 
the  tree  appearing  to  stand  in  the  clear  sky — in  other 
parts  woods  surmounted  by  rocks  utterly  bare  and  na- 
ked, which  add  to  the  sense  of  height  as  if  vegetation 
could  not  thither  be  carried,  and  impress  a feeling  of 
duration,  power  of  resistance,  and  security  from  change  ! ^ 


I have  been  induced  to  speak  thus  at  length  with  a 
wish  to  preserve  the  native  beauty  of  this  delightful  dis- 
trict, because  still  farther  changes  in  its  appearance 
must  inevitably  follow,  from  the  change  of  inhabitants 
and  owners  which  is  rapidly  taking  place. — .■\bout  the 
same  time  that  strangers  began  to  be  attracted  to  the 
country,  and  to  feel  a wish  to  settle  in  it,  the  difficulty, 
that  would  have  stood  in  the  way  of  their  procuring 
situations,  was  lessoned  by  an  unfortunate  alteration  in 
the  circumstances  of  the  native  peasantry,  proceeding 
from  a cause  which  then  began  to  operate,  and  is  now 
felt  in  every  house.  The  family  of  each  man,  whether 
estatesman  or  farmer,  formerly  had  a twofold  support ; 
first,  the  produce  of  his  lands  and  flocks;  and  secondly, 
the  profit  drawn  from  the  employment  of  the  women 
and  children,  as  manufacturers;  spinning  their  own 
wool  in  their  own  houses,  (work  chiefly  done  in  the 
winter  season,)  and  carrying  it  to  market  for  sale. 
Hence,  however  numerous  the  children,  the  income  of 
the  family  kept  pace  with  its  increase.  But,  by  the 
invention  and  universal  application  of  machinery,  this 
second  resource  has  been  wholly  cut  off;  the  gains 
being  so  far  reduced,  as  not  to  be  sought  after  but  by 
a few  aged  persons  disabled  from  other  employment. 
Doubtless,  the  invention  of  machinery  has  not  been  to 
these  people  a pure  loss ; for  the  profits  arising  from 
home-manufactures  operated  as  a strong  temptation 
to  choose  that  mode  of  labour  in  neglect  of  husbandry. 
They  also  participate  in  the  general  benefit  which  the 
island  has  derived  from  the  increased  value  of  the  pro- 
duce of  land,  brought  about  by  the  establishment  of 
manufactories,  and  in  the  consequent  quickening  of 
agricultural  industry.  But  this  is  far  from  making  them 
amends:  and  now  that  home-manufactures  are  nearly 
done  away,  though  the  men  and  children  might  at  many 
seasons  of  the  year  employ  themseh'es  with  advantage 
in  the  fields  beyond  what  they  are  accustomc-d  to  do, 
yet  still  all  possible  e.xertion  in  this  way  cannot  be  ra- 
tionally expected  from  persons  whose  anriculfural 
knowledge  is  so  confined,  and  above  all  where  there 
must  necessarily  be  so  small  a capital.  The  conse- 
quence, then,  is — that,  farmers  being  no  longer  able  to 
maintain  themselves  upon  small  farms,  several  are  uni- 
ted in  one,  and  the  buildings  go  to  decay,  or  are  de- 
stroyed: and  that  the  lands  of  the  estatesmen  being 
mortgaged  and  the  owners  constrained  to  part  with 
them,  they  fall  into  the  hands  of  wealthy  purchasers, 
who  in  like  manner  unite  and  consolidate ; and,  if  they 
wish  to  become  residents,  erect  new  mansions  out  of 
the  ruins  of  the  ancient  cottages,  whose  little  enclo- 
sures, with  all  the  wild  graces  tl)at  grew  out  of  them, 
disappear.  The  feudal  tenure  under  whicli  the  estates 
are  held  has  indeed  done  something  towards  checking 
this  influx  of  new-settlers ; but  so  strong  is  the  incli- 
nation that  these  galling  re.straints  are  endured ; and  it 
is  probable  that  in  a few  years  the  country  on  the  mar- 
gin of  the  Lflkes  will  fall  almost  entirely  into  the  pos 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


097 


sessio.n  of  Gentry,  either  strangers  or  natives.  It  is 
then  much  to  be  wished,  that  a better  taste  should 
prevail  among  these  new  proprietors;  and,  as  they 
cannot  be  expected  to  leave  tilings  to  themselves,  that 
skill  and  knowledge  should  prevent  unnecessary  devi- 
ations from  that  path  of  simplicity  and  beauty  along 
which,  without  design  and  unconsciously,  tlieir  humble 
predecessors  have  moved.  In  this  wish  the  author 
will  be  joined  by  persons  of  pure  taste  throughout 
the  whole  Island,  who,  by  their  visits  (often  repeated) 
to  the  Lakes  in  the  North  of  England,  testify  that  they 
deem  the  district  a sort  of  national  property,  in  which 
every  man  has  a right  and  interest  who  has  an  eye  to 
perceive  and  a heart  to  enjoy. 


A FEW  w'ords  may  not  improperly  be  annexed,  with 
an  especial  view  to  promote  the  enjoyment  of  the  Tour- 
ist. And  first,  in  respect  to  the  Time  when  this  Coun- 
try can  be  seen  to  most  advantage.  Mr.  W'est,  in  his 
well-known  Guide  to  the  Lakes,  recommends  the  inter- 
val from  the  beginning  of  June  to  the  end  of  August; 
and,  the  two  latter  months  being  a season  of  vacation 
and  leisure,  it  is  almost  exclusively  in  these  that  stran- 
gers visit  the  Country.  But  that  season  is  by  no  means 
the  best;  there  is  a want  of  variety  in  the  colouring  of 
the  mountains  and  woods ; which,  unless  where  they 
are  diversified  by  rocks,  are  of  a monotonous  green ; 
and,  as  a large  portion  of  the  Valleys  is  allotted  to  hay- 
grass,  a want  of  variety  is  found  there  also.  The  mea- 
dows, however,  are  sufficiently  enlivened  after  hay- 
making begins,  which  is  much  later  than  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  Island.  A stronger  objection  is  rainy 
weather,  setting  in  often  at  this  period  with  a vigour, 
and  continuing  with  a perseverance,  that  may  remind 
the  disappointed  and  dejected  traveller  of  those  delu- 
ges of  rain,  which  fall  among  the  Abyssinian  Mountains 
for  the  annual  supply  of  the  Nile.  The  months  of  Sep- 
tember and  October  (particularly  October)  are  generally 
attended  with  much  finer  weather;  and  the  scenery 
is  then,  beyond  comparison,  more  diversified,  more 
splendid,  and  beautiful ; but,  on  the  other  hand,  short 
days  prevent  long  excursions,  and  sharp  and  chill  gales 
are  unfavourable  to  parties  of  pleasure  out  of  doors. 
Nevertheless,  to  the  sincere  admirer  of  Nature,  who  is 
in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  at  liberty  to  make  a 
choice,  the  six  weeks  following  the  1st  of  September 
maybe  recommended  in  preference  to  July  and  August. 
For  there  is  no  inconvenience  arising  from  the  season 
which,  to  such  a person,  would  not  be  amply  recom- 
pensed by  the  Autumnal  appearance  of  any  of  the 
more  retired  Valleys,  into  which  discordant  plantation 
and  unsuitable  buildings  have  not  yet  found  entrance. 
— In  such  spots,  at  this  season,  there  is  an  admirable 
compass  and  proportion  of  natural  harmony  in  form  and 
colour,  through  the  whole  scale  of  objects ; — in  the  ten- 


der green  of  the  after-grass  upon  the  meadows  inter- 
spersed with  islands  of  gray  or  mossy  rock  crowned  by 
shrubs  and  trees;  in  the  irregular  inclosures  of  standing 
corn  or  stubble-fields  in  like  manner  broken ; in  the 
mountain  sides  glowing  with  fern  of  divers  colours;  in 
the  calm  blue  Lakes  and  River-pools;  and  in  the  foli- 
age of  the  tree.®,  through  all  the  tints  of  Autumn,  from 
the  pale  and  brilliant  yellow  of  the  birch  and  ash,  to 
the  deep  greens  of  the  unfaded  oak  and  alder,  and  of 
the  ivy  upon  the  rocks,  upon  the  trees,  and  the  cottages. 
Yet,  as  most  travellers  are  either  stinted  or  stint  them- 
selves for  time,  I would  recommend  the  space  between 
the  middle  or  last  week  in  May  and  the  middle  or  last 
week  of  June,  as  affording  the  best  combination  of  long 
days,  fine  weather,  and  variety  of  impressions.  Few 
of  the  native  trees  are  then  in  full  leaf;  but,  for  what- 
ever may  be  wanting  in  depth  of  shade,  far  more  than 
an  equivalent  will  be  found  in  the  diversity  of  foliage, 
in  the  blossoms  of  the  fruit-and-berry-bearing  trees 
which  abound  in  the  woods,  and  in  the  golden  flowers 
of  the  broom  and  other  shrubs,  with  which  many  of  the 
copses  are  interveined.  In  those  woods,  also,  and  on 
those  mountain-sides  which  have  a northern  aspect,  and 
in  the  deep  dells,  many  of  the  spring-flowers  still  lin- 
ger ; while  the  open  and  sunny  places  are  stocked  with 
the  flowers  of  approaching  summer.  And,  besides,  is 
not  an  exquisite  pleasure  still  untasted  by  him  who  has 
not  heard  the  choir  of  Linnets  and  Thrushes  cliamiting 
their  love-songs  in  the  copses,  woods,  and  hedge-rows, 
of  a mountainous  country ; safe  from  the  birds  of  prey, 
which  build  in  the  inaccessible  crags,  and  are  at  all 
hours  seen  or  heard  wheeling  about  in  the  air  ? The 
number  of  those  formidable  creatures  is  probably  the 
cause  why,  in  the  narrow  valleys,  there  are  no  Sky- 
larks; as  the  Destroyer  would  be  enabled  to  dart  upon 
them  from  the  near  and  surrounding  crags,  before  they 
could  descend  to  their  ground-nests  for  protection.  It 
is  not  often  that  Nightingales  resort  to  the.se  Vales ; 
but  almost  all  the  other  tribes  of  our  English  warblers 
are  numerous;  and  their  notes,  when  listened  to  by 
the  side  of  broad  still  waters,  or  when  heard  in  unison 
with  the  murmuring  of  mountain-brooks,  have  the  com- 
pass of  their  power  enlarged  accordingly.  There  is 
also  an  imaginative  influence  in  the  voice  of  the  Cuc- 
koo, when  that  voice  has  taken  possession  of  a deep 
mountain  valley,  very  different  from  any  thing  which 
can  be  excited  by  the  same  sound  in  a flat  country. 
Nor  must  a circumstance  be  omitted  which  here  ren- 
ders the  close  of  Spring  especially  interestino';  I mean 
the  practice  of  bringing  down  the  ewes  from  the  moun- 
tains  to  yean  in  the  valleys  and  enclosed  ground.®.  The 
herbage  being  thus  cropped  as  it  springs,  that  first  ten- 
der emerald  green  of  the  season,  which  would  other- 
wise have  lasted  little  more  than  a fortnight  is  pro- 
longed in  the  pastures  and  meadows  for  many  weeks ; 
while  they  are  farther  enlivened  by  the  multitude  of 
lambs  bleating  and  skipping  about.  These  sportive 
59 


698 


APPENDIX. 


creatures,  as  they  gather  strength,  are  turned  out  upon 
the  open  mountains,  and  with  their  slender  limbs, 
their  snow-white  colour,  and  their  wild  and  light  mo- 
tions, beautifully  accord  or  contrast  with  the  rocks  and 
lawns,  upon  which  they  must  now  begin  to  seek  their 
food.  And  last,  but  not  least,  at  this  time  the  traveller 
will  be  sure  of  room  and  comfortable  accommodation, 
even  in  the  smaller  inns.  I am  aware  that  few  of  those, 
who  may  be  inclined  to  profit  by  this  recommendation 
will  be  able  to  do  so,  as  the  time  and  manner  of  an  ex- 
cursion of  this  kind  is  mostly  regulated  by  circumstan- 
ces which  prevent  an  entire  freedom  of  choice.  It  will 
therefore  be  more  pleasant  to  me  to  observe,  that,  though 
the  months  of  July  and  August  are  liable  to  many  ob- 
jections, yet  it  not  unfrequently  happens  that  the 
weather,  at  this  time,  is  not  more  wet  and  stormy  than 
they,  who  are  really  capable  of  enjoying  the  sublime 
forms  of  Nature  in  their  utmost  sublimity,  would  desire. 
For  no  Traveller,  provided  he  be  in  good  health  and 
with  any  command  of  time,  W'ould  have  a just  privilege 
to  visit  such  scenes,  if  he  could  grudge  the  price  of  a 
little  confinement  among  them  or  interruption  in  his 
journey  for  the  sight  or  sound  of  a storm  coining-on  or 
clearing-away.  Insensible  must  he  be  who  would  not 
congratulate  himself  upon  the  bold  bursts  of  sunshine, 
the  descending  vapours,  wandering  lights  and  shadows, 
and  the  invigorated  torrents  and  water-falls,  with  which 
broken  weather,  in  a mountainous  region,  is  accompa- 
nied. At  such  a time  there  is  no  cause  to  complain, 
either  of  the  monotony  of  midsummer  colouring  or  the 
glaring  atmosphere  of  long,  cloudless,  and  hot  days. 

Thus  far  respecting  the  most  eligible  season  for  vis- 
iting this  country.  As  to  the  order  in  which  objects  are 
best  seen  — a Lake  being  composed  of  water  flowing 
from  higher  grounds,  and  expanding  itself  till  its  re- 
ceptacle is  filled  to  the  brim, — it  follows  from  the  nature 
of  things,  that  it  will  appear  to  most  advantage  when 
approached  from  its  outlet,  especially  if  the  Lake  be  in 
a mountainous  country  ; for,  by  this  way  of  approach, 
the  traveller  faces  the  grander  features  of  the  scene, 
and  isgradually  conducted  into  it>;  most  sublime  recesses. 
Now,  every  one  knows,  that  from  amenity  and  beauty 
the  transition  to  sublimity  is  easy  and  favourable;  but 
the  reverse  is  not  so;  for,  after  the  faculties  have  been 
raised  by  communion  with  tlie  sublime,  they  are  indis- 
posed to  humbler  excitement. 

It  is  not  likely  that  a mountain  will  be  ascended  with- 
out disappointment  if  a wide  range  of  prospect  be  the 
object,  unless  eitlicr  the  summit  bo  reached  before  sun- 
rise, or  the  visitant  remains  there  until  the  time  of  sun- 
set, and  afterwards.  The  precipitous  sides  of  the 
mountain,  and  the  neighbouring  summits,  may  be  seen 
with  effect  under  any  atmosphere  which  allows  them 
to  be  seen  at  all ; but  he  is  the  most  fortunate  adventu- 
rer who  chances  to  be  involved  in  vapours  which  open 
and  let  in  an  extent  of  country  partially,  or,  dispersing 


I suddenly,  reveal  the  whole  region  from  centre  to  cir- 
' cumference. 

I After  all,  it  is  upon  the  mind  which  a Traveller 
brings  along  with  him  that  his  acquisitions,  whether 
of  pleasure  or  profit,  must  principally  depend. — May  I 
be  allowed  a concluding  word  upon  this  subject! 

Nothing  is  more  injurious  to  genuine  feeling  than  the 
practice  of  hastily  and  ungraciously  depreciating  the 
face  of  one  country  by  comparing  it  with  that  of  another. 
True  it  is,  Qui  bene  distinguit  bene  docet ; yet  fasti- 
diousness is  a wretched  travelling  companion  ; and  the 
best  guide  to  which  in  matters  of  taste  we  can  entrust 
j ourselves,  is  a disposition  to  be  pleased.  For  example, 
if  a Traveller  be  among  the  Alp.s,  let  him  surrender  up 
his  mind  to  the  fury  of  the  gigantic  torrents,  and  take 
delight  in  the  contemplation  of  their  almost  irresistible 
violence,  without  complaining  of  the  monotony  of  their 
foaming  course,  or  being  disgusted  with  the  muddiness 
of  the  water — apparent  wherever  it  is  unagitated.  In 
Cumberland  and  Westmoreland  let  not  the  comparative 
weakness  of  the  streams  prevent  him  from  sympathising 
1 with  such  impetuosity  as  they  possess ; and,  making  the 
I most  of  present  objects,  let  him,  as  he  justly  may  do, 
[ observe  with  admiration  the  unrivalled  brilliancy  of  the 
water,  and  that  variety  of  motion,  mood,  and  character, 
that  arises  out  of  the  want  of  those  resources  by  which 
j the  power  of  the  streams  in  the  Alps  is  supported. — 
Again,  with  respect  to  the  mountains ; though  these  are 
' comparatively  of  diminutive  size,  though  there  is  little 
of  perpetual  snow,  and  no  voice  of  summer-avalanches 
is  heard  among  them ; and  though  traces  left  by  the 
' ravage  of  the  elements  are  here  comparatively  rare  and 
unimpressive,  yet  out  of  this  very  deficiency  proceeds 
j a sense  of  stability  and  permanence  that  is,  to  many 
minds,  more  grateful  — 

“ While  the  coarse  rushea  to  the  sweeping  breeze 
Sigh  forth  their  ancient  melodics.” 

Ode,  The  Pass  of  Kirkslone. 

Among  the  Alps  are  few  places  that  do  not  preclude 
this  feeling  of  tranquil  sublimity.  Havoc,  and  ruin, 

I and  desolation,  and  encroachment,  are  every  where  more 
or  less  obtruded;  and  it  is  difficult,  notwithstanding  the 
I naked  loftiness  of  the  Pikes,  and  the  snow-capped  sum- 
I mits  of  the  Mounts,  to  escape  from  the  depressing  sen- 
sation that  the  whole  are  in  a rapid  process  of  disso- 
lution, and,  were  it  not  that  the  destructive  agency 
must  abate  as  the  heights  diminish,  would,  in  time  to 
come,  be  levelled  with  the  plains.  Nevertheless  I 
would  relish  to  the  utmost  the  demonstrations  of  every 
species  of  pow’er  at  work  to  effect  such  changes. 

From  these  general  views  let  us  descend  a moment 
to  detail.  A stranger  to  mountain-scenery  naturally  on 
his  first  arrival  looks  out  for  sublimity  in  every  object 
that  admits  of  it;  and  is  almost  always  disappointed. 
For  this  disappointment  there  exists,  I believe,  no  gen- 
I eral  preventive ; nor  is  it  desirable  that  there  should, 


DESCRIPTION  OF  THE  COUNTRY  OF  THE  LAKES. 


699 


But  with  regard  to  one  class  of  objects,  there  is  a point 
in  which  injurious  expectations  may  be  easily  corrected. 
It  is  generally  supposed  that  waterfalls  are  scarcely 
worth  being  looked  at  except  after  much  rain,  and  that, 
the  more  swoln  the  stream,  the  more  fortunate  the 
spectator;  but  this  is  true  only  of  large  cataracts  with 
sublime  accompaniments ; and  not  even  of  these  without 
some  drawbacks.  The  principal  charm  of  the  smaller 
waterfalls  or  cascades,  consists  in  certain  proportions  of 
form  and  affinities  of  colour,  among  the  component 
parts  of  the  scene,  and  in  the  contrast  maintained  be- 
tween the  falling  water  and  that  which  is  apparently  at 
rest ; or  rather  settling  gradually  into  quiet,  in  the  pool 


I below.  Peculiarly,  also,  is  the  beauty  of  such  a scene, 
I where  there  is  naturally  so  much  agitation,  heightened, 
I here  by  the  glimmer  in  g,hni\,  towards  the  verge  of  the 
pool,  by  the  steady,  reflection  of  the  surrounding  ima- 
ges. Now,  all  those  delicate  distinctions  are  destroyed 
by  heavy  floods,  and  the  whole  stream  rushes  along 
in  foam  and  tumultuous  confusion.  I will  conclude 
with  observing,  that  a happy  proportion  of  component 
parts  is  generally  noticeable  among  the  landscapes  of 
the  North  of  England ; and,  in  this  characteristic  es- 
sential to  a perfect  picture,  they  surpass  the  scenes  of 
Scotland,  and,  in  a still  greater  degree,  those  of  Swit- 
zerland. 


APPENDIX  VI. 


ESSAY  UPON  EPITAPHS* 


It  needs  scarcely  be  said,  tliat  an  Epitaph  pre-sup- 
poses  a Monument,  upon  vvhicli  it  is  to  be  engraven. 
Almost  all  Nations  have  wished  that  certain  external 
signs  should  point  out  tlie  places  where  their  Dead  are 
interred.  Among  savage  Tribes  unacquainted  with 
letters,  this  has  mostly  been  done  cither  by  rude 
stones  placed  near  the  Graves,  or  by  Mounds  of  earth 
raised  over  them.  This  custom  proceeded  obviously 
from  a twofold  desire ; first,  to  guard  tbe  remains  of 
the  deceased  from  irreverent  approach  or  from  savage 
violation:  and,  secondly,  to  preserve  their  memory. 
“ Never  any,”  says  Camden,  “ neglected  burial  but  some 
savage  Nations;  as  the  Bactrians,  which  cast  their 
dead  to  the  dogs ; some  varlet  Philosophers,  as  Dioge- 
nes, who  desired  to  be  devoured  of  fishes ; some  disso- 
lute courtiers,  as  Mecsenas,  who  was  wont  to  say.  Non 
tumulum  euro;  sepelit  natura  relictos. 

I'm  careless  of  a grave: — Nature  her  dead  will  save.” 

As  soon  as  Nations  had  learned  the  use  of  letters. 
Epitaphs  were  inscribed  upon  these  Monuments;  in 
order  that  their  intention  might  be  more  surely  and 
adequately  fulfilled.  I have  derived  Monuments  and 
Epitaphs  from  two  sources  of  feeling;  but  these  do 
in  fact  resolve  themselves  into  one.  The  invention  of 
Epitaphs,  Weever,  in  his  Discourse  of  Funeral  Monu- 
ments, says  rightly,  “ proceeded  from  the  presage  or 
fore-feeling  of  Immortality,  implanted  in  all  men  na- 
turally, and  is  referred  to  the  Scliolars  of  Linus  the 
Theban  Poet,  who  flourished  about  the  year  of  the 
World  two  thousand  seven  hundred ; who  first  be- 
wailed this  Linus  their  Master,  when  he  was  slain,  in 
doleful  verses,  then  called  of  him  Galina,  afterwards 
Epitaphia,  for  that  they  were  first  sung  at  burials, 
after  engraved  upon  the  Sepulchres.” 

And,  verily,  without  the  consciousness  of  a princi- 
ple of  Immortality  in  the  human  soul,  Man  could  never 
have  had  awakened  in  him  the  desire  to  live  in  the 
remembrance  of  his  fellows:  mere  love,  or  the  yearn- 
ing of  Kind  towards  Kind,  could  not  have  produced  it. 
The  Dog  or  Horse  perishes  in  the  field,  or  in  the 

• See  ‘ The  E.\cursio.n,’  Book  v,  p.  C03,  Note. 


stall,  by  the  side  of  his  companions,  and  is  incapable  of 
anticipating  the  sorrow  with  which  his  surrounding 
Associates  sliall  bemoan  his  death,  or  pine  for  his  loss; 
he  cannot  pre-conceive  this  regret,  he  can  form  no 
thought  of  it;  and  therefore  cannot  possibly  have  a 
desire  to  leave  such  regret  or  remembrance  behind  him. 
Add  to  the  principle  of  love,  which  exists  in  the  in- 
ferior animals,  the  faculty  of  reason  which  exists  in 
Man  alone;  will  the  conjunction  of  these  account  for 
the  desire  ! Doubtless  it  is  a necessary  consequence  of 
this  conjunction ; yet  not  I think  as  a direct  result, 
but  only  to  be  come  at  tli rough  an  intermediate  thought, 
viz.  that  of  an  intimation  or  assurance  within  us,  that 
some  part  of  our  nature  is  imperishable.  At  least  the 
precedence,  in  order  of  birth,  of  one  feeling  to  the 
other,  is  unquestionable.  If  we  look  back  upon  the 
days  of  childhood,  we  shall  find  that  the  time  is  not  in 
remembrance  when,  with  respect  to  our  own  individual 
Being,  the  mind  was  without  this  assurance;  whereas, 
the  wish  to  be  remembered  by  our  Friends  or  Kindred 
after  Death,  or  even  in  Absence,  is,  as  we  shall  discover, 
a sensation  that  does  not  form  itself  till  the  social 
feelings  have  been  developed,  and  the  Reason  has  con- 
nected itself  with  a wide  range  of  objects.  Forlorn, 
and  cut  off  from  communication  with  the  best  part  of 
bis  nature,  must  that  Man  be,  who  should  derive  tbe 
sense  of  immortality,  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of  a Child, 
from  the  same  unthinking  gaiety  or  liveliness  of  animal 
Spirits  with  which  the  Lamb  in  the  meadow,  or  any 
other  irrational  Creature,  is  endowed ; who  should 
ascribe  it,  in  short,  to  blank  ignorance  in  the  Child ; to 
an  inability  arising  from  the  imperfect  state  of  his 
faculties  to  come,  in  any  point  of  his  being,  into  con- 
tact with  a notion  of  Death ; or  to  an  unreflecting 
acquiescence  in  what  had  been  instilled  into  him  ! Has 
such  an  unfolder  of  the  mysteries  of  Nature,  though  he 
may  have  forgotten  his  former  self,  ever  noticed  the 
early,  obstinate,  and  unappeasable  inquisitiveness  of 
Children  upon  the  subject  of  origination]  This  single 
fact  proves  outwardly  the  monstrousness  of  those  sup- 
positions: for,  if  we  had  no  direct  external  testimony 
that  the  minds  of  very  young  Children  meditate  feeling- 
ly upon  Death  and  Immortality,  these  inquiries,  which 


ESSAY  UPON  EPITAPHS. 


701 


we  all  know  they  are  perpetually  making  concerning 
the  whence,  do  necessarily  include  correspondent  habits 
of  interrogation  concerning  the  whither.  Origin  and 
tendency  are  notions  inseparably  co-relative.  Never 
did  a Child  stand  by  the  side  of  a running  Stream, 
pondering  within  himself  what  power  was  the  feeder  of 
the  perpetual  current,  from  what  never-wearied  sources 
the  body  of  water  was  supplied,  but  he  must  have  been 
inevitably  propelled  to  follow  this  question  by  another: 
“ Towards  what  abyss  is  it  in  progressi  what  receptacle 
can  contain  the  mighty  influx'!”  And  the  spirit  of 
the  answer  must  have  been,  though  the  word  might  be 
Sea  or  Ocean,  accompanied  perhaps  with  an  image 
gathered  from  a Map,  or  from  the  real  object  in  Nature 
— these  might  have  been  the  letter,  but  the  spirit  of 
the  answer  must  have  been  as  inevitably, — a recepta- 
cle without  bounds  or  dimensions; — nothing  less  than 
infinity.  We  may,  then,  be  justified  in  asserting,  that 
the  sense  of  Immortality,  if  not  a co-existent  and  twin 
birth  with  Reason,  is  among  the  earliest  of  her  Offspring : 
and  we  may  further  assert,  that  from  these  conjoined, 
and  under  their  countenance,  the  human  affections  are 
gradually  formed  and  opened  out.  This  is  not  the 
place  to  enter  into  the  recesses  of  these  investigations ; 
but  the  subject  requires  me  here  to  make  a plain  avowal, 
that,  for  my  own  part,  it  is  to  me  inconceivable,  that 
the  sympathies  of  love  towards  each  other,  which  grow 
with  our  growth,  could  ever  attain  any  new  strength, 
or  even  preserve  the  old,  after  we  had  received  from 
the  outward  senses  the  impression  of  Death,  and  were 
in  the  habit  of  having  that  impression  daily  renewed 
and  its  accompanying  feeling  brought  home  to  ourselves, 
and  to  those  we  love ; if  the  same  were  not  counter- 
acted by  those  communications  with  our  internal  Being, 
which  are  anterior  to  all  these  experiences,  and  with 
which  revelation  coincides,  and  has  through  that  coin- 
cidence alone  (for  otherwise  it  could  not  possess  it)  a 
power  to  affect  us.  I confess,  with  me  the  conviction 
is  absolute,  that,  if  the  impression  and  sense  of  Death 
were  not  thus  counterbalanced,  such  a hollowness  would 
pervade  the  whole  system  of  things,  such  a want  of 
correspondence  and  consistency,  a disproportion  so  as- 
tounding betwixt  means  and  ends,  that  there  could  be 
no  repose,  no  joy.  Were  we  to  grow  up  unfostered  by 
this  genial  warmth,  a frost  would  chill  the  spirit,  so 
penetrating  and  powerful,  that  there  could  be  no  mo- 
tions of  the  life  of  love;  and  infinitely  less  could  we 
have  any  wish  to  be  remembered  after  we  had  passed 
away  from  a world  in  which  each  man  had  moved 
about  like  a shadow. — If,  then,  in  a Creature  endowed 
with  the  faculties  of  foresight  and  reason,  the  social 
affections  could  not  have  unfolded  themselves  uncoun- 
tenanced by  the  faith  that  Man  is  an  immortal  being ; 
and  if,  consequently,  neither  could  the  individual  dying 
have  had  a desire  to  survive  in  the  remembrance  of  his 
fellows,  nor  on  their  side  could  they  have  felt  a wish 
to  preserve  for  future  times  vestiges  of  the  departed; 


it  follows,  as  a final  inference,  that  without  the  belief 
in  Iirimortality,  wherein  these  several  desires  origin- 
ate, neither  monuments  nor  epitaphs,  in  affectionate  or 
laudatory  commemoration  of  the  Deceased,  could  have 
existed  in  the  world. 

Simonides,  it  is  related,  upon  landing  in  a strange 
Country,  found  the  Corse  of  an  unknown  person  lying 
by  the  Sea-side;  he  buried  it,  and  was  honoured 
throughout  Greece  for  the  piety  of  that  act.  Another 
ancient  Philosopher,  chancing  to  fix  his  eyes  upon  a 
dead  Body,  regarded  the  same  with  slight,  if  not  with 
contempt;  saying,  “See  the  Shell  of  the  flown  Bird  I” 
But  it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  moral  and  tender- 
hearted Simonides  was  incapable  of  the  lofty  movements 
of  thought,  to  which  that  other  Sage  gave  way  at  the 
moment  while  his  soul  was  intent  only  upon  the  inde- 
structible being ; nor,  on  the  other  hand,  that  he,  in 
W’hose  sight  a lifeless  human  Body  was  of  no  more 
value  than  the  worthless  Shell  from  which  the  living 
fowl  had  departed,  would  not,  in  a different  mood  of 
mind,  have  been  affected  by  those  earthly  considerations 
which  had  incited  the  philosophic  Poet  to  the  perform- 
ance of  that  pious  duty.  And  with  regard  to  this 
latter  we  may  be  assured  that,  if  he  had  been  destitute 
of  the  capability  of  communing  with  the  more  exalted 
thoughts  that  appertain  to  human  Nature,  he  would 
have  cared  no  more  for  the  Corse  of  the  Stranger  than 
for  the  dead  body  of  a Seal  or  Porpoise  which  might 
have  been  cast  up  by  the  Waves.  We  respect  the 
corporeal  frame  of  Man,  not  merely  because  it  is  the 
habitation  of  a rational,  but  of  an  immortal  Soul.  Each 
of  these  Sages  was  in  Sympathy  with  the  best  feelings 
of  our  Nature  ; feelings  which,  though  they  seem  op-* 
posite  to  each  other,  have  another  and  a finer  connec- 
tion than  that  of  contrast. — It  is  a connection  formed 
through  the  subtle  progress  by  which,  both  in  the  na- 
tural and  the  moral  world,  qualities  pass  insensibly  into 
their  contraries,  and  things  revolve  upon  each  other. 
As,  in  sailing  upon  the  orb  of  this  Planet,  a voyage 
tow'ards  the  regions  where  the  Sun  sets,  conducts  gra- 
dually to  the  quarter  where  we  have  been  accustomed 
to  behold  it  come  forth  at  its  risings;  and,  in  like 
manner,  a voyage  towards  the  East,  the  birth-place  in 
our  imagination  of  the  morning,  leads  finally  to  the 
quarter  where  the  Sun  is  last  seen  when  he  departs 
from  our  eyes;  so  the  contemplative  Soul,  travelling  in 
the  direction  of  mortality,  advances  to  the  Country  of 
everlasting  Life ; and,  in  like  manner,  may  she  con- 
tinue to  explore  those  cheerful  tracts,  till  she  is 
brought  back,  for  her  advantage  and  benefit,  to  the 
land  of  transitory  things — of  sorrow  and  of  tears. 

On  a midway  point,  therefore,  which  commands  the 
thoughts  and  feelings  of  the  two  Sages  whom  we  have 
represented  in  contrast,  does  the  Author  of  that  spe- 
cies of  composition,  the  Laws  of  which  it  is  our  pre- 
sent purpose  to  explain,  take  his  stand.  Accordingly, 
recurring  to  the  twofold  desire  of  guarding  the  Re- 
59  » 


702 


APPENDIX. 


mams  of  the  deceased  and  preserving  their  memory, 
it  may  be  said  that  a sepulchral  Monument  is  a tribute 
to  a Man  as  a human  Being ; and  that  an  Epitaph  (in 
the  ordinary  meaning  attached  to  the  word)  includes 
this  general  feeling  and  something  more ; and  is  a record 
to  preserve  the  memory  of  the  dead,  as  a tribute  due 
to  his  individual  worth,  for  a satisfaction  to  the  sorrow- 
ing hearts  of  the  Survivors,  and  for  the  common  bene- 
fit of  the  living:  which  record  is  to  be  accomplished, 
not  in  a general  manner,  but,  where  it  can,  in  close 
connection  with  the  bodily  remains  of  the  deceased: 
and  these,  it  may  be  added,  among  the  modern  Nations 
of  Europe,  are  deposited  within,  or  contiguous  to,  their 
places  of  worship.  In  ancient  times,  as  is  well  known, 
it  was  the  custom  to  bury  tlie  dead  beyond  the  Walls 
of  Towns  and  Cities;  and  among  the  Greeks  and 
Romans  they  were  frequently  interred  by  the  way- 
sides. 

I could  here  pause  with  pleasure,  and  invite  the 
Reader  to  indulge  with  me  in  contemplation  of  the 
advantages  which  must  have  attended  such  a practice. 
We  might  ruminate  upon  the  beauty  which  the  Monu- 
ments, thus  placed,  must  have  borrowed  from  the  sur- 
rounding images  of  Nature  — from  the  trees,  the  wild 
flowers,  from  a stream  running  perhaps  within  sight  or 
hearing,  from  the  beaten  road  stretching  its  weary  length 
hard  by.  Many  tender  similitudes  must  these  objects 
have  presented  to  the  mind  of  the  Traveller  leaning 
upon  one  of  the  Tombs,  or  reposing  in  the  coolness  of 
its  shade,  whether  he  had  halted  from  weariness  or  in 
compliance  with  the  invitation,  “Pause,  Traveller  1” 
so  often  found  upon  the  Monuments.  And  to  its 
Epitaph  also  must  have  been  supplied  strong  appeals  to 
visible  appearances  or  immediate  impressions,  lively 
and  affecting  analogies  of  Life  as  a Journey — Death  as 
a Sleep  overcoming  the  tired  Wayfarer — of  Misfortune 
as  a Storm  that  falls  suddenly  upon  him — of  Beauty  as 
a Flower  that  passeth  away,  or  of  innocent  pleasure  as 
one  that  may  be  gathered — of  Virtue  tliat  standeth 
firm  as  a Rock  against  the  beating  Waves;  — of  Hope 
“ undermined  insensibly  like  the  Poplar  by  the  side  of 
the  River  that  has  fed  it,”  or  blasted  in  a moment  like 
a Pine-tree  by  the  stroke  of  lightning  upon  the  Moun- 
tain-top— of  admonitions  and  heart-stirring  remem- 
brances, like  a refreshing  Breeze  that  comes  without 
warning,  or  the  taste  of  the  waters  of  an  une.xpectcd  j 
Fountain.  These,  and  similar  suggestions,  must  have 
given,  formerly,  to  the  language  of  the  senseless  stone  a 
voice  enforced  and  endeared  by  the  benignity  of  that 
Nature  with  which  it  was  in  unison. — We,  in  modern 
times,  have  lost  much  of  these  advantages;  and  they 
are  but  in  a small  degree  counterbalanced  to  the  In- 
habitants of  large  Towns  and  Cities,  by  the  custom  of 
depositing  the  Dead  within,  or  contiguous  to,  their 
places  of  worship;  however  splendid  or  imposing  may 
be  the  appearance  of  those  Edifices,  or  however  interest- 
ing or  salutary  the  recollections  associated  with  them. 


Even  were  it  not  true  that  tombs  lose  their  monitory 
virtue  when  thus  obtruded  upon  the  Notice  of  Men 
occupied  with  the  cares  of  the  World,  and  too  often 
sullied  and  defiled  by  those  cares,  yet  still,  when  Death 
is  in  our  thoughts,  nothing  can  make  amends  for  the 
W’ant  of  the  soothing  influences  of  Nature,  and  for  the 
absence  of  those  types  of  renovation  and  decay,  which 
the  fields  and  woods  offer  to  the  notice  of  the  serious 
and  contemplative  mind.  To  feel  the  force  of  this 
sentiment,  let  a man  only  compare  in  imagination  the 
unsightly  manner  in  which  our  Monuments  are  crowded 
together  in  the  busy,  noisy,  unclean,  and  almost  grass- 
less Church-yard  of  a large  Town,  with  the  still  seclu- 
sion of  a Turkish  Cemetery,  in  some  remote  place  ; 
and  yet  further  sanctified  by  the  Grove  of  Cypress 
in  which  it  is  embosomed.  Thoughts  in  the  same 
temper  as  these  have  already  been  expressed  with 
true  sensibility  by  an  ingenuous  Poet  of  the  present 
day.  The  subject  of  his  Poem  is  “ All  Saints  Church, 
Derby  he  has  been  deploring  the  forbidding  and 
unseemly  appearance  of  its  burial-ground,  and  uttering 
a wish,  that  in  past  times  the  practice  had  been 
adopted  of  interring  the  Inhabitants  of  large  Towns  in 
the  Country.  — 

“ Then  in  some  rural,  calm,  sequestered  spot. 

Where  healing  Nature  her  benignant  look 
Ne'er  changes,  save  at  that  lorn  season,  when. 

With  tresses  drooping  o’er  her  sable  stole. 

She  yearly  mourns  the  mortal  doom  of  man. 

Her  noblest  work,  (so  Israel’s  virgins  erst. 

With  annual  moan  upon  the  mountains  wept 
Their  fairest  gone)  there  in  that  rural  scene. 

So  placid,  so  congenial  to  the  wish 

The  Christian  feels,  of  peaceful  rest  within 

The  silent  grave,  I would  have  strayed : 


— wandered  forth,  where  the  cold  dew  of  heaven 
Lay  on  the  humbler  graves  around,  what  time 
The  pale  moon  gazed  upon  the  turfy  mounds. 

Pensive,  as  though  like  me,  in  lonely  muse, 

’T  were  brooding  on  the  dead  inhumed  beneath. 

There  while  with  him,  the  holy  man  of  Uz, 

O'er  human  destiny  I sympathised. 

Counting  the  long,  long  periods  prophecy 
Decrees  to  roll,  ere  the  great  day  arrives 
Of  resurrection,  oft  the  blue-eyed  Spring 
Had  met  me  with  her  blossoms,  as  the  Dove, 

Of  old,  returned  with  olive  leaf,  to  cheer 
The  Patriarch  mourning  o’er  a world  destroyed  : 

And  I would  bless  her  visit ; for  to  me 
’T  is  sweet  to  trace  the  consonance  that  links 
As  one,  the  works  of  Nature  and  the  word 
Of  God.” 

John  Edwards. 

A Village  Church-yanl,  lying  as  it  does  in  the  lap 
of  Nature,  may  indeed  be  most  favourably  contrasted 
with  that  of  a Town  of  crowded  population;  and 
Sepulture  therein  combines  many  of  the  best  tenden- 
cies which  belong  to  the  mode  practised  by  the  An- 
cients, w’ilh  others  peculiar  to  itself.  The  sensations 


ESSAY  UPON  EPITAPHS. 


703 


of  pious  cheerfulness,  which  attend  the  celebration 
of  the  Sabbath-day  in  rural  places,  are  profitably 
chastised  by  the  sight  of  the  Graves  of  Kindred  and 
Friends,  gathered  together  in  that  general  Home 
towards  wliich  the  thoughtful  yet  happy  Spectators 
themselves  are  journeying.  Hence  a Parish  Church, 
in  the  stillness  of  the  Country,  is  a visible  centre  of 
a community  of  the  living  and  the  dead ; a point  to 
which  are  habitually  referred  the  nearest  concerns  of 
both. 

As,  then,  both  in  Cities  and  in  Villages,  the  Dead 
are  deposited  in  close  connection  with  our  places  of 
worship,  with  us  the  composition  of  an  Epitaph  natu- 
rally turns,  still  more  than  among  the  Nations  of 
Antiquity,  upon  the  most  serious  and  solemn  affections 
of  the  human  mind;  upon  departed  Worth  — upon 
personal  or  social  Sorrow  and  Admiration — upon  Re- 
ligion, individual  and  social — upon  Time,  and  upon 
Eternity.  Accordingly,  it  suffices,  in  ordinary  cases, 
to  secure  a composition  of  this  kind  from  censure,  that 
it  contains  nothing  that  shall  shock  or  be  inconsistent 
with  this  spirit.  But,  to  entitle  an  Epitaph  to  praise, 
more  than  this  is  necessary.  It  ought  to  contain 
some  Thought  or  Feeling  belonging  to  the  mortal  or 
immortal  part  of  our  Nature  touchingly  expressed ; 
and  if  that  be  done,  however  general  or  even  trite 
the  sentiment  may  be,  every  man  of  pure  mind  will 
read  the  words  with  pleasure  and  gratitude.  A Hus- 
band bewails  a Wife;  a Parent  breathes  a sigh  of 
disappointed  hope  over  a lost  Child ; a Son  utters  a 
sentiment  of  filial  reverence  for  a departed  Father 
or  Mother;  a Friend  perhaps  inscribes  an  encomium 
recording  the  companionable  qualities,  or  the  solid 
virtues,  of  the  Tenant  of  the  Grave,  whose  departure 
has  left  a sadness  upon  his  memory.  This,  and  a 
pious  admonition  to  the  Living,  and  a humble  expres- 
sion of  Christian  confidence  in  Immortality,  is  the 
language  of  a thousand  Church-yards:  and  it  does 
not  often  happen  that  any  thing,  in  a greater  degree 
discriminate  or  appropriate  to  the  Dead  or  to  the 
Living,  is  to  be  found  in  them.  This  want  of  dis- 
crimination has  been  ascribed  by  Dr.  Johnson,  in  his 
Essay  upon  the  Epitaphs  of  Pope,  to  two  causes; 
first,  the  scantiness  of  the  Objects  of  human  praise; 
and,  secondly,  the  want  of  variety  in  the  Characters 
of  Men;  or,  to  use  his  own  words,  “to  the  fact,  that 
the  greater  part  of  Mankind  have  no  character  at 
all.”  Such  language  may  be  holden  without  blame 
among  the  generalities  of  common  conversation;  but 
does  not  become  a Critic  and  a Moralist  speaking 
seriously  upon  a serious  Subject.  The  objects  of 
admiration  in  Human-nature  are  not  scanty,  but  abun- 
dant; and  every  Man  has  a Character  of  his  own, 
to  the  eye  that  has  skill  to  perceive  it.  The  real 
cause  of  the  acknowledged  want  of  discrimination  in 
sepulchral  memorials  is  this:  That  to  analyse  the 

Characters  of  others,  especially  of  those  whom  we 


love,  is  not  a common  or  natural  employment  of  Men 
at  any  time.  We  are  not  anxious  unerringly  tc 
understand  the  constitution  of  the  Minds  of  those 
who  have  soothed,  who  have  cheered,  who  have  sup- 
ported us:  with  whom  we  have  been  long  and  daily 
pleased  or  delighted.  The  affections  are  their  own 
justification.  The  Light  of  Love  in  our  Hearts  is 
a satisfactory  evidence  that  there  is  a body  of  worth 
in  the  minds  of  our  friends  or  kindred,  whence  that 
Light  has  proceeded.  We  shrink  from  the  thouglit 
of  placing  their  merits  and  defects  to  be  weighed 
against  each  other  in  the  nice  balance  of  pure  intel- 
lect; nor  do  we  find  much  temptation  to  detect  the 
shades  by  which  a good  quality  or  virtue  is  discrimi- 
nated in  them  from  an  excellence  known  by  the  same 
general  name  as  it  exists  in  the  mind  of  another ; 
and,  least  of  all,  do  we  incline  to  these  refinements 
when  under  the  pressure  of  Sorrow,  Admiration,  or 
Regret,  or  when  actuated  by  any  of  those  feelings 
which  incite  men  to  prolong  the  memory  of  their 
Friends  and  Kindred,  by  records  placed  in  the  bosom 
of  the  all-uniting  and  equalizing  Receptacle  of  the 
Dead.* 

The  first  requisite,  then,  in  an  Epitaph  is,  that  it 
should  speak,  in  a tone  which  shall  sink  into  the 
heart,  the  general  language  of  humanity  as  connected 
with  the  subject  of  Death  — the  source  from  which 
an  Epitaph  proceeds ; of  death  and  of  life.  To  le 
born  and  to  die  are  the  two  points  in  which  all  men 
feel  themselves  to  be  in  absolute  coincidence.  This 
general  language  may  be  uttered  so  strikingly  as  to 
entitle  an  epitaph  to  high  praise;  yet  it  cannot  lay 
claim  to  the  highest  unless  other  excellencies  be 
superadded.  Passing  through  all  intermediate  steps, 
we  will  attempt  to  determine  at  once  what  these 
excellencies  arc,  and  wherein  consists  the  perfection 
of  this  species  of  composition.  It  will  be  found  to 


* [It  is  pleasant  to  look  at  this  subject  through  the  medium 
of  another  mind — to  see  the  serious  philosophy  of  Wordsworth 
and  the  thoughtful  humour  of  Charles  Lamb,  each  travelling 
its  own  peculiar  road  and  yet  resting  at  the  same  conclu- 
sion : the  following  passage  occurs  in  the  Tale  of  ‘ livsamrmd 
Gray’ : 

“ Still  I continued  in  the  church-yard,  reading  the  various 

inscriptions,  and  moralizing  on  them  with  that  kind  of  levity, 
I which  will  not  unfiequently  spring  up  in  the  mind,  in  the  midst 
I of  deep  melancholy. 

“1  read  of  nothing  but  careful  parents,  loving  husbands,  and 
dutiful  children.  I said  jestingly,  where  be  all  the  bad  people 
buried  ? Bad  parents,  bad  husbands,  bad  children  — wlia 
cemeteries  are  appointed  for  these  ? do  they  not  sleep  in  con- 
secrated ground  ? or  is  it  but  a pious  fiction,  a generous  oversight, 
in  the  survivors,  which  thus  tricks  out  men’s  epitajihs  when 
dead,  who,  in  their  life-time,  discharged  the  offices  of  life,  per- 
haps, but  lamely?  — Their  failings,  with  their  reproaches,  now 
sleep  with  them  in  the  grave.  Man  wars  no!  with  the  dead.  It 
is  a trail  of  human  nature,  for  which  I love  it.” 

Lamb’s  Prose  Works. II.  R.] 


704 


APPENDIX. 


lie  in  a due  proportion  of  the  common  or  universal 
feeling  of  humanity  to  sensaticns  excited  by  a distinct 
and  clear  conception,  conveyed  to  the  Reader’s  mind, 
of  the  Individual,  whose  death  is  deplored  and  whose 
memory  is  to  be  preserved;  at  least  of  his  character, 
as,  after  death,  it  appeared  to  those  who  loved  him 
and  lament  his  loss.  The  general  sympathy  ought 
to  be  quickened,  provoked,  and  diversified,  by  particu- 
lar thoughts,  actions,  images,  — circumstances  of  age, 
occupation,  manner  of  life,  prosperity  whicli  the 
Deceased  had  known,  or  adversity  to  which  he  had 
been  subject;  and  these  ought  to  be  bound  together 
and  solemnised  into  one  harmony  by  the  general 
sympathy.  The  two  powers  should  temper,  restrain, 
and  exalt  each  other.  The  Reader  ought  to  know 
who  and  what  the  Man  was  whom  he  is  called  upon 
to  think  of  with  interest.  A distinct  conception 
should  be  given  (implicitly  where  it  can,  rather  than 
explicitly)  of  the  Individual  lamented.  But  the 
Writer  of  an  Epitaph  is  not  an  Anatomist,  who  dis- 
sects the  internal  frame  of  the  mind ; he  is  not  even 
a Painter,  who  executes  a portrait  at  leisure  and  in 
entire  tranquillity;  his  delineation,  we  must  remem- 
ber, is  performed  by  the  side  of  the  Grave ; and, 
what  is  more,  the  grave  of  one  whom  he  loves  and 
admires.  What  purity  and  brightness  is  that  virtue 
clothed  in,  the  image  of  which  tnust  no  longer  bless 
our  living  eyes!  The  character  of  a deceased  Friend 
or  beloved  Kinsman  is  not  seen,  no  — nor  ought  to 
be  seen,  otherwise  than  as  a Tree  through  a tender 
haze  or  a luminous  mist,  that  spiritualizes  and  beau- 
tifies it;  that  takes  away,  indeed,  but  only  to  the 
end  that  the  parts  which  are  not  abstracted  may  ap- 
pear more  dignified  and  lovely,  may  impress  and 
affect  the  more.  Shall  we  say,  then,  that  this  is 
not  truth,  not  a faithful  image ; and  that,  accordingly, 
the  purposes  of  commemoration  cannot  be  answered  1 
— It  is  truth,  and  of  the  highest  order ! for,  though 
doubtless  things  are  not  apparent  which  did  exist; 
yet,  the  object  being  looked  at  through  this  medium, 
parts  and  proportions  are  brought  into  distinct  view 
which  before  had  been  only  imperfectly  or  uncon- 
sciously seen:  it  is  truth  hallowed  by  love  — the  joint 
oftspring  of  the  worth  of  the  Dead  and  the  affections 
of  the  Living!  — This  may  easily  be  brought  to  the 
test.  Let  one,  whose  eyes  have  been  sharpened  by 
personal  hostility  to  discover  what  was  amiss  in  the 
character  of  a good  man,  hear  the  tidings  of  his  death, 
and  what  a change  is  wrought  in  a moment!  — En- 
mity melts  away  ; and,  as  it  disappears,  unsightliness, 
disproportion,  and  deformity,  vanish;  and,  through 
the  influence  of  commiseration,  a harmony  of  love 
and  beauty  succeeds.  Bring  such  a Man  to  the 
Tombstone  on  which  shall  be  inscribed  an  Epitaph 
on  his  Adversary,  composed  in  the  spirit  which  we 
have  recommended.  Would  he  turn  from  it  as  from 


an  idle  talel  No  — the  thoughtful  look,  the  sigh, 
and  perhaps  the  involuntary  tear,  would  testify  that 
it  had  a sane,  a generous,  and  good  meaning;  and 
that  on  the  Writer’s  mind  had  remained  an  impres- 
sion which  was  a true  abstract  of  the  character  of 
the  deceased ; that  his  gifts  and  graces  were  remem- 
bered in  the  simplicity  in  which  they  ought  to  he 
remembered.  The  composition  and  quality  of  the 
mind  of  a virtuous  man,  contemplated  by  the  side 
of  the  Grave  where  his  body  is  mouldering,  ought  to 
appear,  and  be  felt  as  something  midway  betw-een 
what  he  was  on  Earth  walking  about  with  his  living 
frailties,  and  what  he  may  be  presumed  to  be  as  a Spi- 
rit in  Heaven. 

It  suffices,  therefore,  that  the  Trunk  and  the  main 
Branches  of  the  Worth  of  the  Deceased  be  boldly  and 
unaffectedly  represented.  Any  further  detail,  minute- 
ly and  scrupulously  pursued,  especially  if  this  be  done 
with  laborious  and  antithetic  discriminations,  must 
inevitably  frustrate  its  own  purpose;  forcing  the  pass- 
ing Spectator  to  this  conclusion,  — either  that  the 
Dead  did  not  possess  the  merits  ascribed  to  him,  or 
that  they  who  have  raised  a monument  to  his  memory, 
and  must  therefore  be  supposed  to  have  been  closely 
connected  with  him,  were  incapable  of  perceiving  those 
merits;  or  at  least  during  the  act  of  composition  had 
lost  sight  of  them;  for,  the  Understanding  having  been 
so  busy  in  its  petty  occupation,  how  could  the  heart 
of  the  Mourner  be  other  than  cold"!  and  in  either  of 
these  cases,  whether  the  fault  be  on  the  part  of  the  _ 
buried  Person  or  the  Survivors,  the  Memorial  is  un- 
affecting  and  profitless. 

Much  better  is  it  to  fall  short  in  discrimination 
than  to  pursue  it  too  far,  or  to  labour  it  unfeelingly. 
For  in  no  place  are  we  so  much  disposed  to  dwell 
upon  those  points,  of  nature  and  condition,  wherein 
all  Men  resemble  each  other,  as  in  the  Temple  where 
the  universal  Father  is  worshipped,  or  by  the  side 
of  the  Grave  which  gathers  all  Human  Beings  to  itself, 
and  “equalizes  the  lofty  and  the  low.”  We  suffer 
and  we  weep  with  the  same  heart;  we  love  and  are 
anxious  for  one  another  in  one  spirit;  our  hopes  look 
to  the  same  quarter;  and  the  virtues  by  which  we 
are  all  to  be  furthered  and  supported,  as  patience, 
meekness,  good-will,  temperance,  and  temperate  de- 
sires, are  in  an  equal  degree  the  concern  of  us  all. 
Let  an  Epitaph,  then,  contain  at  least  these  acknow- 
ledgments to  our  common  nature;  nor  let  the  sense 
of  their  importance  be  sacrificed  to  a balance  of  op- 
posite qualities  or  minute  distinctions  in  individual 
character ; which  if  they  do  not,  (as  will  for  the  most 
part  be  the  case)  when  examined,  resolve  themselves 
into  a trick  of  words,  will,  even  when  they  are  true 
and  just,  for  the  most  part  be  grievously  out  of  place  ; 
for,  as  it  is  probable  that  few  only  have  explored 
these  intricacies  of  human  nature,  so  can  the  tracing 


ESSAY  UPON  EPITAPHS. 


705 


of  them  be  interesting  only  to  a few.  But  an  Epi- 
taph is  not  a proud  Writing  shut  up  for  the  studious; 
it  is  exposed  to  all,  to  the  wise  and  the  most  ignorant; 
it  is  condescending,  perspicOous,  and  lovingly  solicits 
regard ; its  story  and  admonitions  are  brief,  that  the 
thoughtless,  the  busy,  and  indolent,  may  not  be  de- 
terred, nor  the  impatient  tired : the  stooping  Old 
Man  cons  the  engraven  record  like  a second  liorn- 
book  ; — the  Child  is  proud  that  he  can  read  it ; — 
and  the  Stranger  is  introduced  by  its  mediation  to 
the  company  of  a Friend:  it  is  concerning  all,  and 
for  all : — in  the  Church-yard  it  is  open  to  the  day ; 
the  sun  looks  down  upon  the  stone,  and  the  rains  of 
Heaven  beat  against  it. 

Yet,  though  the  Writer  who  would  excite  sympa- 
thy is  bound  in  this  case,  more  than  in  any  other, 
to  give  proof  that  he  himself  has  been  moved,  it  is 
to  be  remembered,  that  to  raise  a Monument  is  a 
sober  and  a reflective  act;  that  the  inscription  which 
it  bears  is  intended  to  be  permanent,  and  for  uni- 
versal perusal ; and  that,  for  this  reason,  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  expressed  should  be  permanent  also  — 
liberated  from  that  weakness  and  anguish  of  sorrow 
which  is  in  nature  transitory,  and  which  with  instinc- 
tive decency  retires  from  notice.  The  passions  should 
be  subdued,  the  emotions  controlled ; strong,  indeed, 
but  nothing  ungovernable  or  wholly  involuntary. 
Seemliness  requires  this,  and  truth  requires  it  also: 
for  how  can  the  Narrator  otherwise  be  trusted  1 More- 
over, a Grave  is  a tranqudlizing  object:  resignation 
in  course  of  time  springs  up  from  it  as  naturally  as 
the  wild  flowers,  besprinkling  the  turf  with  which 
it  may  be  covered,  or  gathering  round  the  monument 
by  which  it  is  defended.  The  very  form  and  sub- 
stance of  the  monument  which  has  received  the 
inscription,  and  the  appearance  of  the  letters,  testi- 
fying with  what  a slow  and  laborious  hand  they  must 
have  been  engraven,  might  seem  to  reproach  the 
Author  who  had  .given  way  upon  this  occasion  to 
transports  of  mind,  or  to  quick  turns  of  conflicting 
passion;  though  the  same  might  constitute  the  life 
and  beauty  of  ,a  funeral  Oration  or  elegiac  Poem. 

These  sensations  and  judgments,  acted  upon  per- 
haps unconsciously,  have  been  one  of  the  main  causes 
why  Epitaphs  so  often  personate  the  Deceased,  and 
represent  him  as  speaking  from  his  own  Tomb- 
stone. The  departed  Mortal  is  introduced  telling  you 
himself  that  his  pains  are  gone ; that  a state  of  rest 
is  come;  and  he  conjures  you  to  weep  for  him  no 
longer.  He  admonishes  with  the  voice  of  one  expe- 
rienced in  the  vanity  of  those  affections  which  are 
confined  to  earthly  objects,  and  gives  a verdict  like 
a superior  Being,  performing  the  office  of  a Judge, 
who  has  no  temptations  to  mislead  him,  and  whose 
decision  cannot  but  be  dispassionate.  Thus  is  Death 
disarmed  of  its  sting,  and  affliction  unsubstantialized. 

40 


By  this  tender  fiction,  the  Survivors  bind  themselves 
to  a sedater  sorrow,  and  employ  the  intervention  of  the 
Imagination  in  order  that  the  reason  may  speak  her 
own  language  earlier  than  she  would  otherwise  have 
been  enabled  to  do.  This  shadowy  interposition  also 
harmoniously  unites  the  two  worlds  of  the  Living  and 
the  Dead  by  their  appropriate  affections.  And  it  may 
be  observed,  that  here  we  have  an  additional  proof  of 
the  propriety  with  which  sepulchral  inscriptions  were 
referred  to  the  consciousness  of  Immortality  as  their 
primal  source. 

I do  not  speak  with  a wish  to  recommend  that  an 
Epitaph  should  be  cast  in  this  mould  preferably  to  the 
still  more  common  one,  in  which  what  is  said  comes 
from  the  Survivors  directly ; but  rather  to  point  out 
how  natural  those  feelings  are  which  have  induced 
men,  in  all  states  and  ranks  of  Society,  so  frequently 
to  adopt  this  mode.  And  this  I have  done  chief! v in 
order  that  the  laws,  which  ought  to  govern  the  com- 
position of  the  other,  may  be  better  understood.  This 
latter  mode,  namely,  that  in  which  the  Survivors 
speak  in  their  own  Persons,  seems  to  me  upon  the 
whole  greatly  preferable  : as  it  admits  a wider  range 
of  notices;  and,  above  all,  because,  excluding  the  fic- 
tion which  is  the  groundwork  of  the  other,  it  rests 
upon  a more  solid  basis. 

Enough  has  been  said  to  convey  our  notion  of  a 
perfect  Epitaph ; but  it  must  be  borne  in  mind  that  one 
is  meant  which  will  best  answer  the  general  ends  of 
that  species  of  composition.  According  to  the  cour.'e 
pointed  out,  the  worth  of  private  life,  through  all  vari- 
eties of  situation  and  character,  will  be  most  honour- 
ably and  profitably  preserved  in  memory.  Nor  would 
the  model  recommended  less  suit  public  Men,  in  ail 
instances  save  of  those  persons  who  by  the  greatness 
of  their  services  in  the  employments  of  Peace  or  War, 
or  by  the  surpassing  e.xcellence  of  their  works  in  Art, 
Literature,  or  Science,  have  made  themselves  not  only 
universally  known,  but  have  filled  the  heart  of  their 
Country  with  everlasting  gratitude.  Yet  I must  here 
pause  to  correct  myself.  In  describing  the  general 
tenour  of  thought  which  Epitaphs  ought  to  hold,  I have 
omitted  to  say,  that  if  it  be  the  actions  of  a Man,  or 
even  some  one  conspicuous  or  beneficial  act  of  local  or 
general  utility,  which  have  distinguished  him,  and  ex- 
cited a desire  that  he  should  be  remembered,  then,  of 
course,  ought  the  attention  to  be  directed  chiefly  to 
those  actions  or  that  act:  and  such  sentiments  dwelt 
upon  as  naturally  arise  out  of  them  or  it.  Having  made 
this  necessary  distinction,  I proceed.  — The  mighty 
benefactors  of  mankind,  as  they  are  not  only  known  by 
the  immediate  Survivors,  but  will  continue  to  be 
known  familiarly  to  latest  Posterity,  do  not  stand  in 
need  of  biographic  sketches,  in  such  a place ; nor  of 
delineations  of  character  to  individualize  them.  This 
is  already  done  by  their  Works,  in  the  Memories  of 


706 


APPENDIX. 


Men.  Their  naked  names,  and  a grand  comprehensive 
sentiment  of  civic  Gratitude,  patriotic  Love,  or  human 
Admiration;  or  the  utterance  of  some  elementary 
Principle  most  essential  in  the  constitution  of  true 
Virtue;  or  an  intuition,  communicated  in  adequate 
words,  of  the  sublimity  of  intellectual  Power,  — these 
are  the  only  tribute  which  can  here  be  paid  — the 
only  offering  that  upon  such  an  Altar  would  not  be 
unworthy ! 


‘ VVhat  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honoured  bones 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones, 

Or  that  his  hallowed  reliques  should  be  hid 
Under  a star-ypointing  pyramid  ? 

Dear  Son  of  Memory,  great  Heir  of  Fame, 

What  need’st  thou  such  weak  witness  of  thy  name  ? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a livelong  Monument, 

And  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 

That  Kings  for  such  a Tomb  would  wish  to  die.” 


APPENDIX  VU, 


POSTSCRIPT 

TO  THE  VOLUME  ENTITLED  “YARROW  REVISITED  AND 
OTHER  POEMS:  1835.” 


In  the  present  volume,  as  in  the  author’s  previous 
poems,  the  reader  will  have  found  occasionally  opinions 
expressed  upon  the  course  of  public  affairs,  and  feelings 
given  vent  to  as  national  interests  excited  them.  Since 
nothing,  he  trusts,  has  been  uttered  but  in  the  spirit  of 
reflective  patriotism,  those  notices  are  left  to  produce 
their  own  effect;  but,  among  the  many  objects  of 
general  concern,  and  the  changes  going  forward,  which 
he  has  glanced  at  in  verse,  are  some  especially  affecting 
the  lower  orders  of  society  : in  reference  to  these,  he 
wishes  here  to  add  a few  words  in  plain  prose. 

Were  he  conscious  of  being  able  to  do  justice  to 
those  important  topics,  he  might  avail  himself  of  the 
periodical  press  for  offering  anonymously  his  thoughts, 
such  as  they  are,  to  the  world ; but  he  feels  that,  in 
procuring  attention,  they  may  derive  some  advantage, 
however  small,  from  his  name,  in  addition  to  that  of 
being  presented  in  a less  fugitive  shape.  It  is  also  not 
impossible  that  the  state  of  mind  which  some  of  the 
foregoing  poems  may  have  produced  in  the  reader  will 
dispose  him  to  receive  more  readily  the  impression  the 
author  desires  to  make,  and  to  admit  the  conclusions  he 
would  establish. 

I.  The  first  thing  that  presses  upon  his  attention  is  the 
Poor-Law  Amendment  Act.  He  is  aware  of  the  mag- 
nitude and  complexity  of  the  subject,  and  the  unwearied 
ittention  which  it  has  received  from  men  of  far  wider 
experience  than  his  own  ; yet  he  cannot  forbear  touching 
upon  one  point  of  it,  and  to  this  he  will  confine  himself, 
though  not  insensible  to  the  objection  which  may  rea- 
sonably bo  brouglit  against  treating  a portion  of  this,  or 
any  other,  great  scheme  of  civil  polity  separately  from 
the  whole.  The  point  to  which  he  wishes  to  draw 
the  reader’s  attention  is,  that  all  persons  who  cannot 
.find  employment,  or  procure  wages  sufficient  to  support 
the  body  in  health  and  strength,  are  entitled  to  mainte- 
nance by  law. 


This  principle  is  acknowledged  in  the  Report  of  the 
Commissioners  : but  is  there  not  room  for  apprehension 
that  some  of  the  regulations  of  the  new  act  have  a ten- 
[ dency  to  render  the  principle  nugatory  by  difficulties 
thrown  in  the  way  of  applying  if!  If  this  be  so, 
I persons  will  not  be  wanting  to  show  it,  by  examining 
the  provisions  of  the  act  in  detail, — an  attempt  which 
would  be  quite  out  of  place  here;  but  it  will  not,  there- 
fore, be  deemed  unbecoming  in  one  who  fears  that  the 
prudence  of  the  head  may,  in  framing  some  of  those 
provisions,  have  supplanted  the  wisdom  of  the  heart, 
to  enforce  a principle  which  cannot  be  violated  witliout 
infringing  upon  one  of  the  most  precious  rights  of  the 
English  people,  and  opposing  one  of  the  most  sacred 
claims  of  civilized  humanity. 

There  can  be  no  greater  error,  in  this  department  of 
legislation,  than  the  belief  that  this  principle  does  by 
necessity  operate  for  the  degradation  of  those  who  claim, 
or  are  so  circumstanced  as  to  make  it  likely  they  may 
claim,  through  laws  founded  upon  it,  relief  or  assistance, 
j The  direct  contrary  is  the  truth : it  may  be  unanswerably 
maintained  that  its  tendency  is  to  raise,  not  to  depress  ; 
by  stamping  a value  upon  life,  which  can  belong  to  it 
only  where  the  laws  have  placed  men  who  are  willing 
I to  work,  and  yet  cannot  find  employment,  above  the 
necessity  of  looking  for  protection  against  hunger  and 
other  natural  evils,  either  to  individual  and  casual  char- 
ity, to  despair  and  deatli,  or  to  the  breach  of  law  by 
theft  or  violence. 

And  here,  as  the  fundamental  principle  has  been 
recognised  in  the  Report  of  the  Commissioners,  the 
author  is  not  at  issue  with  them  any  fiirther  than  he  is 
compelled  to  believe  that  their  “remedial  mea.sures” 
obstruct  the  application  of  tliat  principle  more  than  the 
interests  of  society  require. 

And,  calling  to  mind  the  doctrines  of  political  economy 
which  are  now  prevalent,  he  cannot  forbear  to  enforce 


708 


APPENDIX. 


the  justice  of  the  principle,  and  to  insist  upon  its 
salutary  operation. 

And  first  for  its  justice ; If  self-preservation  be  the 
first  law  of  our  nature,  would  not  every  one  in  a state 
of  nature  be  morally  justified  in  taking  to  himself  that 
which  is  indisnensable  to  such  preservation,  wliere,  by 
so  doing,  he  would  not  rob  another  of  that  which  might 
be  equally  indispensable  to  his  preservation  1 And  if 
the  value  of  life  be  regarded  in  a right  point  of  view, 
may  it  not  be  questioned  whether  this  right  of  preserv- 
ing life,  at  any  e.xpense  short  of  endangering  the  life 
of  another,  does  not  survive  man’s  entering  into  the 
social  state ; whether  this  right  can  be  surrendered  or 
forfeited,  except  when  it  opposes  the  divine  law,  upon 
any  supposition  of  a social  compact,  or  of  any  conven- 
tion for  the  protection  of  mere  rights  of  property  1 

But,  if  it  be  not  safe  to  touch  the  abstract  question 
of  man’s  right  in  a social  state  to  help  himself  even  in 
the  last  extremity,  may  we  not  still  contend  for  the 
duty  of  aChristian  government,  standing  in  loco  paren- 
tis towards  all  its  subjects,  to  make  such  effectual  pro- 
vision, that  no  one  shall  be  in  danger  of  perishing 
either  through  the  neglect  or  harshness  of  its  legisla- 
tion! Or,  waiving  this,  is  it  not  indisputable  that  the 
claim  of  the  state  to  the  allegiance,  involves  the  pro- 
tection, of  the  subject!  And,  as  all  rights  in  one  party 
impose  a correlative  duty  upon  another,  it  follows  that 
the  right  of  the  state  to  require  the  services  of  its 
members,  even  to  the  jeoparding  of  their  lives  in  the 
common  defence,  establishes  a right  in  the  people  (not 
to  be  gainsaid  by  utilitarians  and  economists)  to  public 
support  when,  from  any  cause,  they  may  be  unable  to 
support  themselves. 

Let  us  now  consider  the  salutary  and  benign  opera- 
tion of  this  principle.  Here  we  must  have  recourse  to 
elementary  feelings  of  human  nature,  and  to  truths 
which  from  their  very  obviousness  are  apt  to  be  slighted, 
till  they  are  forced  upon  our  notice  by  our  own  suffer- 
ings or  those  of  others.  In  the  Paradise  Lost,  Milton 
represents  Adam,  after  the  Fall,  as  exclaiming,  in  the 
anguish  of  his  soul, — 

“Did  I request  Thee,  Maker,  from  my  clay 
To  mould  me  man,  did  I solicit  Thee 
From  darkness  to  promote  me  ? 

My  will 

Concurred  not  to  my  being.” 

Under  how  many  various  pressures  of  misery  have 
men  been  driven  thus,  in  a strain  touching  upon  im- 
piety, to  expostulate  with  the  Creator ; and  under  few 
so  afflictive  as  when  the  source  and  origin  of  earthly 
existence  have  been  brought  back  to  the  mind  by  its 
impending  close  in  the  pangs  of  destitution.  But  as 
long  as,  in  our  legislation,  due  weight  shall  be  given 
to  this  principle,  no  man  will  be  forced  to  bewail  the 
gift  of  life  in  hopeless  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life. 

Englishmen  have,  therefore,  by  the  progress  of  civi- 


lisation among  them,  been  placed  in  circumstances  more 
favourable  to  piety,  and  resignation  to  the  divine  will, 
than  the  inhabitants  of  other  countries,  where  a like 
provision  has  not  been  established.  And  as  Providence, 
in  this  care  of  our  countrymen,  acts  through  a human 
medium,  the  objects  of  that  care  must,  in  like  manner, 
be  more  inclined  towards  a grateful  love  of  their  fel- 
low-men. Thus,  also,  do  stronger  ties  attach  the 
people  to  their  country,  whether  while  they  tread  its 
soil,  or,  at  a distance,  think  of  their  native  land  as 
an  indulgent  parent,  to  whose  arms,  even  they  who 
have  been  imprudent  and  undeserving  may,  like  the 
prodigal  son,  betake  themselves,  without  fear  of  being 
rejected. 

Such  is  the  view  of  the  case  that  would  first  present 
itself  to  a reflective  mind ; and  it  is  in  vain  to  show, 
by  appeals  to  experience,  in  contrast  with  this  view, 
that  provisions  founded  upon  the  principle  have  pro- 
moted profaneness  of  life,  and  dispositions  the  reverse 
of  philanthropic,  by  spreading  idleness,  sclfishnes.=,  and 
rapacity : for  these  evils  have  arisen,  not  as  an  inevi- 
table consequence  of  the  principle,  but  for  want  of  judg- 
ment in  framing  laws  based  upon  it:  and,  above  all, 
from  faults  in  the  mode  of  administering  the  law.  The 
mischief  that  has  grown  to  such  a height  from  granting 
relief  in  cases  where  proper  vigilance  would  have  shown 
that  it  was  not  required,  or  in  bestowing  it  in  undi.e 
measure,  will  be  urged  by  no  truly  enlightened  states- 
man, as  a sufficient  reason  for  banishing  the  principle 
itself  fro.m  legislation. 

Let  us  recur  to  the  miserable  states  of  consciousness 
that  it  precludes. 

There  is  a story  told,  by  a traveller  in  Spain,  of  a 
female  who,  by  a sudden  shock  of  domestic  calamity, 
was  driven  out  of  her  senses,  and  ever  after  looked  up 
incessantly  to  the  sky,  feeling  that  her  fellow-creatures 
could  do  nothing  for  her  relief.  Can  there  be  English- 
men who,  with  a good  end  in  view,  would,  upon  system, 
expose  their  brother  Englishmen  to  a like  necessity  of 
looking  upwards  only ; or  downwards  to  tlie  earth, 
after  it  shall  contain  no  spot  where  the  destitute  can 
demand,  by  civil  right,  what  by  right  of  nature  they 
are  entitled  to! 

Suppose  the  objects  of  our  sympathy  not  sunk  into 
this  blank  despair,  but  wandering  about  as  strangers  in 
streets  and  ways,  with  the  hope  of  succour  from  casual 
charity ; what  have  we  gained  by  such  a change  of 
scene ! Woful  is  the  condition  of  tlie  famished  Northern 
Indian,  dependent,  among  winter  snows,  upon  the 
chance-passage  of  a herd  of  deer,  from  which  one,  if 
brought  down  by  his  rifle-gun,  may  be  made  the  means 
of  keeping  him  and  his  companions  alive.  As  miserable 
is  that  of  some  savage  Islander,  who,  when  the  land 
has  ceased  to  afford  him  sustenance,  watches  for  food 
which  the  waves  may  cast  up,  or  in  vain  endeavours  to 
extract  it  from  the  inexplorable  deep.  But  neither  of 
these  is  in  a state  of  wretchedness  comparable  to  that, 


709 


POSTSCRIPT,  ETC. 


which  is  so  often  endured  in  civilised  society : multi- 
tudes, in  all  ages,  have  known  it,  of  whom  may  be 
said : — 

“ Homeless,  near  a thousand  homes  they  stood, 

And  near  a thousand  tables  pined,  and  wanted  food.” 

The  author  may  justly  be  accused  of  wa.sting  time 
in  an  uncalled-for  attempt  to  excite  the  feelings  of  his 
reader,  if  systems  of  political  economy,  w'idely  spread, 
did  not  impugn  the  principle,  and  if  the  safeguards 
against  such  extremities  were  left  unimpaired.  It  is 
broadly  asserted  by  many,  that  every  man  who  en- 
deavours to  find  work,  may  find  it : were  this  assertion 
capable  of  being  verified,  there  still  would  remain  a 
question,  what  kind  of  work,  and  how  far  may  the 
labourer  be  fit  for  itl  For  if  sedentary  work  is  to  be 
exchanged  for  standing ; and  some  light  and  nice  ex- 
ercise of  the  fingers,  to  which  an  artisan  has  been  ac- 
customed all  his  life,  for  severe  labour  of  the  arms;  the 
best  efforts  would  turn  to  little  account,  and  occasion 
would  be  given  for  the  unthinking  and  the  unfeeling 
unwarrantably  to  reproach  those  who  are  put  upon  such 
employment,  as  idle,  froward,  and  unworthy  of  relief, 
either  by  law  or  in  any  other  way ! Were  this  state- 
ment correct,  there  would  indeed  be  an  end  of  the 
argument,  the  principle  here  maintained  would  be  super- 
seded. But,  alas,  it  is  far  otherwise.  That  principle, 
applicable  to  the  benefit  of  all  countries,  is  indispensable 
for  England,  upon  whose  coast  families  are  perpetually 
deprived  of  their  support  by  shipwreck,  and  where  large 
masses  of  men  are  so  liable  to  be  tlirown  out  of  their 
ordinary  means  of  gaining  bread,  by  changes  in  com- 
mercial intercourse,  subject  mainly  or  solely  to  the 
will  of  foreign  powers;  by  new  discoveries  in  arts 
and  manufactures ; and  by  reckless  laws,  in  conformity 
with  theories  of  political  economy,  which,  whether 
right  or  wrong  in  the  abstract,  have  proved  a scourge 
to  tens  of  thousands,  by  the  abruptness  with  which  they 
have  been  carried  into  practice. 

But  it  is  urged, — refuse  altogether  compulsory  relief 
to  the  able-bodied,  and  the  number  of  those  who  stand 
in  need  of  relief  will  steadily  diminish,  through  a con- 
viction of  an  absolute  necessity  for  greater  forethought, 
and  more  prudent  care  of  a man’s  earnings.  Undoubt- 
edly it  would,  but  so  also  would  it,  and  in  a much 
greater  degree,  if  the  legislative  provisions  were  re- 
tained, and  parochial  relief  administered  under  the 
care  of  the  upper  classes,  as  it  ought  to  be.  For  it  has 
been  invariably  found,  that  wherever  the  funds  have 
been  raised  and  applied  under  the  superintendence  of 
gentlemen  and  substantial  proprietors,  acting  in  vestries, 
and  as  overseers,  pauperism  has  diminished  accordingly. 
Proper  care  in  that  quarter  would  effectually  check 
what  is  felt  in  some  districts  to  be  one  of  the  worst 
evils  in  the  poor  law  system,  viz.  the  readiness  of  small 
and  needy  proprietors  to  join  in  imposing  rates  that 
seemingly  subject  them  to  great  hardships,  while,  in 


fact,  this  is  done  with  an  understanding,  which  pre- 
pares the  way  for  the  relief  that  each  is  ready  to  bestow 
upon  his  still  poorer  neighbours  being  granted  to  him- 
self, or  his  relatives,  when  it  shall  be  applied  for. 

But  let  us  look  to  inner  sentiments  of  a nobler  qual- 
ity, in  order  to  know  what  we  have  to  build  upon. 
Affecting  proofs  occur  in  every  one’s  experience,  who  is 
acquainted  with  the  unfortunate  and  the  indigent,  of 
their  unwillingness  to  derive  their  subsistence  from 
aught  but  their  own  funds  or  labour,  or  to  be  indebted 
to  parochial  assistance  for  the  attainment  of  any  object, 
however  dear  to  them.  A case  was  reported,  the  other 
day,  from  a coroner’s  inquest,  of  a pair  who,  tlirough 
the  space  of  four  years,  had  carried  about  their  dead 
infant  from  house  to  house,  and  from  lodging  to  lodg- 
ing, as  their  necessities  drove  them,  rather  than  ask 
the  parish  to  bear  the  expense  of  its  interment : the 
poor  creatures  lived  in  the  hope  of  one  day  being  able 
to  bury  their  child  at  their  own  cost.  It  must  have 
been  heart-rending  to  see  and  hear  the  mother,  who 
had  been  called  upon  to  account  for  the  state  in  whicli 
the  body  was  found,  make  this  deposition.  Slie  and 
! her  husband  had,  it  is  true,  been  once  in  prosperity. 

! But  examples,  where  the  spirit  of  independence  works 
I with  equal  strength,  though  not  with  like  miserable  ac- 
companiments, are  frequently  to  be  found  even  yet 
among  the  humblest  peasantry  and  mechanics.  There 
! is  not,  then,  sufficient  cause  for  doubting  that  a like 
^ sense  of  honour  may  be  revived  among  the  people,  and 
I their  ancient  habits  of  independence  restored,  without 
I resorting  to  those  severities  which  the  new  Poor  Law 
I Act  has  introduced. 

I But,  even  if  the  surfaces  of  things  only  are  to  be 
examined,  we  have  a right  to  expect  that  lawgivers 
I should  take  into  account  the  various  tempers  and  dis- 
I positions  of  mankind : while  some  are  led,  by  the 
I existence  of  a legislative  provision,  into  idleness  and 
extravagance,  the  economical  virtues  might  be  cherished 
in  others  by  the  knowdedge,  that  if  all  their  efforts  fail, 
they  have  in  the  Poor-Laws  a “ refuge  from  the  storm 
and  a shadow  from  the  heat.”  Despondency  and  dis- 
traction are  no  friends  to  prudence  : the  springs  of  in- 
dustry will  relax,  if  cheerfulness  be  destroyed  by  anxi- 
ety ; without  hope  men  become  reckless,  and  have  a 
I sullen  pride  in  adding  to  the  heap  of  their  own  wretch- 
edness. He  who  feels  that  he  is  abandoned  by  his  fel- 
I low  men  will  be  almost  irresistibly  driven  to  care  little 
for  himself;  will  lose  his  self-respect  accordingly,  and 
I w'ith  that  loss  what  remains  to  him  of  virtue. 

With  all  due  deference  to  the  particular  experience, 
j and  general  intelligence  of  the  individuals  who  framed 
the  Act,  and  of  those  who  in  and  out  of  parliament  have 
approved  of  and  supported  it;  it  may  be  said,  that  it 
^ proceeds  too  much  upon  the  presumption  that  it  is  a 
I labouring  man’s  own  fault  if  he  be  not,  as  the  plirase 
is,  beforehand  with  the  world.  But  the  most  prudent 
, are  liable  to  be  thrown  back  by  sickness,  cutting  them 
60 


710 


APPENDIX. 


OiT  from  labour,  and  causing^  to  them  expense ; and  who 
bat  has  observed  how  distress  creeps  upon  multitudes 
without  misconduct  of  their  own  ; and  merely  from  a 
gradual  fall  in  the  priceof  labour,  without  a correspond- 
ent one  in  the  price  of  provisions ; so  that  men  who 
may  have  ventured  upon  the  marriage  state  with  a fair 
prospect  of  maintaining  their  families  in  comfort  and 
happiness,  see  them  reduced  to  a pittance  which  no 
efforts  of  theirs  can  increase  1 Let  it  be  remembered, 
also,  that  there  are  thousands  with  whom  vicious  habits 
of  expense  are  not  the  cause  why  they  do  not  store  up 
their  gains ; but  they  are  generous  and  kind-hearted, 
and  ready  to  help  their  kindred  and  friends;  moreover, 
they  have  a faith  in  Providence  that  those  who  have 
been  prompt  to  assist  others,  will  not  be  left  destitute, 
should  they  themselves  come  to  need.  By  acting  from 
these  blended  feelings,  numbers  have  rendered  them- 
selves incapablet)fstanding  up  against  a sudden  reverse. 
Nevertheless,  these  men,  in  common  with  all  who  have 
the  misfortune  to  be  in  want,  if  many  theorists  had 
their  wish,  would  be  thrown  upon  one  or  other  of  those 
three  sharp  points  of  condition  before  adverted  to,  from 
which  the  intervention  of  law  has  hitherto  saved  them. 

All  that  has  been  said  tends  to  show  how  the  princi- 
ple contended  for  makes  the  gift  of  life  more  valuable, 
and  has,  the  writer  hopes,  led  to  the  conclusion  that  its 
legitimate  operation  is  to  make  men  worthier  of  that 
gift : in  other  words,  not  to  degrade  but  to  exalt  human 
nature.  But  the  subject  must  not  be  dismissed  without 
adverting  to  the  indirect  influence  of  the  same  principle 
upon  the  moral  sentiments  of  a people  among  whom  it 
is  embodied  in  law.  In  our  criminal  jurisprudence 
there  is  a maxim,  deservedly  eulogised,  that  it  is  better 
that  ten  guilty  persons  should  escape,  than  that  one 
innocent  man  should  suffer;  so,  also,  might  it  be  main- 
tained, with  regard  to  the  Poor  Laws,  that  it  is  better  for 
the  interests  of  humanity  among  the  people  at  large, 
that  ten  undeserving  should  partake  of  the  funds  pro- 
vided, than  that  one  morally  good  man,  through  want 
of  relief,  should  either  have  his  principles  corrupted,  or 
his  energies  destroyed;  than  that  such  a one  should 
either  be  driven  to  do  wrong,  or  be  cast  to  the  earth  in 
utter  hopelessness.  In  France,  the  English  maxim  of 
criminal  jurisprudence  is  reversed  ; there,  it  is  deemed 
better  that  ten  innocent  men  should  suffer,  than  one 
guilty  escape : in  France,  there  is  no  universal  provision 
for  the  poor;  and  we  may  judge  of  the  small  value  set 
upon  human  life  in  the  metropolis  of  that  country,  by 
merely  noticing  the  disrespect  with  which,  after  death, 
the  body  is  treated,  not  by  the  thoughtless  vulgar,  but 
in  schools  of  anatomy,  presided  over  by  men  allowed 
to  be,  in  their  own  art  and  in  physical  science,  among 
the  most  enlightened  in  the  world.  In  the  East,  where 
countries  are  overrun  with  population  as  with  a weed, 
infinitely  more  respect  is  shown  to  the  remams  of  the 
deceased ; and  what  a bitter  mockery  is  it,  that  this  in- 
sensibility should  be  found  where  civil  polity  is  so  busy 


in  minor  regulations,  and  ostentatiously  careful  to  gra- 
tify the  luxurious  propensities,  whether  social  or  intel- 
lectual, of  the  multitude ! Irreligion  is,  no  doubt,  much 
concerned  with  this  offensive  disrespect,  shown  to  the 
bodies  of  the  dead  in  France ; but  it  is  mainly  attri- 
butable to  the  state  in  which  so  many  of  the  living 
are  left  by  the  absence  of  compulsory  provision  for 
the  indigent,  so  humanely  established  by  the  law  of 
England. 

Sights  of  abject  misery,  perpetually  recurring,  harden 
the  heart  of  the  community.  In  the  perusal  of  history, 
and  of  works  of  fiction,  we  are  not,  indeed,  unwilling 
to  have  our  commiseration  excited  by  such  objects  of 
distress  as  they  present  to  us ; but  in  the  concerns  of 
real  life,  men  know  that  such  emotions  are  not  given  to 
be  indulged  for  their  own  sakes : there,  the  conscience 
declares  to  them  that  sympathy  must  be  followed  by 
action;  and  if  there  exist  a previous  conviction  that 
the  power  to  relieve  is  utterly  inadequate  to  the  demand, 
the  eye  shrinks  from  communication  with  wretchedness, 
and  pity  and  compassion  languish,  like  any  other 
qualities  that  are  deprived  of  their  natural  aliment. 
Let  these  considerations  be  duly  weighed  by  those  who 
trust  to  the  hope  that  an  increase  of  private  charity, 
with  all  its  advantages  of  superior  discrimination,  would 
more  than  compensate  for  the  abandonment  of  those 
principles,  the  wisdom  of  which  has  been  here  insisted 
upon.  How  discouraging,  also,  would  be  the  sense  of 
injustice,  which  could  not  fail  to  arise  in  the  minds  of 
the  well-disposed,  if  the  burden  of  supporting  the 
poor,  a burden  of  which  the  selfish  have  hitherto  by 
compulsion  borne  a share,  should  now,  or  hereafter,  be 
thrown  exclusively  upon  the  benevolent. 

By  having  put  an  end  to  the  Slave  Trade  and  Slavery, 
the  British  people  are  exalted  in  the  scale  of  humanity  ; 
and  they  cannot  but  feel  so,  if  they  look  into  them- 
selves, and  duly  consider  their  relation  to  God  and  their 
fellow-creatures.  That  was  a noble  advance;  but  a re- 
trograde movement  will  assuredly  be  made,  if  ever  the 
principle,  which  has  been  here  defended,  should  be 
either  avowedly  abandoned,  or  but  ostensibly  retained. 

II.  In  a poem  of  the  foregoing  collection,  the  state 
of  the  workmen  congregated  in  manufactories  is  alluded 
to.*  May  the  author  here  be  permitted  to  say,  that, 
after  much  reflection  iipwn  this  subject,  he  has  not 
been  able  to  discover  a more  effectual  mode  of  al- 
leviating the  evils  to  which  that  class  are  liable,  and 
establishing  a better  harmony  between  them  and  their 
employers,  than  by  a repeal  of  such  laws  as  prevent 
the  formation  of  joint-stock  companies?  The  com- 
binations of  masters  to  keep  down,  unjustly,  the  price 
of  labour,  would  be  fairly  checked  by  these  associations  ; 
they  would  encourage  economy,  inasmuch  as  they  would 
enable  a man  to  draw  profit  from  his  savings,  by  vesting 
them  in  buildings  or  machinery  for  processes  of  manu- 


* See  Lines  entitled  ‘ Jluaianity',  p.  423. 


POSTSCRIPT,  ETC. 


711 


facture  with  which  he  was  habitually  connected.  Ilis 
little  capital  would  then  be  working  for  him  while 
he  was  at  rest  or  asleep ; he  would  more  clearly  per- 
ceive the  necessity  of  capital  for  carrying  on  great 
works ; ho  would  oelter  learn  to  respect  the  larger  por- 
tions of  it  in  the  hands  of  others ; he  would  be  loss 
tempted  to  join  in  unjust  combinations;  and,  for  the 
sake  of  his  own  property,  if  not  for  higher  reasons,  he 
would  be  slow  to  promote  local  disturbance,  or  en- 
danger public  tranquillity;  he  would,  at  least,  be  loth 
to  act  in  that  way  knowingly:  for  it  is  not  to  be  de- 
nied that  such  societies  might  be  nurseries  of  opinions 
unfavourable  to  a mixed  constitution  of  government, 
like  that  of  Great  Britain.  The  democratic  and  re- 
publican spirit  which  they  might  be  apt  to  foster 
would  not,  however,  be  dangerous  in  itself,  but  only  as 
it  might  act  without  being  sufficiently  counterbalanced, 
either  by  landed  proprietorship,  or  by  a Church  ex- 
tending itself  so  as  to  embrace  an  ever-growing  and 
ever-shifting  population  of  mechanics  and  artisans. 
But  if  the  tendencies  of  such  societies  would  be  to 
make  the  men  prosper  who  might  belong  to  them,  rulers 
and  legislators  should  rejoice  in  the  result,  and  do  their 
duty  to  the  state  by  upholding  and  extending  the 
influence  of  that  Church  to  which  it  owes,  in  so  great 
a measure,  its  safety,  its  prosperity,  and  its  glory. 

This,  in  the  temper  of  the  present  times,  may  be 
difficult,  but  it  is  become  indispensable,  since  large 
towns  in  great  numbers  have  sprung  up,  and  others 
have  increased  tenfold,  with  little  or  no  dependence 
upon  the  gentry  and  the  landed  proprietors ; and  apart 
from  those  mitigated  feudal  institutions,  which,  till  of 
late,  have  acted  so  powerfully  upon  the  composition  of 
the  House  of  Commons.  Now  it  may  be  affirmed,  that, 
in  quarters  where  there  is  not  an  attachment  to  the 
Church,  or  the  landed  aristocracy,  and  a pride  in  sup- 
porting them,  there  the  people  will  dislike  both,  and  be 
ready,  upon  such  incitements  as  are  perpetually  re- 
curring, to  join  in  attempts  to  overthrow  them.  There 
is  no  neutral  ground  hero:  from  want  of  due  attention 
to  the  state  of  society  in  large  towns  and  manufacturing 
districts,  and  ignorance  or  disregard  of  these  obvious 
truths,  innumerable  well-meaning  persons  became  zeal- 
ous supporters  of  a Reform  Bill,  the  qualities  and  powers 
of  which,  whether  destructive  or  constructive,  they 
would  otherwise  have  been  afraid  of;  and  even  the 
framers  of  that  bill,  swayed  as  they  might  be  by  party 
resentments  and  personal  ambition,  could  not  have 
gone  so  far,  had  not  they  too  been  lamentably  ignorant 
or  neglectful  of  the  same  truths  both  of  fact  and  philo- 
sophy. 

But  let  that  pass;  and  let  no  opponent  of  the  bill  be 
tempted  to  compliment  his  own  foresight,  by  exagge- 
rating the  mischiefs  and  dangers  that  have  sprung  from 
it : let  not  time  be  wasted  in  profitless  regrets ; and  let 
those  party  distinctions  vanish  to  their  very  names  that 
have  separated  men  who,  whatever  course  they  may  have 


pursued,  have  ever  had  a bond  of  union  in  the  wish  to 
save  the  limited  monarchy,  and  those  other  institutions 
that  have,  under  Providence,  rendered  for  so  long  a 
period  of  time  this  country  the  happiest  and  worthiest 
of  which  tnere  is  any  record  since  the  foundation  of 
civil  society. 

III.  A philosophic  mind  is  best  pleased  when  looking 
at  religion  in  its  spiritual  bearing ; as  a guide  of  conduct, 
a solace  under  affliction,  and  a support  amid  the  insta- 
bilities of  mortal  life:  but  the  Church  having  been 
forced  by  political  considerations  upon  the  notice  of  the 
autlior,  while  treating  of  the  labouring  classes,  he  cannot 
forbear  saying  a few  words  upon  that  momentous  topic. 

There  is  a loud  clamour  for  extensive  change  in  that 
department.  The  clamour  would  be  entitled  to  more 
respect  if  they  who  are  the  most  eager  to  swell  it  with 
their  voices  were  not  generally  the  most  ignorant  of  the 
real  state  of  the  Church,  and  the  service  it  renders  to 
the  community.  Reform  is  the  word  employed.  Let 
us  pause  and  consider  what  sense  it  is  apt  to  carry,  and 
how  things  are  confounded  by  a lax  use  of  it.  The 
great  religious  Reformation,  in  the  sixteenth  century, 
did  not  profess  to  be  a new  construction,  but  a rejto- 
ration  of  something  fallen  into  decay,  or  put  out  of 
sight.  That  familiar  and  justifiable  use  of  the  word 
seems  to  have  paved  the  way  for  fallacies  with  respect 
to  the  term  reform,  which  it  is  difficult  to  escape  from. 
Were  we  to  speak  of  improvement,  and  the  correction 
of  abuses,  we  should  run  less  risk  of  being  deceived 
ourselves,  or  of  misleading  others.  We  should  be  less 
likely  to  fall  blindly  into  the  belief,  that  the  change 
demanded  is  a renewal  of  something  that  has  existed 
before,  and  that,  therefore,  we  have  experience  on  our 
side;  nor  should  we  be  equally  tempted  to  beg  the 
question,  that  the  change  for  which  we  are  eager  must 
be  advantageous.  From  generation  to  generation,  men 
are  the  dupes  of  words ; and  it  is  painful  to  observe, 
that  so  many  of  our  species  are  most  tenacious  of  those 
opinion.^  which  they  have  formed  with  the  least  con- 
sideration. They  who  are  the  readiest  to  meddle  witli 
public  affairs,  whether  in  church  or  state,  fly  to  gene- 
ralities, that  they  may  be  eased  from  the  trouble  of 
thinking  about  particulars;  and  thus  is  deputed  to 
mechanical  instrumentality  the  work  which  vital  know- 
ledge only  can  do  well. 

“Abolish  pluralities,  have  a resident  incumbent  in 
every  parish,”  is  a favourite  cry ; but,  without  adverting 
to  other  obstacles  in  the  way  of  this  specious  scheme,  it 
may  be  asked  what  benefit  would  accrue  from  its 
indiscriminate  adoption  to  counterbalance  the  harm  it 
would  introduce,  by  nearly  extinguishing  the  order  of 
curates,  unless  the  revenues  of  the  church  should  grow 
with  the  population,  and  be  greatly  increased  in  many 
thinly-peopled  districts,  especially  among  the  parishes 
of  the  North. 

The  order  of  curates  is  so  beneficial,  that  some  par- 
ticular notice  of  it  seems  to  be  required  in  this  place. 


712 


APPENDIX. 


For  a cliurch  poor  as,  relatively  to  the  numbers  of  the 
people,  that  of  England  is,  and  probably  w'ill  continue 
to  be,  it  is  no  small  advantage  to  have  youthful  servants, 
v.'ho  will  work  upon  the  wages  of  hope  and  expectation. 
Still  more  advantageous  is  it  to  have,  by  means  of  this 
order,  young  men  scattered  over  the  country,  who  being 
more  detached  from  the  temporal  concerns  of  the  bene- 
fice, have  more  leisure  for  improvement  and  study,  and 
are  less  subject  to  be  brought  into  secular  collision  with 
those  who  are  under  their  spiritual  guardianship.  The 
curate,  if  he  reside  at  a distance  from  the  incumbent, 
undertakes  the  requisite  responsibilities  of  a temporal 
kind,  in  that  modified  way  which  prevents  him,  as  a 
new-comer,  from  being  charged  with  selfishness:  while 
it  prepares  him  for  entering  upon  a benefice  of  his 
own,  with  something  of  a suitable  experience.  If  he 
should  act  under  and  in  co-operation  with  a resident 
incumbent,  the  gain  is  mutual.  His  studies  will  pro- 
bably be  assisted  ; and  his  training,  managed  by  a supe- 
rior, will  not  be  liable  to  relapse  in  matters  of  prudence, 
seemliness,  or  in  any  of  the  highest  cares  of  his  func- 
tions; and  by  way  of  return  for  these  benefits  to  the 
pupil,  it  will  often  happen  that  the  zeal  of  a middle- 
aged  or  declining  incumbent  will  be  revived,  by  being 
in  near  communion  with  the  ardour  of  youth,  when 
his  own  efforts  may  have  languished  through  a melan- 
choly consciousness  that  they  have  not  produced  as 
much  good  among  his  flock  as,  when  he  first  entered 
upon  the  charge,  he  fondly  hoped. 

Let  one  remark,  and  that  not  the  least  important,  be 
added.  A curate,  entering  for  the  first  time  upon  his 
office,  comes  from  college  after  a course  of  expense,  and 
with  such  inexperience  in  the  use  of  money,  that,  in 
his  new  situation,  he  is  apt  to  fall  unawares  into  pe- 
cuniary difficulties.  If  this  happens  to  him,  much 
more  likely  is  it  to  happen  to  the  youthful  incumbent; 
whose  relations,  to  his  parishioners  and  to  society,  are 
more  complicated  ; and,  his  income  being  larger  and 
independent  of  another,  a costlier  style  of  living  is 
required  of  him  by  public  opinion.  If  embarrassment 
should  ensue,  and  with  that  unavoidably  some  loss  of 
respectability,  his  future  usefulness  will  be  proportion- 
ably  impaired  : not  so  with  the  curate,  for  he  can  easily  | 
remove  and  start  afresh  with  a stock  of  experience  and  i 
an  unblemished  reputation,  whereas  the  early  indis-  j 
cretions  of  an  incumbent  being  rarely  forgotten,  may 
be  impediments  to  the  efficacy  of  his  ministry  for  the  j 
remainder  of  his  life.  The  same  observations  would 
apply  with  equal  force  to  doctrine.  A young  minister 
is  liable  to  errors,  from  his  notions  being  either  too  lax 
or  overstrained.  In  both  cases  it  would  prove  injurious 
that  the  error  should  be  remembered,  after  study  and 
reflection,  with  advancing  years,  shall  have  brought  him 
to  a clearer  discernment  of  the  truth,  and  better  judg- 
ment in  the  application  of  it. 

It  must  be  acknowledged  that,  among  the  regula-  | 
tions  of  ecclesiastical  polity,  none  at  first  view  are  more  , 


attractive  than  that  which  prescribes  for  every  parish  a 
resident  incumbent.  How  agreeable  to  picture  to  one’s 
self,  as  has  been  done  by  poets  and  romance-writers, 
from  Chaucer  down  to  Goldsmith,  a man  devoted  to  his 
ministerial  office,  with  not  a wish  or  a thought  ranging 
beyond  the  circuit  of  its  cares ! Nor  is  it  in  poetry  and 
fiction  only  that  such  characters  are  found  ; they  are 
scattered,  it  is  hoped  not  sparingly,  over  real  life, 
especially  in  sequestered  and  rural  districts,  where  there 
is  but  small  influx  of  new  inhabitants,  and  little  chansre 
of  occupation.  The  spirit  of  the  Gospel,  unaided  by 
acquisitions  of  profane  learning  and  experience  in  the 
world,  that  spirit,  and  the  obligations  of  the  sacred 
office  may,  in  such  situations,  suffice  to  effect  most 
of  what  is  needful.  But  for  the  complex  state  of 
society  that  prevails  in  England,  much  more  is  required, 
j both  in  large  towns,  and  in  many  extensive  districts  of 
j the  country.  A minister  there  should  not  only  be 
irreproachable  in  manners  and  morals,  but  accomplished 
in  learning,  as  far  as  is  possible  without  sacrifice  of  the 
least  of  his  pastoral  duties.  As  necessary,  perhaps 
more  so,  is  it  that  he  should  be  a citizen  as  well  as  a 
scholar;  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  structure  of 
society,  and  the  constitution  of  civil  government,  and 
able  to  reason  upon  both  with  the  most  expert;  all 
ultimately  in  order  to  support  the  truths  of  Christianity, 
and  to  diffuse  its  blessings. 

A young  man  coming  fresh  from  the  place  of  his 
education,  cannot  have  brought  with  him  tliese  accom- 
plishments; and  if  the  scheme  of  equalising  church 
incomes,  which  many  advisers  are  much  bent  upon,  be 
realised,  so  that  there  should  be  little  or  no  secular 
inducement  for  a clergyman  to  desire  a removal  f.  oin 
the  spot  where  he  may  chance  to  have  been  first  set 
down  ; surely  not  only  opportunities  for  obtaining  the 
requisite  qualifications  would  be  diminished,  but  the 
motives  for  desiring  to  obtain  them  would  be  propor- 
tionably  weakened.  And  yet  these  qualificat.ons  are 
indispensable  for  the  diffusion  of  that  knowledge,  by 
which  alone  the  political  philosophy  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment can  be  rightly  expounded,  and  its  precepts 
adequately  enforced.  In  these  times,  when  the  press  is 
daily  exercising  so  great  a power  over  the  minds  of  the 
people,  for  wrong  or  for  right  as  may  happen,  that 
preacher  ranks  among  the  first  of  benefactors  who, 
without  stooping  to  the  direct  treatment  of  current 
politics  and  passing  events,  can  furnish  infallible  guid- 
ance through  the  delusions  that  surround  them  ; and 
who,  appealing  to  the  sanctions  of  Scripture,  may  place 
the  grounds  of  its  injunctions  in  so  clear  a light,  that 
disaffection  shall  cease  to  be  cultivated  as  a laudable 
propensity,  and  loyalty  cleansed  from  the  dishonour  of 
a blind  and  prostrate  obedience. 

It  is  not,  however,  in  regard  to  civic  duties  alone, 
that  this  knowledge  in  a minister  of  the  Gospel  is 
important ; it  is  still  more  so  for  softening  and  subduing 
private  and  personal  discontents.  In  all  places,  and  at 


POSTSCRIPT,  ETC. 


713 


all  times,  men  have  gratuitously  troubled  themselves, 
because  their  survey  of  the  dispensations  of  Providence 
has  been  partial  and  narrow ; but  now  that  readers  are 
so  greatly  multiplied,  men  judge  as  they  are  taught,  and 
repinings  are  engendered  every  where,  by  imputations 
being  cast  upon  the  government,  and  are  prolonged  or 
aggravated  by  being  ascribed  to  misconduct  or  injustice 
in  rulers,  when  the  individual  himself  only  is  in  fault. 
If  a Christian  pastor  be  competent  to  deal  with  these 
humours,  as  they  may  be  dealt  with,  and  by  no  mem- 
bers of  society  so  successfully,  both  from  more  frequent 
and  more  favourable  opportunities  of  intercourse,  and  by 
aid  of  the  authority  with  which  he  speaks ; he  will  be 
a.  teacher  of  moderation,  a dispenser  of  the  wisdom 
that  blunts  approaching  distress  by  submission  to  God’s 
will,  and  lightens,  by  patience,  grievances  which  cannot 
be  removed.  • 

We  live  in  times  when  nothing,  of  public  good  at 
least,  is  generally  acceptable,  but  what  we  believe  can  be 
traced  to  preconceived  intention,  and  specific  acts  and 
formal  contrivances  of  human  understanding.  A Chris- 
tian instructor  thoroughly  accomplished  would  be  a 
standing  restraint  upon  such  presumptuousness  of  judg- 
ment, by  impressing  the  truth  that — 

In  the  unreasoning  progress  of  the  world 
A wiser  spirit  is  at  work  lor  us, 

A better  eye  than  ours. MS. 

Revelation  points  to  the  purity  and  peace  of  a future 
world;  but  our  sphere  of  duty  is  upon  earth  ; and  the 
relations  of  impure  and  conflicting  things  to  each  other 
must  be  understood,  or  we  shall  be  perpetually  going 
wrong  in  all  but  goodness  of  intention  ; and  goodness 
of  intention  will  itself  relax  through  frequent  disappoint- 
ment. How  desirable,  then,  is  it,  that  a minister  of 
the  Gospel  should  be  versed  in  the  knowledge  of  existing 
facts,  and  be  accustomed  to  a wide  range  of  social 
experience ! Nor  is  it  less  desirable  for  the  purpose  of 
counterbalancing  and  tempering  in  his  own  mind  that 
ambition  with  which  spiritual  power  is  as  apt  to  be 
tainted  as  any  other  species  of  power  which  men  covet 
or  possess. 

It  must  be  obvious  that  the  scope  of  the  argument  is 
to  discourage  an  attempt  which  would  introduce  into  the 
Church  of  England  an  equality  of  income,  and  station, 
upon  the  model  of  that  of  Scotland.  The  sounder  part 
of  the  Scottish  nation  know  what  good  their  ancestors 
derived  from  their  church,  and  feel  how  deeply  the  living 
generation  is  indebted  to  it.  They  respect  and  love  it, 
as  accommodated  in  so  great  a measure  to  a comparative- 
ly poor  country,  through  the  far  greater  portion  of  which 
prevails  a uniformity  of  employment ; but  the  acknow- 
ledged deficiency  of  theological  learning  among  the  cler- 
gy of  that  church  is  easily  accounted  for  by  this  very 
equality.  What  else  may  be  wanting  there,  it  would  be 
unpleasant  to  inquire,  and  might  prove  invidious  to  de- 
termine: one  thing,  however,  is  clear ; that  in  all  coun- 
tries the  temporalities  of  the  Church  Establishment 
4P 


should  bear  an  analogy  to  the  state  of  society,  otherwise 
it  cannot  diffuse  its  influence  through  the  whole  commu- 
nity. In  a country  so  rich  and  luxurious  as  England,  the 
character  of  its  clergy  must  unavoidably  sink,  and  their 
influence  be  every  where  impaired,  if  individuals  from 
the  upper  ranks,  and  men  of  leading  talents,  are  to  have 
no  inducements  to  enter  into  that  body  but  such  as  are 
purely  spiritual.  And  this  “ tinge  of  secularity”  is  no 
reproach  to  the  clergy,  nor  does  it  imply  a deficiency  of 
spiritual  endowments.  Parents  and  guardians,  looking 
forward  to  sources  of  honourable  maintenance  for  their 
children  and  wards,  often  direct  their  thoughts  early 
towards  the  church,  being  determined  partly  by  outward 
circumstances,  and  partly  by  indications  of  seriousness, 
or  intellectual  fitness.  It  is  natural  that  a boy  or  youth, 
with  such  a prospect  before  him,  should  turn  his  attention 
to  those  studies,  and  be  led  into  those  habits  of  re- 
flection, which  will  in  some  degree  dispose  and  tend  to 
prepare  him  for  the  duties  he  is  hereafter  to  undertake. 
As  he  draws  nearer  to  the  time  when  he  will  be  called 
to  these  duties,  he  is  both  led  and  compelled  to  examine 
the  Scriptures.  He  becomes  more  and  more  sensible  of 
their  truth.  Devotion  grows  in  him ; and  what  might 
begin  in  temporal  consideration,  will  end  (as  in  a ma- 
jority of  instances  we  trust  it  does)  in  a spiritual-minded- 
ness  not  unworthy  of  that  Gospel,  the  lessons  of  which 
he  is  to  teach,  and  the  faith  of  which  he  is  to  inculcate. 
Not  inappositely  may  be  here  repeated  an  observation, 
which,  from  its  obviousness  and  importance,  must  have 
been  frequently  made,  viz.  that  the  impoverishing  of  the 
clergy,  and  bringing  their  incomes  much  nearer  to  a 
level,  would  not  cause  them  to  become  less  worldly- 
minded  : the  emoluments,  howsoever  reduced,  would  be 
as  eagerly  sought  for,  but  by  men  from  lower  classes  in 
society ; men  who,  by  their  manners,  habits,  abilities, 
and  the  scanty  measure  of  their  attainments,  would  un- 
avoidably be  less  fitted  for  their  station,  and  less  com- 
petent to  discharge  its  duties. 

Visionary  notions  have  in  all  ages  been  afloat  upon 
the  subject  of  best  providing  for  the  clergy ; notions 
which  have  been  sincerely  entertained  by  good  men, 
with  a view  to  the  improvement  of  that  order,  and 
eagerly  caught  at  and  dwelt  upon,  by  the  designing,  for 
its  degradation  and  disparagement.  Some  are  beguiled 
by  what  they  call  the  voluntary  system,  not  seeing  (what 
stares  one  in  the  face  at  the  very  threshold)  that  they 
who  stand  in  most  need  of  religious  instruction  are 
unconscious  of  the  want,  and  therefore  cannot  reasonably 
be  expected  to  make  any  sacrifices  in  order  to  supply  it. 
Will  the  licentious,  the  sensual,  and  the  depraved,  take 
from  the  means  of  their  gratifications  and  pursuits,  to 
support  a discipline  that  cannot  advance  without  uproot- 
ing the  trees  that  bear  the  fruit  which  they  devour  so 
greedily  1 Will  they  pay  the  price  of  that  seed  whose 
harvest  is  to  be  reaped  in  an  invisible  world  ? A volun- 
tary system  for  the  religious  exigences  of  a people 
numerous  and  circumstanced  as  we  are ! Not  more 
60* 


714 


APPENDIX. 


absurd  would  it  be  to  expect  that  a knot  of  boys  should 
draw  upon  the  pittance  of  their  pocket-money  to  build 
schools,  or  out  of  the  abundance  of  their  discretion  be 
able  to  select  fit  masters  to  teach  and  keep  them  in  order ! 
Some,  who  clearly  perceive  the  incompetence  and  folly 
of  such  a scheme  for  the  agricultural  part  of  the  people, 
nevertheless  think  it  feasible  in  large  towns,  where  the 
rich  might  subscribe  for  the  religious  instruction  of  the 
poor.  Alas ! they  know  little  of  the  thick  darkness  that 
spreads  over  the  streets  and  alleys  of  ouit  large  towns. 
The  parish  of  Lambeth,  a few  years  since,  contained  not 
more  than  one  church  and  three  or  four  small  proprie- 
tary chapels,  while  dissenting  chapels  of  every  denom- 
ination were  still  more  scantily  found  there ; yet  the 
inhabitants  of  the  parish  amounted  at  that  time  to 
upwards  of  50,000.  Were  the  parish  church  and  the 
chapels  of  the  Establishment  existing  there,  an  impedi- 
ment to  the  spread  of  the  Gospel  among  that  mass  of 
people  1 Who  shall  dare  to  say  so  1 

For  the  preservation  of  the  Church  Establishment,  all 
men,  whether  they  belong  to  it  or  not,  could  they 
perceive  their  true  interest,  would  be  strenuous;  but 
how  inadequate  are  its  provisions  for  the  needs  of  the 
country  ! and  how  mucli  is  it  to  be  regretted  that,  while 
its  zealous  friends  yield  to  alarms  on  account  of  tlie 
hostility  of  dissent,  they  should  so  much  over-rate  the 
danger  to  be  apprehended  from  that  quarter,  and  almost 
overlook  the  fact  that  hundreds  of  thousands  of  our 
fellow-countrymen,  though  formally  and  nominally  of 
the  Church  of  England,  never  enter  her  places  of 
W’orship,  neither  have  they  communication  witli  her 
ministers!  This  deplorable  state  of  things  seems 
partly  owing  to  a decay  of  zeal  among  the  rich  and 
influential,  and  partly  to  a want  of  due  expansive  power 
in  the  constitution  of  the  Establishment  as  regulated 
by  law.  Private  benefactors,  in  their  efforts  to  build 
and  endow  churches,  have  been  frustrated,  or  too  much 
impeded,  by  legal  obstacles:  these,  where  they  are 
unreasonable  or  unfitted  for  the  times,  ought  to  be 
removed;  and,  keeping  clear  of  intolerance  and  in- 
justice, means  should  be  used  to  render  the  presence 
and  powers  of  the  church  commensurate  with  the  w'ants 
of  a shifting  and  still-increasing  population. 

This  cannot  be  effected,  unless  the  English  Govern- 
ment vindicate  the  truth,  that,  as  her  church  exists  for 
the  benefit  of  all  (though  not  in  an  equal  degree),  whether 
of  her  communion  or  not,  all  should  be  made  to  con- 
tribute to  its  support.  If  this  ground  be  abandoned, 
tlie  not  remote  consequence  will  be,  the  infliction  of  a 
v/ound  upon  the  moral  heart  of  the  English  people, 
from  which,  till  ages  shall  have  gone  by,  it  will  not 
recover. 

But  let  the  friends  of  the  clnych  be  of  good  courage. 
Powers  are  at  work,  by  which,  under  Divine  Providence, 
she  may  be  strengthened  and  the  sphere  of  her  useful- 
ness extended ; not  by  alterations  in  her  Liturgy,  ac- 
commedated  to  this  or  that  demand  of  finical  taste,  nor 


by  cutting  off  this  or  that  from  her  Articles  or  Canons, 
to  which  the  scrupulous  or  the  overweening  may  object. 
Covert  schism,  and  open  nonconformity,  would  survive 
after  alterations,  however  promising  in  the  eyes  of 
those  whose  subtilty  had  been  exercised  in  making  them. 
Latitudinarianism  is  the  parhelion  of  liberty  of  con- 
science, and  will  ever  successfully  lay  claim  to  a divided 
worship.  Among  Presbyterians,  Socinians,  Baptists, 
and  Independents,  there  will  always  be  found  numbers 
who  will  tire  of  their  several  creeds,  and  some  will 
come  over  to  the  Church.  Conventicles  may  disappear, 
congregations  in  each  denomination  may  fall  into  decay 
or  be  broken  up,  but  the  conquests  which  the  National 
Church  ought  chiefly  to  aim  at,  lie  among  the  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  the  unhappy  outcasts  who  grow 
up  with  no  religion  at  all.  The  wants  of  these  cannot 
but  be  feelingly  rememl^red.  Whatever  may  be  the 
dispositions  of  the  new  constituencies  under  the  reformed 
parliament,  and  the  course  which  the  men  of  their 
choice  may  be  inclined  or  compelled  to  follow,  it  may 
be  confidently  hoped  that  individuals,  acting  in  their 
private  capacities,  will  endeavour  to  make  up  for  the 
deficiencies  of  the  legislature.  Is  it  too  much  to  expect 
that  proprietors  of  large  estates,  where  the  inhabitants 
are  without  religious  instruction,  or  where  it  is  sparingly 
supplied,  will  deem  it  their  duty  to  take  part  in  this 
good  work  ; and  that  thriving  manufacturers  and  mer- 
chants will,  in  their  several  neighbourhoods,  be  sensible 
of  the  like  obligation,  and  act  upon  it  with  generous 
rivalry  1 

Moreover,  the  force  of  public  opinion  is  rapidly 
increasing:  and  some  may  bend  to  it,  who  are  not  so 
happy  as  to  be  swayed  by  a higher  motive;  especially 
they  who  derive  large  incomes  from  lay-impropriations, 
in  tracts  of  country  where  ministers  are  few  and  mea- 
grely provided  for.  A claim  still  stronger  may  be 
acknowledged  by  those  who,  round  their  superb  habit- 
ations or  elsewhere,  walk  over  vast  estates  which  were 
lavished  upon  their  ancestors  by  royal  favouritism,  or 
purchased  at  insignificant  prices  after  church-spoliation  ; 
such  proprietors,  though  not  conscience-stricken  (there 
is  no  call  for  that)  may  be  prompted  to  make  a return 
for  which  their  tenantry  and  dependants  will  learn  to 
bless  their  names.  An  impulse  has  been  given  ; an  ac- 
cession of  means  from  these  several  sources,  co-operating 
with  a jcf/Lconsidered  change  in  the  distribution  of 
some  parts  of  the  property  at  present  posse.ssed  by  the 
church,  a change  scrupulously  founded  upon  due  re- 
spect to  law  and  justice,  will,  we  trust,  bring  about  so 
much  of  what  her  friends  desire,  that  the  rest  may  be 
calmly  waited  for,  with  thankfulness  for  what  shall 
have  been  obtained. 

Let  it  not  be  thought  unbecoming  in  a layman,  to 
have  treated  at  length  a subject  with  whicli  the  clergy 
are  more  intimately  conversant.  All  may,  without  impro- 
priety, speak  of  what  deeply  concerns  all ; nor  need  an 
apology  be  offered  for  going  over  ground  which  has 


POSTSCRIPT,  ETC. 


15 


been  trod  before  so  ably  and  so  often;  without  pre- 
tending, however,  to  any  thing  of  novelty,  either  in 
matter  or  manner,  something  may  have  been  offered  to 
view,  which  will  save  the  writer  from  the  imputation  of 
having  little  to  recommend  his  labour,  but  goodness  of 
intention. 

It  was  with  reference  to  thoughts  expressed  in  verse, 
that  the  Author  entered  upon  the  above  notices,  and 
with  verse  he  will  conclude.  The  passage  is  extracted 
from  his  MSS.  written  above  thirty  years  ago:  it  turns 
upon  the  individual  dignity  which  humbleness  of 
social  condition  does  not  preclude,  but  frequently  pro- 
motes. It  has  no  direct  bearing  upon  clubs  for  the 
discussion  of  public  affairs,  nor  upon  political  or  trade- 
unions;  but  if  a single  workman  — who,  being  a 
member  of  one  of  those  clubs,  runs  the  risk  of  be- 
coming an  agitator,  or  who,  being  enrolled  in  a union, 
must  be  left  without  a will  of  his  own,  and  therefore  a 
slave  — should  read  these  lines,  and  be  touched  by 
them,  the  Author  would  indeed  rejoice,  and  little 
would  he  care  for  losing  credit  as  a poet  with  intem- 
perate critics,  who  think  differently  from  him  upon 
political  philosophy  or  public  measures,  if  the  sober- 
minded  admit  that,  in  general  views,  his  affections  have 
been  moved,  and  his  imagination  exercised,  under  and 
for  the  guidance  of  reason. 

“ Here  might  I pause,  and  bend  in  reverence 
To  Nature,  and  the  power  of  human  minds; 

To  men  as  they  are  men  within  themselves. 

How  oft  high  service  is  performed  within, 

VV'hen  all  the  external  man  is  rude  in  show  ; 

Not  like  a temple  rich  with  pomp  and  gold, 

But  a mere  mountain  chapel  that  protects 
Its  simple  worshippers  from  sun  and  shower ! 

Of  these,  said  I,  shall  be  my  song ; of  these. 

If  future  years  mature  me  tor  the  task, 

Will  I record  the  praises,  making  verse 
Deal  boldly  with  substantial  things  — in  truth 
And  sanctity  of  passion,  speak  of  thes.. 

That  justice  may  be  done,  obeisance  paid 


Where  it  is  due.  Thus  haply  shall  I teach. 

Inspire,  through  unadulterated  ears 

Pour  rapture,  tenderness,  and  hope ; my  theme 

No  other  than  the  very  heart  of  man. 

As  found  among  the  best  of  those  who  live, 

Not  unexalted  by  religious  faith. 

Nor  uninformed  by  books,  good  books,  though  few. 

In  Nature’s  presence:  thence  may  I select 
Sorrow  that  is  not  sorrow,  but  delight. 

And  miserable  love  that  is  not  pain 
To  hear  of,  for  the  glory  that  redounds 
Therefrom  to  human  kind,  and  what  we  are. 

Be  mine  to  follow  witli  no  timid  step 
Where  knowledge  leads  me ; it  shall  be  my  pride 
That  I have  dared  to  tread  this  holy  ground. 
Speaking  no  dream,  but  things  oracular. 

Matter  not  lightly  to  be  heard  by  those 
Who  to  the  letter  of  the  outward  promise 
Do  read  the  invisible  soul ; by  men  adroit 
In  speech,  and  for  communion  with  tlie  world 
Accomplished,  minds  whose  faculties  are  then 
Most  active  w'hen  they  are  most  eloquent. 

And  elevated  most  when  most  admired. 

Men  may  be  found  of  other  mould  tlian  these  ; 

Who  are  their  own  upholders,  to  themselves 
Encouragement,  and  energy,  and  will ; 

Expressing  liveliest  thoughts  in  lively  words 
As  native  passion  dictates.  Others,  too. 

There  are,  among  the  walks  of  homely  life. 

Still  higher,  men  for  contemplation  framed  ; 

Shy,  and  unpractised  in  the  strife  of  phrase  ; 

Meek  men,  whose  very  souls  perhaps  would  sink 
Beneath  them,  summoned  to  such  intercourse. 

Their ’s  is  the  language  of  the  heavens,  the  power. 
The  thought,  the  image,  and  the  silent  joy  : 

Words  are  but  under-agents  in  their  souls; 

When  they  are  grasping  with  their  greatest  strength 
They  do  not  breathe  among  them;  tliis  I speak 
In  gratitude  to  God,  who  feeds  our  hearts 
For  his  own  service,  knoweth,  loveth  us. 

When  we  are  unregarded  by  the  world,” 


- Tfv  - 

,F:;^  m 

, .•'f 


.Mm'ji.mii 


jm< 

'M-^  3' 

*■.,  ' .t^‘gs^+9ilhi^  - '0r^fr_Jk 


; ^ -t^l  ^1/  ^’TvSi;  .-i-rf 


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AT‘  ■.-  ‘ ir»t^ 

'■'*-  *»>t*4»si  iU:  ^ "H'-sifeN  ‘#m'3M.'ri»;S| 


■w^  >>  f il?:  '^yki'.  it:  .e!<i^.>/-^;PWsj^W^>i/Mi^ 


F t ’ ' w'  “:  , ■ ' -▼?  * ■'M •■ 


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INDEX  TO  THE  POEMS 


[In  case  of  need,  seek  under  the  word  Lines,  Sonnets,  or  Stanzas.] 


Ab  JSE  of  Monastic  Power,  357 
A Character,  403 
A Complaint,  98 
Acquittal  of  the  Bishops,  363 
Address  from  the  Spirit  of  Cocker- 
mouth  Castle,  308 

— to  a Child,  74 

— to  Kilchurn  Castle,  243 

— to  my  Infant  Daughter,  152 

— to  the  Scholars  ol  the  Village 

School  of , 460 

Admonition,  216 
A Fact  and  an  Imagination,  413 
A Farewell,  94 
Afflictions  of  England,  362 
A Flower  Garden,  144 
After  leaving  Italy,  326 

— — 326 

After-thought  (Riv.  Dud.),  299 

— (Tour  Contin.),  280 

A Grave-stone — Worcester  Cathedral, 
230 

A Jewish  Family,  180 
Airey-force  Valley,  192 
Ai.x-la-Chapelle,  279 
Alfred,  353 

Alfred’s  Descendants,  353 
Alice  Fell,  75 
American  Tradition,  296 
Among  the  Ruins  of  a Convent  in  the 
Apennines.  326 
A Morning  Exercise,  137 
Anecdote  tor  Fathers,  77 
An  Evening  Ode,  211 
An  Evening  Walk,  25 
A Night-piece,  164 
A Night-thought,  394 
Animal  Tranquillity  and  Decay,  456 
An  Interdict,  354 
Anticipation,  Oct.  1803,  257 
A Parsonage  in  Oxfordshire,  228 
A Place  of  Burial  in  the  South  of  Scot- 
land, 302 

A Plea  for  Authors,  235 
A Poet  to  his  Grandchild,  (sequel  to 
the  foregoing),  235 
A Poet’s  Epitaph,  395 
Apology  (Ecc.  Son.),  351 

— (Ecc.  Son.),  358 

— (Pun.  of  Death),  277 

— (Yar.  Rev.),  305 

A Prophecy,  Feb.  1807,  258 
Archbishop  Chichely  to  Henry  V.,  357 
Artegal  and  Elidure,  91 
Aspects  of  Christianity  in  America,  364 

— — — 364 

— — — 365 

At  Albano,  322 

At  Applethwaite,  215 
At  Bologna,  274 

— 274 

— 274 
At  Dover,  235 
At  Florence,  325 

— 325 

— 325 

— 326 

At  Furness  Abbey,  236 
— 237 

A Tradition  of  Oken  Hill,  231 


At  Rome,  321 

— 322 

— 322 

~ 322 

At  the  Convent  of  Camaldoli,  324 

— — 324 

— — 325 

At  the  Grave  of  Burns,  237 

At  Vallambrosa,  325 
A Wren’s  Nest,  150 

Baptism,  365 

Before  the  Picture  of  the  Baptist,  325 
Beggars,  172 

— Sequel,  172 
Bothwell  Castle,  304 
Bruges,  278 

— 278 

Calais,  Aug.  1802,  253 

— 15  Aug.  1802,  253 
Canute,  353 

Captivity.  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  226 
Casual  Incitement,  350 
Catechising,  366 
Cathedrals,  &c.,  369 
Cave  of  Stafla,  312 

— 312 

— 312 
Cenotaph,  460 
Changes,  302 

Characteristics  of  a Child,  73 
Character  of  the  Happy  Warrior,  394 
Charles  the  Second,  362 
Church  to  be  erected,  369 

— — 369 

Cistertian  Monastery,  355 
Clerical  Integrity,  363 
Conclusion  (Ecc.  Son.),  370 

— (Mis.  Son.),  232 

— (Pun.  of  Death),  277 

— (Riv.  Dud.),  299 

— (Tour  in  Scot.),  315 
Confirmation,  366 

— 366 

Congratulation,  368 
Conjectures,  348 
Conversion,  351 

Corruptions  of  the  higher  Clergy,  357 

Countess’  Pillar,  305 

Cranmer,  360 

Crusaders,  356 

Crusades,  354 

Danish  Conquests,  353 
Decay  of  Piety,  219 
Dedication  (Con.  Tour),  278 

— (Excursion),  550 

— (Mis.  Son.),  215 

— (Tour  in  Italy),  318 

— (W.  Doe  of  R.),  328 
Departure. — Vale  of  Grasmere,  237 
Descriptive  Sketches,  29 
Desultory  Stanzas,  290 
Devotional  Incitements,  407 
Dion,  415 

Dirge,  461 
Dissensions,  349 

Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries,  358 

— — 358 


Dissolution  of  the  Monasteries,  358 

Distractions,  361 

Druidical  Excommunication,  348 

Eagles,  303 

Echo,  upon  the  Gemini,  287 
Edward  VI.,  359 

— signing  the  Warrant,  359 
Effusion.  — Banks  of  the  Bran,  250 

— Tower  of  Tell,  282 
Ejaculation,  370 

Elegiac  Musings. — Coleorlon  Hall,  466 
— Stanzas,  1824,  465 

— — F.  W.  Goddard,  288 

— — Peele  Castle,  463 

— Verses.  John  Wordsworth, 

1805,  462 
Elizabeth,  360 
Ellen  Irwin,  240 
Emigrant  French  Clergy,  368 
Eminent  Reformers,  361 

— — 361 

Engelberg,  281 

English  Reformers  in  exile,  360 
Epistle  to  Sir  George  Beaumont,  Bart., 
434 

Epitaph,  466 

Epitaph.  Langdale  Chapel-yard,  460 
Epitaphs  from  Chiabrera,  458. 
Evening  Voluntaries,  426 
Expostulation  and  Reply,  393 
Extempore  Effusion,  upon  the  death 
of  James  Hogg,  468 
Extract  from  the  conclusion  of  a Poem, 
25 

Fancy  and  Tradition,  313 

Farewell,  1802,  94 

Farewell  Lines,  94 

Feelings  of  a French  Royalist,  264 

— a Noble  Biscayan,  262 

— the  Tyrolese,  259 
Fidelity,  409 

Filial  Piety,  231 
Fish-women,  278 
Floating  Island  (D.  W.),  419 
Flowers,  294  , 

— Cave  of  Staffa,  312 
Foresight,  73 

Forms  of  Prayer  at  Sea,  367 
Fort  Fuentes,  283 
French  Revolution,  188 
From  the  Alban  Hdls,  323 
Funeral  Service,  367 

General  View.  — Reformation,  360 
Gipsies,  171 
Glad  Tidings,  350 
Glen-AImain,  241 

Gold  and  Silver  Fishes  in  a Vase,  189 
Goody  Blake  and  Harry  Gill,  168 
Gordale,  227 
Grace  Darling,  123 
Greenock,  313 
Guilt  and  Sorrow,  38 
Gunpowder  Plot,  361 

Hart-leap  Well,  184 
Ilarts-horn  Tree,  305 
Her  eyes  are  wild,  127 


717 


718 


INDEX  TO  THE  POEMS. 


Higliland  Hut  304 

Hint  from  the  Mountains,  149 

Hints  for  the  Fancy,  295 

Hoffer,  259 

Humanity,  422 

Hymn  for  the  Boatmen. — Heidelberg, 
279 

Illustrated  Books  and  Newspapers,  235 
Illustration,  361 
Imaginative  Regrets,  359 
Incident  at  Bruges,  398 

— characteristic  of  a favourite 
Dog,  399 

Indignation  of  a high-minded  Spaniard, 
262 

Influence  abused,  353 

— of  natural  objects,  80 
In  Lombardy,  326 

Inscription.  At  the  request  of  Sir 
G.  II.  Beaumont,  449 

— Black  Comb,  450 

— Crosthwaite  Church,  469 

— For  a seat  in  the  groves 

of  Coleorton,  449 

— For  a Stone  at  Rydal 
Mount,  452 

— Hermitage,  452 

Hermit’s  Cell,  451 
— In  a garden  of  Sir  G.  H. 
Beaumont,  449 

— In  the  grounds  of  Cole- 
orton, 449 

— Island  at  Grasmere,  450 

— — at  Rydal,  450 

— On  the  Banks  of  a Rocky 

Stream,  419 

— Spring  of  the  Hermitage, 

451 

— Upon  a Rock.  451 

Inside  of  King’s  College  Chapel,  369 

— — 369 

— — 370 

Introduction,  (Ecc.  Son.),  348 
Invocation  to  the  Earth,  465 

Iona,  31 2 
— 313 

Journey  renewed,  298 
Isle  of  Man,  310 

— 310 

Lament  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  99 
Laodamia,  175 
Latimer  and  Ridley,  360 
Latitudinarianism,  363 
Laud,  362 

Liberty. — Gold  and  Silver  Fishes,  189 
Lines.  Above  Tintern  Abbey,  193 
— Album  of  the  Countess  of 
Lonsdale,  418 

— Blann  Leaf  of  the  “ E-xcur- 
sion,”  463 

— By  the  Sea-shore,  429 
— By  the'Sea-side,  428 
— By  the  side  of  Rydal  Mere,  426 
— Charles  Lamb,  467 
— Coast  of  Cumberland,  427 
— E.xpected  Invasion,  1803,  272 
— In  a boat  at  evening,  37 
— In  early  Spring,  397 
— Macpherson’s  Ossian,  403 
— Mr.  Fox,  461 
— Portrait,  423 

— — 424 

— Suggested  by  a Picture  of  the 
Bird  of  Paradise,  192 
— Upon  seeing  a coloured  Draw- 
ing of  the  Bird  of  Paradise,  394 
— Yew-tree  Seat,  37 
London,  1802,  255 
Love  lies  bleeding,  151 

— — Companion  to,  152 
Loving  and  Liking,  126 

Louisa,  96 
Lowther,  315 
Lucy  Gray,  75 


Malham  Cove,  226 
Mary  Queen  of  Scots,  309 
Maternal  Grief,  125 
Matthew,  400 

Memorial.  — Lake  of  Thun,  280 
Memory,  425 
Michael,  115 

Missions  and  Travels,  352 
Monastery  of  old  Bangor,  350 
Monastic  Voluptuousness,  357 
Monks  and  Schoolmen,  355 
Monument  of  Mrs.  Howard,  314 
Musings  near  Aquapendente,  318 
Mutability,  368 

Near  Rome.  In  sight  of  St.  Peter’s, 
322 

— the  Lake  of  Thrasymene,  323 

— — — 323 

New  Churches,  368 

— Church-yard,  369 
Nunnery,  314 
Nun’s  Well,  Brigham,  308 
Nutting,  165 

Obligations  of  civil  to  religious  Liberty, 
363 

Ode,  257 

— composed  in  January,  1816,  265 

— — on  an  evening  of  extra- 

ordinary splendour,  211 

— — on  May  Morning,  406 

— Intimations  of  Immortality,  470 

— 1816,  Thanksgiving  Day,  267 

— on  the  Installation  of  Prince 
Albert,  437 

— The  Pass  of  Kirkstone,  191 

— to  Duty,  425 

— to  Lycoris,  405 

— to  the  same,  405 
Old  Abbeys,  368 

On  a Portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Welling- 
ton, 233 

Open  Prospect,  296 
Other  Benefits,  355 

— — 356 

— Influences,  352 

Our  Ladv  of  the  Snow,  281 
Oxford,  May  30,  1820,  228 
— — 228 

Palafox,  261 
Papal  Abuses,  354 
Dominion,  355 
Pastoral  Character,  365 
Patriotic  Sympathies,  362 
Paulinus,  351 
Persecution,  349 

— of  the  Covenanters,  363 
Personal  talk,  221 

— continued,  221 

— — 222 

— concluded,  222 

Persuasion,  351 
Peter  Bell,  194 

Picture  of  Daniel  in  the  Lion’s  Den, 
304 

Places  of  Worship,  365 
Plea  for  the  Historian,  322 
Poor  Robin,  419 
Postscript  (Riv.  Dud.),  299 
Power  of  Music,  170 
Prelude.  Poems  chiefly  of  early  and 
late  years,  437 
Presentiments,  417 
Primitive  Saxon  Clergy,  351 
Processioni.  Chamouny,  287 

Recollection  of  the  Portrait  of  Henry 
VHL,  228 
Recovery,  349 
Reflections,  359 
Regrets,  368 

Relaxations  of  the  Feudal  System,  355 
Remembrance  of  Collins,  37 
Repentance,  101 


Reproof,  352 

Resolution  and  Independence,  180 
Rest  and  be  thankful. — Glencroe,  303 
Retirement,  223 
Return,  296 
Revival  of  Popery,  360 
Richard  I.,  354 
Rob  Roy’s  Grave,  242 
Roman  Antiquities. — Bishopstone,  231 
— — Old  Penrith,  305 

Rural  Architecture,  77 
— Ceremony,  367 
— Illusions,  152 
Ruth,  173 


Sacheverel,  364 
Sacrament,  366 
Saints,  358 
Saxon  Conquest,  350 
— Monasteries,  352 
Scene  in  Venice,  354 

— on  the  Lake  of  Brientz,  281 
Scenery  between  Namur  and  Liege, 

279 

Schill,  261 

Sealhwaite  Chapel,  296 
Seclusion,  352 
— 352 

Sheep- washing,  297 
Siege  of  Vienna  raised  by  John  So- 
bieski,  265 
Simon  Lee,  397 
Sky  Prospect.  — France,  289 
Song  at  the  Feast  of  Brougham  Castle, 
186 

— for  the  Spinning  Wheel,  142 

— for  the  Wandering  Jew,  146 
Sonnet  after  visiting  Waterloo,  278 

— at  Bala-Sala,  310 

— at  Sea  off  the  Isle  of  Man,  309 

— between  Namurand  Liege,  279 

— by  a retired  Mariner.  310 

— by  the  Sea-shore,  Isle  of  Man, 
310 

— Calais,  August,  1802.  253 
— Calais,  August  15,  1802,  253 

— composed  after  reading  a News- 
paper, 272,  303 

— — among  the  Ruins  of  a 
Castle  in  North  Wales,  229 

— — at Castle,  244 

— — at  Rydal,  on  May 

Morning,  1838,  326 

— — by  the  Sea-side  near 
Calais,  August,  1802,  253 

— — by  the  side  of  Gras- 
mere Lake,  1807,  258 

— — during  a storm,  224 

— — in  Roslin  Chapel.  302 

— — in  the  Glen  of  Loch 

Etive,  302 

— — in  the  Valley  near  Do- 
ver, 254 


— — on  a May  Morning, 

1838,  233 


— — on  Easter  Sunday, 

218 


— — on  the  banks  of  a 

rocky  Stream,  226 

— — on  the  eve  of  the  mar- 
riage of  a Friend,  219 

— — upon  Westminster 

Bridge,  227 

— Convention  of  Cintra,  259 

— — 259 

— 1811,  263 

— 1811,263 

— 1801,  253 

— 1810,  261 
— 1810,  262 

— 1830,  231 

— February,  1816,  265 

— from  Michael  Angelo,  219 

— — — 219 

— — — 220 

— Hambleton  Hills,  227 


INDEX  TO  THE  POEMS. 


719 


Ronnet,  Harbour  of  Boulogne,  289 

— in  a carriage. — Rhine,  279 

— in  allusion  to  various  recent 
Histories,  273 

— — — 273 

— — — 273 

— in  sight  of  Cookermouth,  308 

— in  the  Cathedral  at  Cologne, 

279 

— in  the  channel  on  the  coast  of 
Cumberland,  309 

— in  the  Frith  of  Clyde,  311 

— — — 311 

— in  the  pass  of  Killicranky,  245 

— in  the  sound  of  Mull,  303 

— in  the  woods  of  Rydal,  229 
— June,  1820,  228 

— Kendal  and  Windermere  Rail- 
way, 236 

— — — 236 

— Nov.  1,  224 

— Nov.,  1806,  2,56 
— Nov.,  1813,  264 
— Nov.,  1836,  220 

— occasioned  by  the  Battle  of 
Waterloo,  265 

— — — 265 

— Oct.,  1803,  256 

— — 256 

— — 257 

— on  a celebrated  event  in  An- 
cient history,  258 

— — 258 

on  approaching  the  Staub-bach, 

280 

— on  entering  Douglas  Bay,  309 

— on  hearing  the  “ Ranz  des 
Vaches,”  282 

— on  revisiting  Dunolly  Castle, 
311 

— on  the  death  of  his  Blajesty 
George  III.,  228 

— On  the  departure  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  301 

— On  the  detraction  which  fol- 
lowed, &c.,  218 

— on  the  extinction  of  the  Vene- 
tian republic,  254 

— on  the  final  submission  of  the 
Tyrolese,  260 

— on  the  sight  of  a Manse  in  the 
South  of  Scotland,  302 

— on  the  disinterment  of  the  Re- 
mains of  the  Duke  D’Enghien,  264 

— on  the  death  of  his  Grandson, 
469 

— Sept.  1,  1802,  254 
— Sept.,  1815,  223 
— Sept.,  1802.  — Dover,  254 

— suggested  at  Tyndrum,  303 

— — by  a view  from  an 
eminence,  305 

— — by  the  Monument  of 

Mrs.  Howard,  314 

— — by  the  view  of  Lan- 

caster Castle,  275 

— — by  Westall’s  Views, 

226 

— To  a Friend,  composed  near 
Calais  ; Aug.,  1802,  253 
— Valley  of  Dover,  290 

— upon  a blank  leaf  in  the  Com- 
plete Angler,  218  | 

— upon  the  late  general  fast,  272 

— upon  the  sight  of  a beautiful 
picture,  217 

— written  in  London,  Sept.,  1802, 
255 

— written  in  very  early  Youth,  37 
Sonnets  upon  the  Punishment  of 

Death,  275 

Spanish  Guerillas,  263  ! 

Sponsors,  366 

Stanzas.  Catholic  Cantons,  280  i 

— Cora  Linn,  250 
— ill  Germany,  393  ; 


Stanzas,  in  the  Simplon  Pass,  287 
— Needle-case,  150 

— on  the  Power  of  Sounds  213 

— Sept.,  1819,  414 

— Sept.,  1819,  414 

— St.  Bees,  315 

— written  in  March,  171 

— — my  Pocket  Copy 
of  The  Castle  of  Indolence,  95 

Star  Gazers,  170 
St.  Catherine  of  Ledbury,  232 
Steam-boats,  Viaducts,  and  Railways, 
314 

Stepping  westward,  241 
Stray  Pleasures,  149 
Struggle  of  the  Britons,  349 
Suggested  by  a picture  of  the  Bird  of 
Paradise,  192 

Temptations  from  Roman  Refine- 
ments, 349 

Thanksgiving  after  Childbrih,  367 
Thanksgiving  Ode,  Jan.,  1816,  267 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret , 101 

The  Armenian  Lady’s  Love,  107 
The  Avon,  305 

The  black  Stones  of  Iona,  313 
The  blind  Highland  Boy,  246 
The  Borderers,  45 
I'he  Brothers,  87 
The  Brownie,  304 
The  Brownie’s  Cell,  249 
The  Childless  Father,  102 
The  Church  of  San  Salvador,  283 
The  Column  lying  in  the  Simplon  Pass, 
287  _ _ 

The  Commination  Service,  367 
The  Complaint  of  a Forsaken  Indian 
Woman,  124 
The  Contrast,  139 
'I'he  Cottager  to  her  Infant,  102 
The  Council  of  Clermont,  354 
The  Cuckoo  and  the  Nightingale, 
443 

The  Cuckoo  at  Laverna,  323 
'I'he  Cuckoo-clock,  192 
'Phe  Danish  Boy,  147 
'I'he  Dunolly  Eagle,  311 
'I'he  Eagle  and  the  Dove.  272 
The  Earl  of  Breadalbane’s  ruined 
Mansion,  303 

The  Eclipse  of  the  Sun,  1820,  285 
'I'he  Egyptian  Maid,  206 
The  Emigrant  Mother,  103 
The  Excursion,  553 
'The  Faery  Chasm,  295 
The  Fall  of  the  Aar,  281 
'I'he  Farmer  of  'I'ilsbury  Vale,  455 
The  Female  Vagrant,  (see  Guilt  and 
Sorrow),  38 

The  Force  of  Prayer,  412 
The  Forsaken,  97 
The  Fountain,  401 

The  French  and  the  Spanish  Guerillas, 
263 

The  French  Army  in  Russia,  263 
— — 264 

The  Germans  on  the  Heights  of  Hock- 
heim,  264 
The  Gleaner,  410 
The  < Veen  Linnet,  138 
'I'he  Haunted  Tree,  171 
'I'he  Highland  Broach,  306 
'I'he  Horn  of  Egremont  Castle,  167 
'I'he  Idiot  Boy,  1 10 
The  Idle  Shepherd-hoys,  79 
'I'he  Infant  M.  M.,  230 
The  Italian  Itinerant,  284 
'I'he  Jung-frau,  etc.,  (an  illustration), 
361 

The  King  of  Sweden,  254 

'I'he  Kitten  and  Falling  Leaves,  143 

The  Labourer’s  Noon-day  Hymn,  410 

The  Last  of  the  Flock,  100 

'I’he  Last  Supper,  285 

The  Liturgy,  365 


The  Longest  Day,  81 
'I'he  Marriage  Ceremony,  366 
'I'he  Matron  of  Jedborough  and  her 
Husband,  245 

The  Monument  called  Long  Meg  and 
her  Daughters,  227 
'I'he  Mother’s  Return,  74 
The  Norman  Boy,  82 
The  Norman  Conquest,  353 
'I'he  Oak  and  the  Broom,  141 
'I’he  Oak  of  Guernica,  262 
'I’he  old  Cumberland  Beggar,  453 
'I’he  Pass  of  Kirkstone,  191 
The  Pet- Lamb,  78 
'I'he  Pilgrim’s  Dream,  148 
The  Pillar  of  Trajan,  327 
The  Pine  of  Monte  Mario  at  Rome, 
321 

The  Plain  of  Donnerdale,  297 
'I’he  Poet  and  the  caged  'I’urtledove, 
150 

The  Poet’s  Dream,  82 
The  point  at  issue,  359 
The  Prelude,  474 
The  Primrose  of  the  Rock,  408 
'I’he  Prioress’  'Pale,  441 
The  Redbreast,  127 
'I'he  Redbreast  chasing  the  Butterfly, 
142 

The  Resting  Place,  297 
The  Retired  Mariner,  310 
The  Reverie  of  Poor- Susan,  169 
'Phere  w-as  a boy,  163 
The  River  Duddon,  293 
The  River  Eden,  314 
The  Russian  Fugitive,  119 
The  Sailor’s  Mother,  102 
'Phe  Seven  Sisters,  146 
The  Simplon  Pass,  211 
The  small  Celandine,  456 
The  Solitary  Reaper,  242 
'Phe  Somnambulist,  109 
The  Source  of  the  Danube,  280 
'Phe  Sparrow’s  Nest,  82 
'I'he  Stepping  Slones,  295 
— — 295 

The  Tables  turned,  393 
I’lie  'I'horn,  182 
The  'Phree  Cottage  Girls,  286 
'Phe  'I'own  of  Schwytz,  282 
The  Triad,  177 
The  Trosachs,  302 
'Phe  'Pwo  April  .Mornings,  401 
'Phe  'Pwo  'I'hieves  456 
'I'he  Vaudois,  356 
The  Virgin,  358 
'I'he  Waggoner,  153 
I’lie  Warning.  — Sequel  to  the  First- 
born, 420 

'Phe  Waterfall  and  the  Eglantine,  140 
'I'he  Westmoreland  Girl,  84 
'Phe  White  Doe  of  Rylstone,  328 
The  Widow  on  Windermere  side,  99 
The  Wild-duck’s  Nest,  218 
'I'he  Wishing  Gate,  399 
I'lie  Wishing  Gate  destroyed,  415 
Thought  of  a Briton  on  the  su'njuga- 
tion  of  Switzerland,  255 
Thought  on  the  Seasons,  409 
Thoughts.  — Banks  of  the  Nith,  238 

To , 97 

To , 98 

To , 98 

'I'o , 233 

To  a Butterfly,  73 

— 94 

To  a Child. — Written  in  her  Album, 
437 

To  a Friend  on  tbe  banks  of  the  De:.-- 
went,  308 

To  a Highland  Girl,  240 

'Po  a Lady.  — Madeira  Flowers,  148 

'Po  an  Octogenarian,  457 

To  a Painter,  234 

— 234 

To  a Red-breast  (S.  II.),  419 


720 


INDEX  TO  THE  POEMS. 


To  a Sexton,  14G 
To  a Sky-lark,  H5 
— 188 
To  a Snow-drop,  224 

— composed  a few  days 

after,  224 

To  a young  Lady  who  had  been,  &c., 
&c.,  397 

To  B.  R.  Haydon,  222 
To  B.  R.  Haydon. — Picture  of  Napo- 
leon Buonaparte,  231 

To  Cordelia  M , 315 

To  Enterprise,  291 

To  H.  C.,  80 

To  H.  C.  Robinson,  318 

To , in  her  seventieth  year,  230 

To  Joanna.  131 
To  Lady  Beaumont,  224 
To  Lucca  Giordano,  430 
'I'o  Lycoris,  405 
To  May,  407 
To  M.  H.,  133 
To  my  Sister,  396 

To , on  her  first  ascent  to  Hel- 

vellyn,  163 

To  , on  the  birth  of  her  first- 

born Child,  420 

To  Rotha  Q , 230 

To  S.  H.,  219 
To  Sleep,  217 

— 217 

— 217 

To  the  Author’s  Portrait,  232 
To  the  Clouds  212 


To  the  Cuckoo,  163 
— 230 

To  the  Daisy,  137 

— 145 

— 145 

— 463 

To  the  Earl  of  Lonsdale,  315 
To  the  Lady  E.  B.,  and  the  Honour- 
able Miss  P.,  229 

To  the  Lady  Fleming.  — Foundation 
of  Rydal  Chapel,  411 
To  the  Lady  Mary  Lowther,  225 
To  the  Memory  of  Raisley  Calvert, 
223 

To  the  Men  of  Kent,  256 
To  the  Moon,  429 

— Rydal,  430 
To  the  Pennsylvanians,  274 
To  the  Planet  Venus,  Jan.,  1838,  235 

— — Loch  Lomond, 
304 

To  the  Poet,  John  Dyer,  218 
To  the  Rev.  Chr.  Wordsworth,  D.D., 
235 

To  the  Rev.  Dr.  Wordsworth,  293 
To  the  River  Derwent,  308,  218 
To  the  River  Greta,  307 
To  the  small  Celandine,  139 
— — 140 

To  the  Sons  of  Burns,  239 
To  the  Spade  of  a Friend,  396 
To  the  Torrent  at  the  Devil’s-bridge, 
229 

To  Thomas  Clarkson,  258 


To  Toussaint  L’Ouverture,  254 
Tradition,  297 

Translation  of  Part  of  the  First  Book 
of  the  jEneid,  439 
Translation  of  the  Bible,  359 
Transubstantiation,  356 
Trepidation  of  the  Druids,  348 
Tributary  Stream,  297 
Tribute  to  the  Memory  of  a favourite 
Dog,  400 

Troilus  and  Cressida,  446 
Troubles  of  Charles  the  First,  362 
Tynwald  Plill,  310 

Uncertainty,  349 

Valedictory  Sonnet,  237 
Vaudracour  and  Julia,  104 
Vernal  Ode,  404 

View  from  the  top  of  Black  Comb,  165 
Visitation  of  the  Sick,  367 

Waldenses,  356 

Walton’s  Book  of  Lives,  364 

Wars  of  York  and  Lancaster,  357 

Water-Fowl,  164 

We  are  Seven,  76 

Wicliffe,  357 

William  the  Third,  363 

Yarrow  Revisited,  300 
— Visited,  252 
— Unvisited,  244 
Yew  Trees,  164 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


A BAKKIN&  sound  the  shepherd  hears,  409 

A Book  came  forth  of  late,  called  Peter  Bell,  218 

A bright-haired  company  of  youthful  slaves,  350 

Abruptly  paused  the  strife  ; — the  field  throughout,  264 

A dark  plume  fetch  me  from  yon  blasted  yew,  296 

Adieu,  Rydalian  Laurels!  that  have  grown,  307 

Advance — come  forth  from  thy  Tyrolean  ground,  259 

Aerial  Rock  — whose  solitary  brow,  217 

A famous  man  is  Robin  Hood,  242 

Affections  lose  their  object ; Time  brings  forth,  457 

A flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by,  217 

A genial  hearth,  a hospitable  board,  365 

Age  ! twine  thy  brows  with  fresh  spring  flowers,  245 

Ah,  think  how  one  compelled  for  life  to  abide,  276 

Ah,  when  the  Frame,  round  which  in  love  we  clung,  352 

Ah  ! where  is  Palafox  ? Nor  tongue  nor  pen,  261 

Ah  why  deceive  ourselves ! by  no  mere  fit,  274 

Aid,  glorious  Martyrs,  from  your  fields  of  light,  360 

Alas  ! what  boots  the  long  laborious  quest,  259 

A little  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand,  413 

All  praise  the  Likeness  by  thy  skill  portrayed,  234 

A love-lorn  Maid,  at  some  far-distant  time,  297 

Ambition  — following  down  this  far-famed  slope,  287 

Amid  a fertile  region  green  with  wood,  304 

Amid  the  smoke  of  cities  did  you  pass,  131 

Amid  this  dance  of  objects  sadness  steals,  279 

Among  a grave  fraternity  of  Monks,  424 

Among  the  dwellers  in  the  silent  fields,  123 

Among  the  dwellings  framed  by  birds,  150 

Among  the  mountains  were  we  nursed,  loved  Stream,  308 

A month,  sweet  Little-ones.’  is  past,  74 

An  age  hath  been  when  earth  was  proud,  405 

A narrow  girdle  of  rough  stones  and  crags,  133 

And  is  it  among  rude  untutored  Dales,  260 

And  is  this  — Yarrow? — This  the  Stream,  252 

And,  not  in  vain  embodied  to  the  sight,  355 

And  shall,  the  Pontiff  asks,  profaneness  flow,  354 

And  what  is  Penance  with  her  knotted  thong,  357 

And  what  melodious  sounds  at  times  prevail,  356 

An  Orpheus  ! an  Orpheus  ! yes.  Faith  may  grow  bold,  170 

Another  year!  — another  deadly  blow,  257 

A pen  — to  register  ; a key,  425 

A Pilgrim,  when  the  summer  day,  148 

A plague  on  your  languages,  German  and  Norse,  393 

A pleasant  music  floats  along  the  Mere,  353 

A Poet!  — He  hath  put  his  heart  to  school,  233 

A point  of  Life  between  my  Parents’  dust,  308 

Army  of  clouds  ! ye  winged  Host  in  troops,  212 

A rock  there  is  whose  homely  front,  408 

A Roman  Master  stands  on  Grecian  ground,  258 

Around  a wild  and  woody  hill,  280 

Arran  ! a sing's  crested  Teneriffe,  311 

Art  thou  a Statesman  in  the  van,  395 

Art  thou  the  bird  whom  Man  loves  best,  142 

A simple  child,  76 

4Q 


As  faith  thus  sanctified  the  warrior’s  crest,  371 

As  indignation  mastered  grief,  my  tongue,  326 

As  leaves  are  to  the  tree  whereon  they  grow,  274 

A slumber  did  my  spirit  seal,  167 

As  often  as  I murmur  here,  150 

As  star  that  shines  dependent  upon  star,  365 

As  the  cold  aspect  of  a sunless  way,  226 

A stream,  to  mingle  with  your  favourite  Dee,  229 

A sudden  conflict  rises  from  the  swell,  364 

As,  when  a storm  hath  ceased,  the  birds  regain,  349 

As  with  the  Stream  our  voyage  we  pursue,  354 

At  early  dawn,  or  rather  when  the  air,  227 

A Traveller  on  the  skirt  of  Sarura’s  Plain,  38 

A trouble,  not  of  clouds,  or  weeping  rain,  301 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears,  169 

Avaunt  all  specious  pliancy  of  mind,  262 

A voice,  from  long  expecting  thousands  sent,  363 

A volant  Tribe  of  Bards  on  earth  are  found,  221 

Avon  — a precious,  an  immortal  name,  305 

A weight  of  awe  not  easy  to  be  borne,  227 

A whirl-blast  from  behind  the  hill,  138 

A winged  Goddess  — clothed  in  vesture  wrought,  278 

A Youth  too  certain  of  his  power  to  wade,  310 

Bard  of  the  Fleece,  whose  skilful  genius  made,  218 
Beaumont  ! it  was  thy  wish  that  I should  rear,  215 
Before  I see  another  day,  124 
Before  my  eyes  a wanderer  stood,  172 
Before  the  world  had  past  her  time  of  youth,  276 
Begone,  thou  fond  presumptuous  Elf,  110 
Beguiled  into  forgetfulness  of  care,  423 
Behold  an  emblem  of  our  human  mind,  419 
Behold  a pupil  of  the  monkish  gown,  353 
Behold  her,  single  in  the  field,  242 
Behold,  within  the  leafy  shade,  82 
Beloved  Vale  ! I said,  when  I shall  con,  216 
Beneath  the  concave  of  an  April  sky,  404 
Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed,  138 
Beneath  yon  eastern  ridge,  the  craggy  bound,  449 
Be  this  the  chosen  site,  the  virgin  sod,  369 
Between  two  sister  moorland  rills,  147 
Bishops  and  Priests,  blessed  are  ye,  if  deep,  366 
Black  Demons  hovering  o’er  his  mitrpd  head,  354 
Blest  is  this  Isle  — our  native  Land,  411 
Blest  Statesman  He,  whose  mind’s  unselfish  will,  273 
Bold  words  affirmed,  in  days  when  faith  was  strong,  309 
Brave  Schill ! by  death  delivered,  take  thy  flight,  26) 
Bright  Flower!  whose  home  is  everywhere,  145 
Broken  in  fortune,  but  in  mind  entire,  310 
Brook  and  road,  211 

Brook  ! whose  society  the  Poet  seeks,  226 
Bruges  I saw  attired  with  golden  light,  278 
But  Cytherea,  studious  to  invent,  439 
But  here  no  cannon  thunders  to  the  gale,  299 
But  liberty,  and  triumphs  on  the  Main,  368 
61 


721 


722 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


But,  to  outweigh  all  harm,  the  sacred  book,  359 

But,  to  reinole  Northumbria’s  royal  Hall,  351 

But  what  if  One,  through  grove  or  flowery  mead,  352 

But  whence  came  they  who  for  the  Saviour  Lord,  356 

By  a blest  husband  guided,  Mary  came,  466 

By  antique  Fancy  trimmed  — though  lowly,  bred,  282 

By  Art's  bold  privilege  Warrior  and  War-horse  stand,  233 

By  chain  yet  stronger  must  the  Soul  be  tied,  366 

By  Moscow  self-devoted  to  a blaze,  264 

By  playful  smiles,  (alas,  too  oft,  460 

By  such  examples  moved  to  unbought  pains,  352 

By  their  floating  mill,  149 

By  vain  affections  unenthralled,  460 

Call  not  the  royal  Swede  unfortunate,  261 
Calm  as  an  under-current,  strong  to  draw,  363 
Calm  is  all  nature  as  a resting  wheel,  37 
Calm  is  the  fragrant  air,  and  loth  to  lose,  426 
Calvert ! it  must  not  be  unheard  by  them,  223 
Can  aught  survive  to  linger  in  the  veins,  353 
Change  me,  some  God,  into  that  breathing  rose,  295 
Chalsworth  ! thy  stately  mansion,  and  the  pride,  231 
Child  of  loud-throated  War!  the  mountain  Stream,  242 
Child  of  the  clouds  ! remote  from  every  taint,  294 
Clarkson  ! it  was  an  obstinate  hill  to  climb,  258 
Closing  the  sacred  Book  which  long  has  fed,  367  [ 

Clouds,  lingering  yet,  extend  in  solid  bars,  258  I 

Coldly  we  spake.  The  Saxons,  overpowered,  370 
Come  ye  — who,  if  (which  Heaven  avert  !)  the  Land,  272 
Companion  ! by  whose  buoyant  Spirit  cheered,  318 
Complacent  Fictions  were  they,  yet  the  same,  322 

Dark  and  more  dark  the  shades  of  evening  fell,  227 
Darkness  surrounds  us  ; seeking,  we  are  lost,  349 
Days  passed  — and  Monte  Calvo  would  not  clear,  322 
Days  undefiled  by  luxury  or  sloth  274 
Dear  be  the  Church,  that,  watching  o’er  the  needs,  365 
Dear  Child  of  Nature,  let  them  rail,  397 
Dear  fellow-travellers  ! think  not  that  the  Muse,  278 
Dear  native  regions,  I foretell,  25 
Dear  reliques  ! from  a pit  of  vilest  mould,  264 
Dear  to  the  Loves,  and  to  the  Graces  vowed,  309 
Deep  is  the  lamentation  ! not  alone,  359 
Degenerate  Douglas  ! oh,  the  unworthy  Lord,  244 
Departed  Child  ! I could  forget  thee  once,  125 
Departing  summer  hath  assumed,  414 
Deplorable  his  lot  who  tills  the  ground,  355 
Desire  we  past  illusions  to  recall,  309 
Desponding  Father!  mark  this  altered  bough,  231 
Despond  who  will  — 1 heard  a voice  exclaim,  311 
Destined  to  war  from  very  infancy,  459 
Discourse  was  deemed  man’s  noblest  attribute,  235 
Dishonoured  Rock  and  Ruin  ! that,  by  law-,  303 
Dogmatic  Teachers,  of  the  Snow-white  fur,  226 
Doomed  as  we  are  our  native  dust,  280 
Doubling  and  doubling  with  laborious  walk,  303 
Down  a swift  Stream,  thus  far,  a bold  design,  364 
Dread  hour ! when,  upheaved  by  war’s  sulphurous  blast, 
283 

Ifriven  from  the  soil  of  France,  a Female  came,  254 
Driven  in  by  Autumn’s  sharpening  air,  127 

Farih  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair,  227 
Eden  ! till  now-  thy  beauty  had  I viewcii,  314  | 

Emperors  and  Kings,  how  oft  have  temples  rung,  265 
England  ! the  time  is  come  when  thou  shouldst  wean,  256 
Enlightened  Teacher,  gladly  from  tliy  hand,  235 


Enough  ! for  see,  with  dim  association,  356 

Enough  of  climbing  toil  ! — Ambition  threads,  405 

Enough  of  garlands,  of  the  Arcadian  crook,  303 

Enough  of  rose-bud  lips  and  eyes,  119 

Ere  the  Brothers  through  the  gateway,  167 

Ere  with  cold  beads  of  midnight  dew,  96 

Ere  yet  our  course  was  graced  with  social  trees,  294 

Eternal  Lord  ! eased  of  a cumbrous  load,  326 

Ethereal  minstrel ! pilgrim  of  the  sky,  188 

Even  as  a dragon’s  eye  that  feels  the  stress,  225 

Even  so  for  me  a Vision  sanctified,  220 

Even  such  the  contrast  tliat,  where’er  we  move,  362 

Even  while  I speak,  the  sacred  roofs  of  France,  368 

Excuse  is  needless  when  with  love  sincere,  219 

Failing  impartial  measure  to  dispense,  235 
Fair  Ellen  Irwin,  when  she  sate,  240 
Fair  is  the  Swan,  whose  majesty  prevailing,  415 
Fair  Lady!  can  I sing  of  flowers,  148 
Fair  Land  ! Thee  all  men  greet  with  joy  ; how  few,  326 
Fair  Prime  of  life  ! were  it  enough  to  gild,  222 
P’air  Star  of  evening.  Splendour  of  the  west,  253 
Fallen,  and  diffused  into  a shapeless  heap,  298 
Fame  tells  of  groves  — from  England  far  away,  228 
Fancy,  who  leads  the  pastimes  of  the  glad,  137 
I Farewell  thou  little  nook  of  mountain-ground,  94 
I Far  from  my  dearest  friend,  ’tis  mine  to  rove,  25 
Far  from  our  home  by  Grasmere’s  quiet  lake,  434 
Father!  to  God  himself  we  cannot  give,  366 
Fear  hath  a hundred  eyes  that  all  agree,  361 
Feel  for  the  wrongs  to  universal  ken,  275 
Festivals  have  I seen  that  were  not  names,  253 
Fit  retribution,  by  the  moral  code,  276 
Five  years  have  past;  five  summers  with  the  length,  193 
Flattered  with  promise  of  escape,  409 
Fly,  some  kind  Harbinger,  to  Grasmere-dale,  246 
Fond  words  have  oft  been  spoken  to  thee.  Sleep,  217 
For  action  born,  existing  to  be  tried,  323 
Forbear  to  deem  the  Chronicler  unwise,  322 
For  ever  hallowed  be  this  morning  fair,  350 
For  gentlest  uses,  oft-times  Nature  takes,  281 
Forgive,  illustrious  Country  ! these  deep  sighs,  323 
Forth  from  a jutting  ridge,  around  whose  base,  135 
For  thirst  of  power  that  Heaven  disowns,  437 
For  what  contend  the  wise?  — For  nothing  less,  359 
Four  fiery  steeds  impatient  of  the  rein,  232 
From  Bolton’s  old  monastic  tower,  329 
From  early  youth  I ploughed  the  restless  main,  310 
From  false  assumption  rose,  and,  fondly  hailed,  371 
From  Little  down  to  Least,  in  due  degree,  366 
From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb,  368 
From  Rite  and  Ordinance  abused  they  fled,  364 
From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen,  244 
From  the  Baptismal  hour  through  weal  and  woe,  C67 
From  the  dark  chambers  of  dejection  freed,  222 
From  the  fierce  aspect  of  this  River,  throwing,  281 
From  the  Pier’s  head,  musing,  and  with  increase,  225 
From  this  deep  chasm,  where  quivering  sunbeams  play,  296 
Frowns  are  on  every  !\Iusc’s  face,  150 

Genius  of  Raphael ! if  thy  wings,  180 
Glad  sight ! wherever  new  with  old,  148 
Glide  gently,  thus  for  ever  glide,  37 
I Glory  to  God  ! and  to  the  Power  who  came.  370 
Go  back  to  antique  ages,  if  thine  eyes,  258 
Go,  faithful  Portrait ! and  where  long  hath  knelt,  232 
Grant,  that  by  this  unsparing  hurricane,  359 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


72J 


Great  men  have  been  among  us ; hands  that  penned,  255 
Greta,  what  fearful  listening  ! when  huge  stones,  307 
Grief,  Ihou  hast  lost  an  evcr-ready  friend,  219 
Grieve  for  the  Man  who  hither  came  bereft,  324 

Had  this  effulgence  disappeared,  211 

Hail  to  the  fields  — with  Dwellings  sprinkled  o’er,  296 

Hail,  Twilight,  sovereign  of  one  peaceful  hour,  225 

Hail,  universal  Source  of  pure  delight,  268 

Hail,  Virgin  Queen!  o’er  many  an  envious  bar,  360 

Hail,  Zaragoza  ! If  with  unwet  eye,  260 

Happy  the  feeling  from  the  bosom  thrown,  215 

Hard  task!  exclaim  the  undisciplined,  to  lean,  274 

Hark!  ’tis  the  Thrush,  undaunted,  undeprest,  234 

Harmonious  Powers  with  Nature  work,  419 

Harp  ! couldst  thou  venture,  on  thy  boldest  string,  362 

Hast  thou  seen,  with  flash  incessant,  451 

Hast  thou  then  survived,  152 

Haydon  ! let  worthier  judges  praise  the  skill,  231 

Here  Man  more  purely  lives,  less  oft  doth  fall,  355 

Here,  on  our  native  soil,  we  breathe  once  more,  254 

Here  on  their  knees  men  swore  : the  stones  were  black,  313 

Here  pause  : the  Poet  claims  at  least  this  praise,  263 

Here  stood  an  Oak,  that  long  had  borne  affixed,  305 

Here,  where,  of  havoc  tired  and  rash  undoing,  236 

Her  eyes  are  wild,  her  head  is  bare,  127 

Her  only  pilot  the  soft  breeze,  the  boat,  216 

“ High  bliss  is  only  for  a higher  state,”  94 

High  deeds,  O Germans,  are  to  come  from  you,  258 

High  in  the  breathless  hall  the  Minstrel  sate,  186 

High  is  our  calling.  Friend!  — Creative  Art,  222 

High  on  a broad  unfertile  tract  of  forest-skirted  Down,  82 

High  on  her  speculative  tower,  285 

His  simple  truths  did  Andrew  glean,  141 

Holy  and  heavenly  Spirits  as  they  are,  361 

Homeward  we  turn.  Isle  of  Columbia’s  Cell,  313 

Hope  rules  a land  for  ever  green,  399 

Hope  smiled  when  your  nativity  was  cast.  312 

Hopes,  what  are  they?  — Beads  of  morning,  451 

How  art  thou  named  ? In  search  of  what  strange  land,  229 

How  beautiful  the  Queen  of  Night  on  high,  430 

How  beautiful,  when  up  a lofty  height,  99 

How  beautiful  your  presence,  how  benign,  351 

How  blest  the  Maid  whose  heart — yet  free,  286 

How  clear,  how  keen,  how  marvellously  bright,  224 

How  disappeared  he  ? Ask  the  newt  and  toad,  304 

How  fast  the  Marian  death-list  is  unrolled,  360 

How  profitless  the  relics  that  we  cull,  305 

How  richly  glows  the  water’s  breast,  37 

How  rich  that  forehead’s  calm  expanse,  98 

How  shall  I paint  thee?  — Be  this  naked  stone,  294 

How  soon  — alas  ! did  Man,  created  pure,  370 

How  sweet  it  is,  when  mother  Fancy  rocks,  221 

Humanity  delighting  to  behold,  263 

Hunger,  and  sultry  heat,  and  nipping  blast,  263 

I am  not  One  who  much  or  oft  delight,  221 

I come,  ye  little  noisy  Crew,  460 

I dropped  my  pen;  and  listened  to  the  Wind,  259 

If  from  the  public  way  you  turn  your  steps,  115 

If  Life  were  slumber  on  a bed  of  down,  316 

If  Nature,  for  a favourite  child,  400 

If  there  be  Prophets  on  whose  spirits  rest,  348 

If  these  brief  Records,  by  the  Muse’s  art,  232 

If  the  whole  weight  of  what  we  think  and  feel,  223 

If  this  great  world  of  joy  and  pain,  422 

If  thou  indeed  derive  the  light  from  Heaven,  xi.  I 


If  thou  in  the  dear  love  of  some  one  Friend,  452 
If  to  Tradition  faith  be  due,  306 
If  with  old  love  of  you,  dear  Hills  ! I share,  326 
I grieved  for  Buonaparte,  with  a vain,  253 
I have  a boy  of  five  years  old,  77 
I heard  (alas  ! ’twas  only  in  a dream),  223 
I heard  a thousand  blended  notes,  397 
I know  an  Aged  man  constraiiied  to  dwell,  457 
I listen  — but  no  faculty  of  mine,  282 
I marvel  how  Nature  could  ever  find  space,  402 
I met  Louisa  in  the  shade,  96 

Immured  in  Bothwell’s  towers,  at  times  the  Brave,  304 

In  Bruges  town  is  many  a street,  398 

In  desultory  walk  through  orchard  grounds,  437 

In  distant  countries  have  I been,  100 

In  due  observance  of  an  ancient  rite,  261 

Inland,  within  a hollow  vale,  I stood,  254 

Inmate  of  a mountain-dwelling,  163 

In  my  mind’s  eye  a Temple,  like  a cloud,  232 

Intent  on  gathering  wool  from  hedge  and  brake,  234 

In  these  fair  vales  hath  many  a tree,  452 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan,  397 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men,  241 

In  trellised  shed  with  clustering  roses  gay,  328 

Intrepid  sons  of  Albion!  not  by  you,  265 

In  youth  from  rock  to  rock  I went,  137 

I rose  while  yet  the  cattle,  heat-opprest,  298 

I saw  a mother’s  eye  intensely  bent,  366 

I saw  an  aged  beggar  in  my  walk,  453 

I saw  far  off  the  dark  top  of  a Pine,  321 

I saw  the  figure  of  a lovely  Maid,  362 

Is  Death,  when  evil  against  good  has  fought,  275 

I shiver.  Spirit  fierce  and  bold,  237 

Is  it  a reed  that’s  shaken  by  the  wind,  253 

Is  then  no  nook  of  English  ground  secure,  236 

Is  then  the  final  page  before  me  spread,  290 

Is  there  a power  that  can  sustain  and  cheer,  261 

Is  this,  ye  Gods,  the  Capitolian  Hill,  321 

I thought  of  Thee,  my  partner  and  my  guide,  299 

It  is  a beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free,  220 

It  is  no  Spirit  who  from  heaven  hath  flown,  188 

It  is  not  to  be  thought  of  that  the  Flood,  255 

It  is  the  first  mild  day  of  March,  396 

I travelled  among  unknown  men,  96 

It  seems  a day,  165 

It  was  a moral  end  for  which  they  fought,  260 
It  was  an  April  morning:  fresh  and  clear,  131 
I ’ve  watched  you  now  a short  half-hour,  94 
I wandered  lonely  as  a cloud,  169 
I was  thy  Neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile,  463 
I watch,  and  long  have  watched,  with  calm  regret,  222 
I,  who  accompanied  with  faithful  pace,  348 

Jesu  ! bless  our  slender  Boat,  279 
Jones!  as  from  Calais  southward  you  and  I,  253 
Just  as  those  final  words  were  penned,  the  sun  broke  out 
in  power,  82 

Keep  for  the  young  the  impassioned  smile,  291 

Lady!  a Pen  (perhaps  with  thy  regard,  418 

Lady  ! I rifled  a Parnassian  Cave,  225 

Lady  ! the  songs  of  Spring  were  in  the  grove,  224 

Lament!  for  Dioclesian’s  fiery  sword,  349 

Lance,  shield,  and  sword  relinquished  — at  his  side,  352 

Last  night,  without  a voice,  that  Vision  spake,  362 

Let  other  bards  of  angels  sing,  98 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


72 1 


Let  thy  wheel-barrow  alone,  116 
Let  us  quit  the  leafy  arbour,  81 
Lie  here,  without  a record  of  thy  worth,  400 
Life  with  yon  Lambs,  like  day,  is  just  begun,  333 
Like  a Shipwrecked  Sailor  tost,  420 
List,  tiie  winds  of  March  are  blowing,  420 
List  — ’twas  the  Cuckoo,  — O with  what  delight,  323 
List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph’s  Tower,  109 
Lo  ! in  the  burning  west,  the  craggy  nape,  289 
Lone  Flower  hemmed  in  with  snows,  and  white  as  they, 
224 

Long  favoured  England  ! be  not  thou  misled,  273 

Long  has  the  dew  been  dried  on  tree  and  lawn,  322 

Lonsdale  ! it  were  unworthy  of  a Guest,  315 

Look  at  the  fate  of  summer  flowers,  97 

Look  now  on  that  Adventurer  who  hath  paid,  261 

Lord  of  the  vale  ! astounding  Flood,  250 

Loud  is  the  Vale  ! the  Voice  is  up,  461 

Loving  she  is,  and  tractable,  though  wild,  73 

Lo  ! where  she  stands  fixed  in  a saint-like  trance,  233 

Lo  ! wnere  the  Moon  along  the  sky,  394 

Lowther!  in  thy  majestic  Pile  are  seen,  315 

Lulled  by  the  sound  of  pastoral  bells,  288 

Lyre  ! though  such  power  do  in  thy  magic  live,  179 

Man’s  life  is  like  a Sparrow,  mighty  King,  351 
Mark  how  the  feathered  tenants  of  the  flood,  164 
Mark  the  concentred  hazels  that  enclose,  226 
Meek  Virgin  Mother,  more  benign,  281 
Men  of  the  Western  World  ! in  Fate's  dark  book,  274 
Men,  who  have  ceased  lo  reverence  soon  defy,  361 
Mercy  and  Love  have  met  thee  on  thy  road,  348 
Methinks  tnat  I could  trip  o'er  heaviest  soil,  361 
Methinks  that  to  some  vacant  hermitage,  352 
Methinks  'twere  no  unprecedented  feat,  298 
Mcthought  I saw  the  footsteps  of  a throne,  220 
’Mid  crowded  obelisks  and  urns,  239 
Mid-noon  is  past  ; — upon  the  sultry  mead,  297 
Milton  1 thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour,  255 
Mine  ear  has  rung,  my  spirit  sunk  subdued,  369 
Miserrimus  ! and  neither  name  nor  date,  230 
Monastic  domes!  following  my  downward  way,  368 
-Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes,  315 
Mother  I whose  virgin  bosom  was  uncrost,  358 
Motions  and  Means,  on  land  and  sea  at  war,  314 
My  frame  hath  often  trembled  with  delight,  297 
My  heart  leaps  up  when  I behold,  73 

Nay,  Traveller  ! rest.  This  lonely  Yew-tree  stands,  37 

Near  Anio’s  stream,  I spied  a gentle  Dove,  323 

Never  enlivened  with  the  liveliest  ray,  152 

Next  morning  Troilus  began  to  clear,  446 

No  fiction  was  it  of  the  antique  age,  295 

No  more:  the  end  is  sudden  and  abrupt,  305 

No  mortal  object  did  these  eyes  behold,  219 

Nor  can  Imagination  quit  the  shores,  356 

No  record  tells  of  lance  opposed  to  lance,  298 

Nor  scorn  the  aid  which  Fancy  oft  doth  lend,  351 

Nor  shall  the  eternal  roll  of  praise  reject,  363 

Nor  wants  the  cause  the  panic-striking  aid,  350 

Not  a breath  of  air,  192 

Not  envying  Latian  shades  — if  yet  they  throw,  294 
Not  hurled  precipitous  from  steep  to  steep,  299 
Not  in  the  lucid  intervals  of  lile,  426 
Not  in  the  mines  beyond  the  western  main,  315 
Not,  like  his  great  Compeers,  indignantly,  280 
Not  Love,  not  War,  nor  the  tumultuous  swell,  223 


Not  'mid  the  world's  vain  objects  that  enslave,  259 

Not  pangs  of  grief  for  lenient  time  too  keen,  310 

Not  sedentary  all:  there  are  who  roam,  352 

Not  seldom,  clad  in  radiant  vest,  452 

Not  so  that  Pair  whose  youthful  spirits  dance,  295 

Not  the  whole  warbling  grove  in  concert  heard,  230 

Not  to  the  clouds,  not  to  the  cliff,  he  flew,  311 

Not  to  the  object  specially  designed,  276 

Not  utterly  unworthy  to  endure,  358 

Not  without  heavy  grief  of  heart  did  lie,  459 

Now  that  all  hearts  are  glad,  all  faces  bright,  264 

Now  that  the  farewell  tear  is  dried,  284 

Now  we  are  tired  of  boisterous  joy,  246 

Now  when  the  primrose  makes  a splendid  show,  419 

Nuns  fret  not  at  their  convent’s  narrow  room,  2i5 

Oak  of  Guernica!  Tree  of  holier  power,  262 

O blithe  New-comer!  I have  heard,  163 

O dearer  far  than  light  and  life  are  dear,  98 

O’er  the  wide  earth,  on  mountain  and  on  plain,  260 

O’erweening  Statesmen  have  full  long  relied,  262 

O Flower  of  all  that  springs  from  gentle  blood,  460 

Of  mortal  parents  is  the  Hero  born,  259 

O for  a dirge  ! But  why  complain,  465 

O,  for  a kindling  touch  from  that  pure  flame,  265 

O for  the  help  of  Angels  to  complete,  279 

O Friend  ! I know  not  which  way  I must  look,  255 

Oft  have  1 caught  upon  a fitful  breeze,  403 

Oft  have  I seen,  ere  Time  had  ploughed  my  cheek,  219 

Oft  I had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray,  75 

Oft  is  the  medal  faithful  to  its  trust,  449 

Oft  through  thy  fair  domains,  illustrious  Peer,  550 

O gentle  Sleep!  do  they  belong  to  thee,  217 

O happy  time  of  youthful  lovers  (thus,  104 

Oh  Life  ! without  thy  chequered  scene,  280 

Oh  ! pleasant  exercise  of  hope  and  joy,  188 

Oh  what  a Wreck  ! how  changed  in  mien  and  speech,  234 

Oh  ! what’s  the  matter?  what’s  the  matter,  168 

O Lord,  our  Lord!  how  wondrously  (quoth  she),  411 

O mountain  Stream  ! the  Shei)herd  and  his  Cot,  296 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  east  in  fee,  254 

Once  I could  hail  (howe’er  serene  the  sky),  464 

Once  in  a lonely  hamlet  I sojourned,  103 

Once  more  the  Church  is  seized  with  sudden  fear,  357 

Once  on  the  top  of  Tynwald’s  formal  mound,  310 

One  might  believe  that  natural  miseries,  256 

One  morning  (raw  it  w-as  and  wet,  102 

One  who  was  suffering  tumult  in  his  soul,  224 

On  his  morning  rounds  the  Master,  399 

O Nightingale  ! thou  surely  art,  166 

On,  loitering  Muse — the  swift  Stream  chides  us — on,  295 

On  Man,  on  Nature,  and  on  human  life,  551 

O now  that  the  genius  of  Bewick  were  mine,  456 

On  to  Iona  ! — What  can  she  afford,  312 

Open  your  gates,  ye  everlasting  Piles,  369 

O there  is  blessing  in  this  gentle  breeze,  476 

O thou  who  movest  onward  with  a mind,  458 

O thou  ! whose  fancies  from  afar  are  brought,  80 

Our  bodily  life,  some  plead,  that  life  the  shrine,  276 

Our  walk  was  far  among  the  ancient  trees,  133 

Outstretching  flame-ward  his  upbraided  hand,  360 

Pansies,  lilies,  kingcups,  daisies,  139 
Part  fenced  by  man,  part  by  a rugged  steep,  302 
Pastor  and  Patriot ! — at  whose  bidding  rise,  308 
Patriots  informed  with  apostolic  light,  365 
1 Pause,  courteous  Spirit ! — Baibi  supplicates,  459 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


725 


Pause,  Traveller!  whosoe’er  thou  be,  451 
Pelion  and  Ossa  Hourish  side  by  side,  216 
People  ! your  chains  are  severing  link,  by  link,  272,  303 
Perhaps  some  needful  service  of^he  State,  458 
Pleasures  newly  found  are  sweet,  140 
Portentous  change  when  History  can  appear,  273 
Praised  be  the  Art  whose  subtle  power  could  stay,  217 
Praised  be  the  Rivers,  from  their  mountain  springs,  356 
Prejudged  by  foes  determined  not  to  spare,  362 
Presentiments  1 they  judge  not  right,  417 
Prompt  transformation  works  the  novel  Lore,  351 
Proud  were  ye.  Mountains,  when  in  times  of  old,  236 
Pure  element  of  waters ! wheresoe’er,  226 

Queen  of  the  Stars  ! — so  gentle,  so  benign,  430 

Ranging  the  heights  of  Scawfell  or  Black-comb,  309 

Rapt  above  earth  by  power  of  one  fair  face,  325 

Realms  quake  by  turns : proud  Arbitress  of  grace,  354 

Record  we  too,  with  just  and  faithful  pen,  355 

Redoubted  King,  of  courage  leonine,  354 

Reluctant  call  it  was;  the  rite  delayed,  272 

Rest,  rest,  perturbed  Earth,  465 

Return,  Content  1 for  fondly  I pursued,  298 

Rise  1 — they  have  risen : of  brave  Aneurin  ask,  349 

Rotha,  my  Spiritual  Child  1 this  head  was  grey,  230 

Rude  is  this  Edifice,  and  Thou  hast  seen,  450 

Sacred  Religion  1 Mother  of  form  and  fear,  296 
Sad  thoughts,  avaunt  1 — partake  we  their  blithe  cheer,  297 
Said  Secrecy  to  Cowardice  and  Fraud,  273 
Say,  what  is  Honour?  — ’T  is  the  finest  sense,  260 
Say,  ye  far-travelled  clouds,  far-seeing  hills,  302 
Scattering,  like  birds  escaped  the  fowler’s  net,  360 
Scorn  not  the  Sonnet  ; Critic  you  have  frowned,  223 
Screams  round  the  Arch-druid’s  brow  the  sea-mew  — 
white,  348 

Seek  who  will  delight  in  fable,  64 

See  the  condemned  alone  within  his  cell,  277 

See  what  gay  wild  flowers  deck  this  earth-built  Cot,  304 

See,  where  his  difllcult  way  that  Old  Man  wins,  326 

Serving  no  haughty  Muse,  my  hands  have  here,  237 

Seven  Daughters  had  I.ord  Archibald,  146 

Shade  of  Caractacus,  if  spirits  love,  272 

Shame  on  this  faithless  heart  1 that  could  allow,  228 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways,  96 

She  was  a Phantom  of  delight,  166 

Show  me  the  noblest  Youth  of  present  time,  177 

Shout,  for  a mighty  Victory  is  won,  257 

Shun  not  this  Rite,  neglected,  yea  abhorred,  367 

Since  risen  from  ocean,  ocean  to  defy,  311 

Six  months  to  six  years  added  he  remained,  460 

Six  thousand  veterans  practised  in  war’s  game,  245 

Small  service  is  true  service  while  it  lasts,  437 

Smile  of  the  Moon  1 — for  so  I name,  99 

So  fair,  so  sweet,  withal  so  sensitive,  403 

Soft  as  a cloud  is  you  blue  Ridge  — the  Mere,  427 

Sole  listener,  Duddon  1 to  the  breeze  that  played,  294 

Soon  did  the  Almighty  giver  of  all  rest,  436 

Spade!  with  which  Wilkinson  hath  tilled  his  lands,  396 

Stay,  bold  Adventurer;  rest  awhile  thy  limbs,  450 

Stay,  little  cheerful  Robin  1 stay,  419 

Stay  near  me  — do  not  take  thy  flight,  73 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God,  425 

Strange  fits  of  passion  have  I known,  96 

Stranger  ! this  hillock  of  mis-shapen  stones,  450 

Strange  visitation  1 at  Jemima’s  lip,  229 

Stretched  on  the  dying  Mother’s  lap,  lies  dead,  314 


Such  age  how  beautiful  1 O Lady  bright,  230 
Such  fruitless  questions  may  not  long  beguile,  296 
Surprised  by  joy  — impatient  as  the  Wind,  220 
Sweet  Flower!  belike  one  day  to  have,  463 
Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a very  shower,  240 
I Sweet  is  the  holiness  of  Youth — so  felt,  359 
Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel,  142 
Sylph  was  it  1 or  a Bird  more  bright,  152 

Take,  cradled  Nursling  of  the  mountain,  take,  284 
Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense,  369 
Tell  me,  ye  Zephyrs  ! that  unfold,  144 
Tenderly  do  we  feel  by  Nature’s  law,  275 
; Thanks  for  the  lessons  of  this  Spot  — fit  school,  312 
That  happy  gleam  of  vernal  eyes,  410 
That  heresies  should  strike  (if  truth  be  scanned,  349 
I That  is  work  of  waste  and  ruin,  73 
' That  way  look,  my  Infant,  lo,  143 
I The  Baptist  might  have  been  ordained  to  cry,  325 
The  Bard  — whose  soul  is  meek  as  dawning  day,  265 
The  eaptive  Bird  was  gone;  — to  cliff  or  moor,  311 
The  cattle  crowding  round  this  beverage  clear,  308 
The  cock  is  crowing,  171 
The  Crescent-moon,  the  Star  of  Love,  429 
The  Danish  Conqueror  on  his  royal  chair,  413 
The  days  are  cold,  the  nights  are  long,  102 
' The  dew  was  falling  fast,  the  stars  began  to  blink,  78 
j The  embowering  rose,  the  aeacia,  and  the  pine,  449 
The  encircling  ground  in  native  turf  arrayed,  369 
The  fairest,  brightest  hues  of  ether  fade,  216 
The  feudal  Keep,  the  bastions  of  Cohorn,  309 
The  fields  which  with  covetous  spirit  we  sold,  101 
The  floods  are  roused,  and  will  not  soon  be  weary,  314 
The  forest  huge  of  ancient  Caledon,  305 
The  formal  World  relaxes  her  cold  chain,  277 
I The  gallant  Youth,  who  may  have  gained,  300 
The  gentlest  Poet,  with  free  thoughts  endowed,  192 
The  gentlest  Shade  that  walked  Elysian  plains,  237 
The  God  of  Love  — ah  hencdicite!  443 
The  imperial  consort  of  the  Fairy-king,  218 
The  imperial  Stature,  the  colossal  stride,  228 
The  Kirk  of  Ulpha  to  the  Pilgrim's  eye,  299 
The  Knight  had  ridden  down  from  Wensley  Moor,  184 
The  Land  v/e  from  our  fathers  had  in  trust,  259 
The  leaves  that  rustled  on  this  oak-crowned  hill,  427 
The  linnet’s  warble,  sinking  towards  a close,  426 

The  little  hedge-row  birds,  456 

The  lovely  Nun  (submissive,  but  more  meek,  358 

The  Lovers  took  within  this  ancient  grove,  313 

The  martial  courage  of  a day  is  vain,  260 

The  massy  Ways,  carried  across  these  heights,  452 

The  Minstrels  played  their  Christmas  tune,  293 

The  most  alluring  clouds  that  mount  the  sky,  233 

The  old  inventive  Poets,  had  they  seen,  297 

The  oppression  of  the  tumult  — wrath  and  scorn,  350 

The  peace  which  others  seek  they  find,  97 

The  pibroch’s  note,  discountenanced  or  mute,  302 

The  post-boy  drove  with  fierce  career,  75 

The  Power  of  Armies  is  a visible  thing,  263 

The  prayers  I make  will  then  be  sweet  indeed,  220 

There  are  no  colours  in  the  fairest  sky,  364 

There  is  a bondage  worse,  far  worse,  to  bear,  256 

There  is  a change  — and  I am  poor,  98 

There  is  a Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine,  456 

There  is  a little  unpretending  Rill,  216 

There  is  an  Eminence,  — of  these  our  hills,  132 

There  is  a pleasure  in  poetic  pains,  225 


726 


INDEX  TO  THE  FIRST  LINES. 


There  is  a Thorn  — it  looks  so  old,  182 
There  is  a Yew-tree,  pride  of  Lorton  Vale,  164 
Tliere  never  breathed  a man  who,  when  his  life,  458 
There!  said  a Stripling,  pointing  with  meek  pride,  313 
Tliere’s  George  Fisher,  Charles  Fleming,  and  Reginald 
Shore,  77 

There’s  more  in  words  than  I can  teach,  126 

There’s  not  a nook  witliin  this  solemn  Pass,  302 

There’s  something  in  a flying  horse,  195 

There  was  a Boy  : ye  knew  him  well,  ye  cliffs,  163 

There  was  a roaring  in  the  wind  all  night,  180 

There  was  a time  when  meadow,  grove  and  stream,  470 

The  Roman  Consul  doomed  his  sons  to  die,  275 

The  Sabbath  bells  renew  the  inviting  peal,  367 

The  saintly  Youth  has  ceased  to  rule,  discrowned,  360 

These  had  given  earliest  notice,  as  the  lark,  356 

These  times  strike  monied  worldlings  with  dismay,  256 

These  Tourists,  Heaven  preserve  us!  needs  must  live,  87 

These  words  were  uttered  as  in  pensive  mood,  227 

The  Sheep-boy  whistled  loud,  and  lo  ! 462 

The  Shepherd,  looking  eastward,  softly  said,  225 

The  sky  is  overcast,  164 

The  soaring  lark  is  blest  as  proud,  189 

The  Spirit  of  Antiquity  — enshrined,  278 

The  stars  are  mansions  built  by  Nature’s  hand,  224 

The  struggling  Rill  insensibly  is  grown,  295 

The  sun  has  long  been  set,  428 

The  sun  is  couched,  the  sea-fowl  gone  to  rest,  428 

The  Sun,  that  seemed  so  mildly  to  retire,  427 

The  sylvan  slopes  with  corn-clad  fields,  414 

The  tears  of  man  in  various  measure  gush,  359 

The  Troop  will  be  impatient ; let  us  hie,  45 

The  turbaned  Race  are  poured  in  thickening  swarms,  354 

The  unremitting  voice  of  nightly  streams,  409 

The  valley  rings  with  mirth  and  joy,  79 

The  Vested  Priest  before  the  Altar  stands,  366 

The  Viijgin  Mountain,  wearing  like  a Queen,  361 

The  Voice  of  Song,  from  distant  lands  shall  call,  254 

The  wind  is  now  thy  organist ; — a clank,  302 

The  woman-hearted  Confessor  prepares,  353 

The  world  foisaken,  all  its  busy  cares,  324 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us  late  and  soon,  221 

They  called  Thee  Merry  England,  in  old  time,  307 

They  dreamt  not  of  a perishable  home,  370 

The  Young-ones  gathered  in  from  hill  and  dale,  366 

They  seek,  are  sought ; ^ daily  battle  led,  263 

They  — who  have  seen  the  noble  Roman’s  scorn,  322 

This  Height  a ministering  Angel  might  select,  165 

This  Land  of  Rainbows  (spanning  glens  whose  walls,  302 

This  Lawn,  a carpet  all  alive,  402 

This  Spot  — at  once  unfolding  sight  so  fair,  275 

Those  breathing  Tokens  of  our  kind  regard,  189 

Those  old  credulities,  to  nature  dear,  322 

Those  silver  clouds  collected  round  the  sun,  171 

Though  I beheld  at  first  with  blank  surprise,  234 

Though  joy  attend  Thee  orient  at  the  birth,  304 

Though  many  suns  have  risen  and  set,  407 

Though  narrow  be  that  old  Man’s  cares,  and  near,  229 

Tho’  searching  damps  and  many  an  envious  flaw,  285 

Though  the  bold  wings  of  Poesy  affect  233 

Though  the  torrents  from  their  fountains,  146 

Though  to  give  timely  warning  and  deter,  276 

Thou  look’st  upon  me,  and  dost  fondly  think,  308 

Thou  sacred  Pile  ! whose  turrets  rise,  283 

Threats  come  which  no  submission  may  assuage,  358 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower,  166 

Throned  in  the  Sun’s  descending  car,  428 


Through  shattered  galleries,  ’mid  roofless  halls,  229 

Thus  all  things  lead  to  Charity,  secured,  368 

Thus  is  the  storm  abated  by  the  craft,  357 

Thy  functions  are  ethereal,  213 

’Tis  eight  o’clock,  — a clear  March  night,  110 

’Tis  gone  — with  old  belief  and  dream,  415 

’Tis  he  whose  yester-evening’s  high  disdain,  234 

’Tis  not  for  the  unfeeling,  the  falsely  refined,  455 

’Tis  said,  fantastic  ocean  doth  enfold,  278 

’Tis  said,  that  some  have  died  for  love,  97 

’Tis  said  that  to  the  brow  of  yon  fair  hill,  231 

’Tis  spent  — this  burning  day  of  June,  154 

To  a good  Man  of  most  dear  memory,  467 

To  appease  the  Gods;  or  public  thanks  to  yield,  287 

To  barren  heath,  bleak  moor,  and  quaking  fen,  249 

To  kneeling  Worshippers,  no  earthly  floor,  367 

Too  frail  to  keep  the  lofty  vow,  238 

To  public  notice,  with  reluctance  strong,  463 

Toussaint,  the  most  unhappy  man  of  men,  254 

Tracts  let  me  follow  far  from  human  kind,  281 

Tradition,  be  thou  mute  ! Oblivion,  throw,  303 

Tranquillity  ! the  sovereign  aim  wert  thou,  314 

Troubled  long  with  warring  notions,  451 

True  is  it  that  Ambrosio  Salinero,  459 

’Twas  Summer  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high,  553 

Two  Voices  are  there  ; one  is  of  the  sea,  255 

Under  the  shadow  of  a stately  Pile,  325 
Ungrateful  Country,  if  thou  e’er  forget,  363 
Unless  to  Peter’s  Chair  the  viewless  wind,  355 
Unquiet  childhood  here  by  special  grace,  230 
Untouched  through  all  severity  of  cold,  231 
Up,  Timothy,  up  with  your  staff  and  away,  102 
Up  to  the  throne  of  God  is  borne,  410 
Up  ! up  ! my  Friend,  and  quit  your  books,  393 
Up  with  me  ! up  with  me  into  the  clouds,  145 
Urged  by  Ambition,  who  with  subtlest  skill,  353 
Uttered  by  whom,  or  how  inspired  — designed,  280 

Vallombrosa!  I longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood,  287 
Vallombrosa  — I longed  in  thy  shadiest  wood,  325 
Vanguard  of  Liberty,  ye  men  of  Kent,  256 

Wait,  prithee,  wait ! this  answer  Lesbia  threw,  233 
Wanderer  ! that  stoop’st  so  low,  and  com’st  so  near,  429 
Wansfell ! this  Household  has  a lavoured  lot,  236 
Ward  *f  the  Law  ! — dread  Shadow  of  a King,  228 
Was  it  to  disenchant,  and  to  undo,  279 
Was  the  aim  frustrated  by  force  or  guile,  226 
Watch,  and  be  firm  ! for,  soul-subduing  vice,  349 
Weak  is  the  will  of  Man,  his  judgment  blind,  180 
AVe  can  endure  that  He  should  waste  our  lands,  262 
Weep  not,  beloved  Friends  ! nor  let  the  air,  459 
IFe  have  not  passed  into  a doleful  City,  313 
Well  have  yon  Railway  Labourers  to  this  ground,  237 
Well  sang  the  Bard  who  called  the  grave,  in  strains,  303 
Well  worthy  to  be  magnified  are  they,  364 
Were  there,  below,  a spot  of  holy  ground,  29 
We  saw,  but  surely,  in  the  motley  crowd,  312. 

We  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue,  401. 

We  walked  along,  while  bright  and  red,  401. 

What  aim  had  they,  the  Pair  of  Monks,  in  size,  325. 
What  aspect  bore  the  Man  who  roved  or  fled,  295. 

What  awful  perspective!  while  from  our  sight.  369. 

What  beast  in  wilderness  or  cultured  field,  357. 

What  beast  of  chase  hath  broken  from  the  cover,  287. 
What  crowd  is  this  ? what  have  we  here  ! we  must  not 
pass  it  by,  170. 


INDEX  TO  THE  PIKST  LINES. 


727 


What  heavenly  smiles!  O Lady  mine,  98. 

What  He  — who,  ’mid  the  kindred  thronsr,  250. 

What  if  our  numbers  barely  could  defy,  272. 

What  is  good  for  a bootless  bene,  412. 

What  know  we  of  the  Blest  above,  281. 

What  lovelier  home  could  gentle  Fancy  choose,  279. 

What  mischief  cleaves  to  unsubdued  regret,  429. 

What  need  of  clamorous  bells,  or  ribands  gay,  219. 

What  strong  allurement  draws,  what  spirit  guides,  233 
What  though  the  accused,  upon  his  own  appeal,  422 
What  though  the  Italian  pencil  wrought  not  here,  282 
What  way  does  the  Wind  come  ? What  way  does  he  go,  74 
What,  you  are  stepping  westward?  — Yea,  241 
When  Alpine  Vales  threw  forth  a suppliant  cry,  363 
Whence  that  low  voice?  — A whisper  from  the  heart,  297 
When,  far  and  wide,  swift  as  the  beams  of  morn,  258 
When.first  descending  from  the  moorlands,  468 
When  haughty  expectations  prostrate  lie,  224 
When  here  with  Carthage  Rome  to  conflict  came,  323 
When  human  touch  (as  monkish  books  attest),  232 
When  I have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed,  255 
When  in  the  antique  age  of  bow  and  spear,  412 
When,  looking  on  the  present  face  of  things,  256 
When  Philoctetes  in  the  Lemnian  isle,  229 
When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate,  173 
When  the  Brothers  reached  the  gateway,  167 
When  the  soft  hand  of  sleep  had  closed  the  latch,  265 
When,  to  the  attractions  of  the  busy  world,  133 
Where  are  they  now,  those  wanton  Boys,  172 
Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son,  101 
Where  be  the  noisy  followers  of  the  game,  290 
Where  be  the  temples  which,  in  Britain’s  Isle,  91 
Where  holy  ground  begins,  unhallowed  ends,  228 
Where  lies  the  Land  to  which  yon  Ship  must  go,  220 
Where  lies  the  truth  ? has  Man  in  wisdom’s  creed,  431 
Where  long  and  deeply  hath  been  fixed  the  root,  371 
Where  towers  are  crushed,  and  unforbidden  weeds,  327 
Where  will  they  stop  those  breathing  Powers,  407 
While  they  who  once  were  Anna’s  playmates  tread,  230  • 
While  beams  of  orient  light  shoot  wide  and  high,  236 
While  flowing  rivers  yield  a blameless  sport,  218 
While  from  the  purpling  east  departs,  406 
While  Merlin  paced  the  Cornish  sands,  206 
While  not  a leaf  seems  faded;  while  the  fields,  223 
While  poring  Antiquarians  search  the  ground,  231 
While  the  Poor  gather  round  till  the  end  of  time,  305 
Who  but  hails  the  sight  with  pleasure,  149 
Who  but  is  pleased  to  watch  the  moon  on  high,  430 
Who  comes  — with  rapture  greeted,  and  caressed,  362 
Who  fancied  what  a pretty  sight,  146 
Who  is  the  happy  Warrior?  Who  is  he,  394 
Who  ponders  National  events  shall  find,  273 
Who  rashly  strove  thy  Image  to  portray,  394 


Who  rises  on  the  banks  of  Seine,  257 

Who  swerves  from  innocence,  who  makes  divorce,  298 

Why  art  thou  silent ! Is  thy  love  a plant,  232 

Why  cast  ye  back  upon  the  Gallic  shore,  289 

Why,  Minstrel,  these  untuneful  murmurings,  217 

Why  should  the  Enthusiast,  journeying  thro’  this  Isle,  307 

Why  should  we  weep  or  mourn.  Angelic  boy,  469 

Why  sleeps  the  future,  as  a snake  enrolled,  370 

Why  stand  we  gazing  on  the  sparkling  Brine,  310 

Why,  William,  on  that  old  grey  stone,  393 

Wings  have  we  — and  as  far  as  we  can  go,  222 

Wisdom  and  Spirit  of  the  universe,  80 

With  copious  eulogy  in  prose  or  rhyme,  466 

With  each  recurrence  of  this  glorious  morn,  218 

With  earnest  look,  to  every  voyager,  313 

With  how  sad  steps,  O Moon,  thou  climb’st  the  sky,  225 

Within  her  gilded  cage  confined,  139 

Within  our  happy  Castle  there  dwelt  One,  95 

Within  the  mind  strong  fancies  work,  191 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see,  145 

With  sacrifice  before  the  rising  morn,  175 

With  Ships  the  sea  was  sprinkled  far  and  nigh,  221 

Woe  to  the  Crown  that  doth  the  Cowl  obey,  353 

Woe  to  you.  Prelates  I rioting  in  ease,  357 

Woman!  the  Power  who  left  his  throne  on  high,  367 

Wouldst  thou  be  taught  when  sleep  has  taken  flight,  192 

Would  that  our  scrupulous  sires  had  dared  to  leave,  363 


Ye  Apennines  ! with  all  your  fertile  vales,  318 

Ye  brood  of  conscience  — Spectres!  that  frequent,  276 

Ye  Lime-trees,  ranged  before  this  hallowed  Urn,  449 

Ye  sacred  Nurseries  of  blooming  Youth,  228 

Ye  shadowy.  Beings  that  have  rights  and  claims,  312 

Yes!  hope  may  with  my  strong  desire  keep  pace,  219 

Yes,  if  the  intensities  of  hope  and  fear,  365 

Yes,  it  was  the  mountain  Echo,  188 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye,  216 

Yes  ! thou  art  fair,  yet  be  not  moved,  98 

Yes,  though  he  well  may  tremble  at  the  sound,  277 

Ye  Storms,  resound  the  praises  of  your  King,  264 

Yet  are  they  here  the  same  unbroken  knot,  171 

Yet  life  you  say  is  life  ; we  have  seen  and  see,  221 

Yet  more  — round  many  a Convent’s  blazing  fire,  357 

Yet  some  Novitiates  of  the  cloistral  shade,  358 

1 ‘00,  must  fly  before  a chasing  hand,  358 

Ye  trees!  whose  slender  roots  entwine,  326 

Yet  Truth  is  keenly  sought  for,  and  the  wind,  363 

Yet,  yet,  Biscayans!  we  must  meet  our  Foes,  262 

Ye  vales  and  hills  whose  beauty  hither  drew,  469 

You  call  it,  “Love  lies  bleeding,” — so  you  may,  151 

You  have  heard  a Spanish  Lady,  107 

Young  England  — what  is  then  become  of  Old,  275 


THE  END. 


TUB  LI  SITED,  MAY,  1851. 

Ill  f ni  0 i r 0 

OF 

AV 1 1.  L I A U W O 11  D S W O 11  T II, 

rOET-LAUREATE,  D.C.L. 

nr 

CHRISTOPHER  V/ORDSWORTH,  D.D., 

CANON  OF  WEST.MTNSTKR. 

Kn  5^ too  ^^olumcs. 

KKITEn  BY 

HENRY  REED. 


TICK  NOR  & CO., 
WASHINGTON  STREET,  BOSTON. 


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